The Miller’s Daughter and the Deadbeat Dad

by Jerry Cayford

“This is the story of a man. Not rich and powerful, not a big man like your father, Sweetheart. Just a funny little man. I didn’t know him long, only three nights. But there was something about him, something magical.” If “Rumpelstiltskin” started with this framing, we would have a different picture of the story’s meaning, a truer picture, for this framing suggests what is hidden below the surface.

The miller’s daughter is our “shadow” narrator. No one else witnesses the central events of the story, except Rumpelstiltskin, and he’s dead. We get suspicious that the story she’s telling makes her look too good: the beautiful victim, abused by everyone, who somehow ends up with the king, the gold, the servants, and the child, and never has to pay her debts. Clues pile up, starting from Rumpelstiltskin’s death. He “ripped himself up the middle in two” and sank into the earth. The poor sap killed himself. Why? We follow the trail of breadcrumbs. Why would the guy want the daughter’s firstborn? Sounds like a euphemism… That’s it! The bargain wasn’t for the child but for the woman! It’s the oldest bargain in the world. But if that was the deal… paydirt: Rumpelstiltskin is the child’s father!

There is plenty to uncover in this fairy-tale-noir story of illicit sex, betrayal, obsession, and suicide, but you have to believe it is worth digging. Perhaps if I tell you the story is older than the bible: “Rumpelstiltskin, in summary, is one of the earliest known narratives in Western literature” (Oliver Tearle). Scholars have traced the story back to languages long vanished. As Tearle puts it, “The story obviously has its roots deep in the most primal and basic drives and emotions which are commonly shared throughout humanity.” Read more »

All The Wrong Places

by Lisa Lieberman

Walden Lodge

Hollywood, California, Summer 1941

I believe that the person you are when you're eight years old is the person you really are.

I was creeping up on Geoffrey as he sat meditating on the lawn—not that I could be invisible, my girl's body draped in my mother's mink coat—but Geoffrey was in one of his trances. I could have danced naked in front of him and he'd have continued to stare into the void.

Sometimes I did go naked; lots of people did AllTheWrongPlacesFrontat Walden Lodge in those days. My father was known as a bohemian and bathing suits were optional around the pool, although you had to dress for dinner in the lodge. Winters could be chilly even in Southern California, but there were always a few diehards who went skinny dipping regardless of the weather. Starlets who'd do anything to get a part in one of Father's pictures. Englishmen, like Geoffrey, who'd gone to boarding schools where they made you bathe in cold water, year-round. He got used to it, found it invigorating. “Manly,” as my brother Gray put it, the arch tone in his voice laced with affection.

“Gray, darling. How would you know?” said Vivien, my mother, in the same tone, minus the affection.

I paused to kick off Vivien's high heels, which kept sinking into the earth. Barefoot, I moved stealthily over the silky grass, stalking my prey. The air smelled of citrus, the overripe sweetness of oranges that had fallen on the ground and were beginning to rot in the sun. We picked as many as we could, but there were always fruits we couldn't reach.

Years later, when I was in Sicily filming a B-movie with Adrian, beautiful, wounding Adrian, we stayed in a pensione in Taormina. Three months with my love in Italia! The movie was forgettable but I finagled a print from the director, mostly because of my scenes with Adrian. The Italian actress they got to dub my dialogue had this wonderful, husky voice. It's a treat watching us in Italian, where you don't have to pretend to follow the plot.

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