Girl Next Door

It's only noon, but Diana Krall looks weary. Curled up on a couch in a room at the Four Seasons Hotel in Los Angeles, she smiles wanly, noting that she is well into the third week of publicity events for her new album and is eager to get back to her music. "Talking about yourself," she says, with characteristic candor, "can get very boring after a while. You start digressing, forget what you said to who. I'll just be glad when I'm playing again."

Just in time to refresh Oscar voters' memories, and to give people who missed it a second chance to see it on the big screen, Jane Campion's "Bright Star" returns to Los Angeles. This exquisitely done, emotional love story marries heartbreaking passion to formidable filmmaking restraint, all in the service of the unapologetically romantic belief in "the holiness of the heart's affections." Those words belong to the 19th century English poet John Keats, and his romance with the girl next door, Fanny Brawne, is utterly transforming in the hands of writer-director Campion and stars Abbie Cornish and Ben Whishaw.

"Bright Star" satisfies a hunger we may not have known we had, a hunger for an exquisitely done, emotional love story that marries heartbreaking passion to formidable filmmaking restraint, all in the service of an unapologetically romantic belief in "the holiness of the heart's affections." The affections in question are those of the poet who wrote those words, John Keats, perhaps the greatest of England's 19th century Romantics, and Fanny Brawne, literally the girl next door. They met in 1818, when Keats was 23 and Brawne 18, a little more than two years before his dreadful death from tuberculosis.

As the air gets cooler and each week brings newer and better movies, don't forget the wonderful ones that are already in theaters. Especially don't forget "Bright Star," an exquisitely done, emotional love story that marries heartbreaking passion to formidable filmmaking restraint, all in the service of the unapologetically romantic belief in "the holiness of the heart's affections." Those words belong to John Keats, and his romance with the girl next door, Fanny Brawne, is utterly transforming in the hands of writer-director Jane Campion and stars Abbie Cornish and Ben Whishaw.

Joe and Rose Kennedy were played superbly by William Petersen and Annette O'Toole. But who was "the girl next door" who played Gloria Swanson? She was hardly a seductress. Fran Crowell, Long Beach

As the air gets cooler and each week brings newer and better movies, don't forget the wonderful ones that are already in theaters. Especially don't forget "Bright Star," an exquisitely done, emotional love story that marries heartbreaking passion to formidable filmmaking restraint, all in the service of the unapologetically romantic belief in "the holiness of the heart's affections." Those words belong to John Keats, and his romance with the girl next door, Fanny Brawne, is utterly transforming in the hands of writer-director Jane Campion and stars Abbie Cornish and Ben Whishaw.

Just in time to refresh Oscar voters' memories, and to give people who missed it a second chance to see it on the big screen, Jane Campion's "Bright Star" returns to Los Angeles. This exquisitely done, emotional love story marries heartbreaking passion to formidable filmmaking restraint, all in the service of the unapologetically romantic belief in "the holiness of the heart's affections." Those words belong to the 19th century English poet John Keats, and his romance with the girl next door, Fanny Brawne, is utterly transforming in the hands of writer-director Campion and stars Abbie Cornish and Ben Whishaw.

So UCLA sanctioned the first sorority in U.S. history formed by lesbians (Metro, Feb. 24). Don't most of them look just like the girl next door? Amazing, isn't it? Could that possibly be the reason why the rush chair of another sorority on campus called the members of Lambda Delta Lambda "obnoxious" and accused them of "trying to make spectacles of themselves?" After reading the article I just couldn't find evidence of anything else they'd done that was heinous enough to warrant those remarks.

Regarding "The Power of Julia," by Elaine Dutka (June 9): In writing about Julia Roberts, no one seems to have come up with the real reason for her quick success. This phenomenon, who just escapes being beautiful but also just misses being ugly, is the first female with a truly individual, recognizable face on the screen since the '50s gave us Marilyn Monroe, Shirley MacLaine, Audrey Hepburn, Judy Holliday and Grace Kelly. The young female stars of today would hardly be missed if they were never seen again.

"I could do those dances," uttered a young woman, suitably uncowed, in the middle of Samantha Fox's local live debut Thursday at the Palace. Which is, of course, the point. Fox is hardly a talent to be reckoned with in any of her chosen arenas--singing, dancing, pelvic thrusting, what have you--but she is game, and she does offer an unthreatening, you-could-do-this appeal. Just think of it: Samantha Fox as 1989's prime exemplar of the original punk ethos. Not that this is exactly Tiffany's territory.

"Bright Star" satisfies a hunger we may not have known we had, a hunger for an exquisitely done, emotional love story that marries heartbreaking passion to formidable filmmaking restraint, all in the service of an unapologetically romantic belief in "the holiness of the heart's affections." The affections in question are those of the poet who wrote those words, John Keats, perhaps the greatest of England's 19th century Romantics, and Fanny Brawne, literally the girl next door. They met in 1818, when Keats was 23 and Brawne 18, a little more than two years before his dreadful death from tuberculosis.

In a book world cluttered with memoirs driven more by look-at-me indulgence than a need to say something significant, Jennifer Baszile's "The Black Girl Next Door" stands out. Baszile is a Yale history professor who grew up black and upper middle class in the South Bay enclave of Palos Verdes; her book tells the story of that life. Palos Verdes may not be as well known as Beverly Hills or Malibu, but it's every bit as exclusive -- meaning, every bit as white.

Amy Adams has never had an OMG fashion moment. And she probably never will. The perky girl-next-door actress, a surprise entry in the '06 supporting actress Oscar race with her guileless performance in "Junebug," has somehow managed to avoid the usual Skyrocketing Young Star syndrome. No stumbling out of L.A. nightclubs. No panty-less paparazzo pix. Not even a mascara-smudged mug shot.

LaVina Collenberg thought she had ideal tenants for her tidy ranch-style home on the outskirts of this university town nestled in the redwoods of the North Coast. Then the 74-year-old widow received an urgent call last September from a neighbor, who said firefighters had descended on the house she had rented to a pleasant young man from Wisconsin. Collenberg found her charred and sooty rental filled with grow lights and 3-foot-high marijuana plants. Seeds were germinating in the spa.

Joan CRAWFORD was the definitive Hollywood star, with her large expressive eyes, bold sculpted features, perfect posture and seemingly eternal glamour. Born Lucille LeSueur in San Antonio, Texas, on March 23, 1908 -- possibly earlier -- she embodied rags-to-riches stardom more vividly than anyone else and sustained her career for more than 45 years.

I was window-shopping in New York recently when a woman flagged me down in the friendly way that strangers do when they want to ask you where you get your hair cut or where the nearest ATM is. I never found out what her question was, because the first thing out of her mouth -- "Do you speak English?" -- prompted expletives from me and a shellshocked look from her. This conversation opener used to leave me hopelessly flustered.

Re your article on Cindy Crawford and other models ("Lights! Camera! Cheekbones!," by Mimi Avins, Sept. 3): Several years ago, I directed a film, "Ted and Venus," that only now is beginning to find its audience. It was a true story about a spent poet (a part I played) obsessing over and ultimately driving away a beautiful woman. I knew going in that I more than likely would have to go the model route, since the image I had was of physical perfection. Still, I read real actresses.

Ten years ago, at a time when "Women in Rock" stories were still trumpeting the likes of Grace Slick, Heart and Linda McCartney, a revolution was getting under way in Los Angeles. On the then-growing L.A. club scene, it was hard not to notice that--especially compared to certain Eastern burgs--a disproportionate number of those at the forefront of this city's scene were charismatic, gutsy, mercurial women: X's Exene Cervenka, the Motels' Martha Davis, the Go-Go's. . . .

It's only noon, but Diana Krall looks weary. Curled up on a couch in a room at the Four Seasons Hotel in Los Angeles, she smiles wanly, noting that she is well into the third week of publicity events for her new album and is eager to get back to her music. "Talking about yourself," she says, with characteristic candor, "can get very boring after a while. You start digressing, forget what you said to who. I'll just be glad when I'm playing again."

Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe "The Girl Next Door" is simply another formulaic teen romantic comedy with a high school setting, where the girl and boy get some laughs and share a few serious moments on the way to true love. Maybe the fact that it's a stunning former pornography star who moves in adjacent to this lucky senior is something I should be tolerantly admiring as a "what'll they think of next" variation on a familiar theme. Maybe, but it doesn't feel that way.