The Kamala surge is, I believe, mainly about two things — (a) people feeling lit up or joyful about being freed from the horrific old-guy equation…the bitter gruel choice of drooling, bent-over Biden vs. pushing-80, flabby-neck-wattle Trump…thank you, God!; and (b) the historic, undeniably exciting opportunity to elect a fairly sharp, tough-minded, semi-youngish woman of color as U.S. President. Hard to resist.

…is the 1.37 aspect ratio. Debra Paget (still with us at age 91) may have been at her fetching peak in 1959, but boxy aspect ratios have always been and always will be mesmerizing. Look at all that head room…acres of it! And all hail director Fritz Lang, by the way — Metropolis, M, Fury, The Return of Frank James, Man Hunt, Scarlet Street, Cloak and Dagger, Rancho Notorious, The Blue Gardenia, The Big Heat, Human Desire, While the City Sleeps and, last and least, The Indian Tomb.

When do boys start routinely discussing infidelity or impulsive assignations among their parents’ friends? I wouldn’t know but I remember flipping through the pages of a nudie mag when I was 8 or 9.

I distinctly recall a chat during a third-grade recess. I didn’t actually say anything — I just listened.

Kid #1: “I was at Hornbeck’s last Sunday and his mom’s hair is brown and his dad’s hair is kinda sandy. So how come Hornbeck’s hair is red?”

Kid #2: “Red-haired milkman.”

This dates me, of course. I can’t precisely recall when milk delivery guys began to disappear but they were certainly gone by the time of “Bringing It All Back Home.”

My class visited a milk bottling plant when I was 10 or 11. It was during this excursion that I first realized that each and every cow ends up being slaughtered. Nice feeling. Welcome to the world. little calf! When the time comes you’re going to be murdered. Same with pigs and sheep.

[Something has gone really screwy with WordPress coding. The first two words of the next sentence are supposed to read William Holden and not just William, but the coding won’t cooperate.]

William Holden didn’t have to end up dead in Gloria Swanson‘s swimming pool. And he really didn’t have to submit to self-loathing when he began to fall in love with Nancy Olson’s Betty Schaefer, a fellow screenwriter.

Don’t forget that the second half of Billy Wilder’s Sunset Boulevard was largely driven by self-revulsion — a young male screenwriter (Holden’s Joseph C. Gillis) feeling morally sickened by his willingness to sexually satisfy a 50 year-old former silent-era star (Swanson’s Norma Desmond) in exchange for a swanky lifestyle.

1950 was one sexually uptight year, you bet. It saw both the release of Sunset Boulevard and the widespread condemnation of Ingrid Bergman for having had Roberto Rossellini’s baby outside of wedlock. In the eyes of the general public there was nothing more odious than unsavory sexual behavior…any kind of hanky panky outside the usual proper, middle-class boundaries.

But Gillis could have have just laid his cards on the table as he explained to Schaefer, “Look, I was broke…the finance company was about to take my car away. I’m not evil…I’ve simply been using Desmond and living off her largesse while I figure out my next move.

“Plus I did what I could to finesse her awful Salome script. What’s so terrible about that? Okay, so I’ve been to bed with her a few times. I’ve laid there while she rides me like a stallion…big deal.”

Schaefer: “Don’t worry about it, Joe. You did what you had to do in order to survive. Now pack your things. You’re moving in with me.”

Gillis: “But we haven’t even been intimate yet. And what about your devoted fiancé, nice-guy Artie (Jack Webb)?”

Schaefer: “I don’t love him, not really. Largely because he’s too possessive plus he’s not from the creative side, and writing is my lifeblood. We’re not a great match. I’ve submitted to his sexual advances on occasion but he doesn’t turn me on. I’ve never once blown him and I’m sorry but that means something. This may sound cold but all’s fair in love and war.”