“[Robert Mitchum] loved wine and he particularly loved cheese, cheese of all kinds he was eager to try. And while we were shooting [Foreign Intrigue, 1956], his thirty-eighth birthday came up. I told everybody on the set not to say a word, not to say ‘Happy Birthday.’ So we went through the whole day shooting and nobody said a thing to acknowledge it. And he was in his dressing room, taking off his makeup and cleaning up, and then I came in and told him I wanted to show him tomorrow’s set. And we went out and everyone was there to yell 'Happy Birthday,’ and we had the whole place covered with barrels of wine and giant wheels of cheese, about thirty-six different kinds of cheese. And that was the only time I ever saw him get emotional.”
For the rest of his stay in Europe Mitchum would provoke the wrath of hotel keepers and gagging chambermaids, not to mention family members, as he gorged on great slabs of Roquefort and Gorgonzola and Brie and left unwrapped, unrefrigerated portions behind under the beds and in dresser drawers. 'I remember, he talked a lot about cheese,’ said Harry Schein, the Swedish theater director and husband of Ingrid Thulin. 'He was crazy for cheese, that man.’ // Baby, I Don’t Care by Lee Server
Monroe’s peccadilloes seemed never to bother Mitchum. He thought she was an essentially sweet and funny but often sad and confused person. Eternally vulnerable, uncertain of her talent, she was prey to exploitation and a victim of her own bad judgment. Perhaps a key to their relationship- and he would have no easy time convincing anyone about this- was that Mitchum found Monroe sexually unappetizing and never tried to bed her. While others cared to see only her voluptuousness and easy availability, Mitchum saw a frightened and possibly disturbed child-woman, not his cup of tea. Perhaps too, his lack of ardor had something to do with what he claimed was the secret source of Monroe’s neurotic temperament and chronic lateness: her vagina. Due to the peculiar nature of her female plumbing, Mitchum discovered, Marilyn would experience an unusually strong, debilitating menstruation and excruciatingly painful premenstrual period that could sometimes last for nearly the entire month. Mitchum claimed that many a time, as people on the set stood around cursing her selfishness, Marilyn lay in her dressing room immobilized with cramps, embarrassed and suffering.
SNAPE TRYING TO DEDUCT POINTS FROM GRYFFINDOR AND THE PACK OF CORGI PUPPIES WHINING AT HIM FOR IT
Severus Snape had made a crucial mistake two weeks ago. He’d been standing in Albus Dumbledore’s office, staring at a hooped golden object that whirred on a shelf behind Dumbledore’s head, and wondering what exactly its purpose was. As a result, he’d been distracted when the headmaster said, “Severus, may I suggest an addition to your classroom in the new year?”
It had been the end of summer, and Snape—mostly because of guilt, having secretly shredded one of Albus’s favorite scarves for an experimental scarf-related potion—wanted to show some gesture of goodwill, so he’d said, instinctively, “Yes.” Like an idiot. This was why gestures of goodwill were ill-advised in absolutely every situation.
The second the affirmative issued from his lips, Snape regretted it. There was no way to anticipate what he’d just agreed to. Expectations were always a thorny issue with Albus. “An addition to the classroom”—would the old man suggest one of those cauldrons made entirely out of dragonglass, cured in vats of Veela spit for sixty years? Albus had been talking about those for months.
Or would he suggest a new lighting system? Six students had tottered to the infirmary this past spring, moaning that the flickering torches in the dungeons had given them eye strain. Honestly. Eye strain. Sometimes Severus thought that the staff should close down Hogwarts now, shut the doors, drop the wards, abandon the Founders’ project while they were still ahead, instead of encouraging these whinging little crybabies to spout their opinions as if they mattered.
But that was not the problem at hand anymore. That was all two weeks ago, and now he had to deal with the consequences.
The answer to any open-ended question from Albus Dumbledore is no, Snape thought, teeth gritted tight, sweeping loose corgi fur into the flame beneath his cauldron, which flared an indignant sort of purple.