I had half a mind to stay in Cleveland and try to marry the boss’s son (he raised beef cattle), but I gave up the milk route to get a master’s in English at the University of Vermont. The milk truck had two sets of pedals, one with the standard three for a stick shift, for driving sitting down when you were going long distances, and the other for driving standing up, when you were hopping between houses. The route they gave me was in Fairview Park, a suburb west of Cleveland. “We’ve never had a lady drive a milk truck, but there’s no reason not,” a man at the plant said. I liked cows: they led a placid yet productive life. I had had a fantasy for years about owning a dairy farm. I stuck it out through the Christmas season, and then I called a local dairy and asked whether there were any openings for milkmen. I had gone to Douglass College, the women’s college of Rutgers, in New Jersey, and returned ignominiously to Cleveland because I couldn’t think of anything better to do. Nor do I wish to revisit my time at the Cleveland Costume Company, where I worked after graduation.
I am not particularly nostalgic about my foot-checking days. I have never heard of foot checkers in any city besides Cleveland. The prospective swimmer put one foot at a time on the platform and, leaning forward, used his fingers to spread out his toes so that the foot checker could make sure he didn’t have athlete’s foot.
This took place at a special wooden bench, like those things that shoe salesmen use, except that instead of a miniature sliding board and a size stick for the customer’s foot it had a stick with a foot-shaped platform on top. Swimmers had to follow an elaborate ritual before getting into the pool: tuck your hair into a hideous bathing cap (if you were a girl), shower, wade through a footbath spiked with disinfectant that tinted your feet orange, and stand in line to have your toes checked. I was not in charge of any keys, and my position was by no means crucial to the operation of the pool, although I did clean the bathrooms. I never knew what that was supposed to mean. I was a “key girl”-“Key personnel” was the job title on my pay stub. The first job I ever had, the summer I was fifteen, was checking feet at a public pool in Cleveland. In the film, that pint-sized acting powerhouse Shirley Henderson plays Agatha Christie.Illustration by Javier Jaén Karen A. “See How They Run’s” light touch and genial nature compensate filmgoers with a taste for the absurd against a background of a grimy, post-war London (to date more than 10 million people have paid to watch “The Mousetrap”, which is still running). Rockwell and Ronan display admirable timing as the investigators.Ĭonstable Stalker’s over-eagerness to identify the killer might reflect the filmgoer’s eagerness for resolution. “See How They Run” leans heavily on comedy mainly expressed as wordplay linking “The Mousetrap” to the play from which it takes its name (“Hamlet” – remember those strolling players come to entertain the Danish court with a performance of “The Murder of Gonzago?) and the basic plot leading to a remote English country house where the killer is finally identified.ĭirector Tom George and writer Mark Chappell deliver laughs and intrigue in equal measure.
“Maybe it’s all of them?” hopefully suggests Stalker. Liquor-loving Insp Stoppard (Sam Rockwell) and enthusiastic cop-in-training Constable Stalker (Saoirse Ronan) interview a long list of suspects.Ĭould the murderer be playwright Mervyn Cocker-Norris (David Oyelowo), film producer John Woolf (Reece Shearsmith), grand dame Petula Spencer (Ruth Wilson) or even actor Richard Attenborough (Harris Dickinson)? There are plenty of other suspects and as time runs out, the killer strikes again.
Crossword editor richard norris serial#
Mark Chappell’s screenplay imagines that Scotland Yard, its hands full of serious crime in the search for the 10 Rillington Place serial killer, sends its B team to investigate. IN this comical who-dunnit spoof of Agatha Christie’s long-running play “The Mousetrap”, during a backstage party in the London West End theatre celebrating its 100th performance in 1953, a faceless antagonist murders visiting American film director Leo Köpernick (Adrien Brody).
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