22 - Duplicate Ticketing, A Night in Rotterdam

 

HOTEL NEW YORK, Rotterdam 2012

The original turn-of-the-century stairwell at the Hotel New York

Brenda and I went to Rotterdam in the Fall, where we stayed at the Hotel New York.  It was the first time I had been there since 1997.

Actually, the trip was the result of yet another example of what one might call age-moments.   I prefer not to call them OLD age moments, though I am certainly not fooling myself, let alone anyone else. 

It is my memory, it keeps giving out on me.  A prime example would be a trip to the refrigerator only to forget what I’m looking for.  Or a click into google, then blank!   The only encouraging part of the problem is that these “irritations” seem to have been going on for at least a quarter of a century.

Be that as it may, in arranging a trip last summer to Amsterdam (a very pleasant stay at the newly converted Canal House and excellent reconnecting visit with early-Paris friends Martin and Marina Woods), I completely forgot that we had already bought the train tickets, and I managed to purchase a second, non-refundable set for the same trip on the same dates.  That was taking what had heretofore been fairly routine forgetfulness a giant step further!

Ultimately, we put a good face on the confusion.  Although the tickets were non-refundable, we were allowed to make ONE change.   We decided to use the duplicate tickets in October and to get off at Rotterdam, last stop before Amsterdam. The Woods joining us for another lunch added a finishing touch to the happy ending.

As hotels go, the New York has a most atypical history.  Before being converted into a hotel around 20 years ago, the old fashioned 1900 structure had served for nearly a century as the corporate headquarters of the Holland America Shipping Line.

In the early years, the building was also used to process and board transatlantic passengers .

Holland America's original S.S. Statendam 1918  (we took its descendant last year through the Panama Canal)

The Dutch line's name, itself, conjures up an unending stream of European immigrants who started there around the end of the 19^th Century, before embarking for the Promised Land and its streets paved with gold.  Many hundreds of thousands passed through what has now become the Hotel New York before heading for the U.S.A. and their new life.

When it was converted into a trendy hotel in the 1990's, the new owners kept most of the dynamics intact.  As a result, several of the old board rooms have been transformed  into unique oversized bedrooms.  

Room 207 with panaromic view of the river

 The hotel still exudes a decidedly nautical atmosphere in many, subtle ways.  Deck chairs, wooden chaises longues and old cabin trunks, which furnish the common areas, give the feeling of excitement of embarking on a sea voyage.  Photos and photographic murals everywhere reflect past glories of the Dutch line and its transatlantic crossings.

On my first visit 15 years ago, the hotel stood almost alone on its tip of the island off mainland Rotterdam.  Today it is engulfed and dwarfed by surrounding skyscrapers that give it an almost surreal effect. 

The New York seen from the hotel's motor launch

Brenda at Het Park, Rotterdam

 It is not a service-oriented hotel, but is an especially friendly one, boasting excellent value for money with competitive prices and some spectacular rooms with stunning views.  There is something peculiarly and satisfyingly Dutch about its blend of style and comfort with a welcome lack of chi-chi.   

  Now if I could just remember where I put those tickets back to Paris! 

With Brenda and Marina (right) in a somewhat elongated room 207 (photo Martin Woods)

-o- 

SIDEBAR --CARGO CRUISING FROM ROTTERDAM

The Sloman Commander off the Norwegian coast

     My first encounter with the Hotel New York was just over 15 years ago, while waiting to board a cargo ship for Norwegian fjords country.    It was an experiment in freighter travel with an eye towards longer and more ambitious voyages, and unfortunately it didn’t quite work out. 

Captain of the Sloman

The trip was a disappointment, mainly because of its boredom quotient.  Arriving  three days late for its Rotterdam departure (you just have to wait on your own dime until it gets there), the old freighter sped through its announced route at breakneck pace, eliminating all stops other than those mandatory for discharging its cargo.  

Consequently, on the few ports of call during the six-day journey to Norway and back, we were so rushed that it was generally impossible to leave the ship.  

a very untalented ship's cook

Cabins let to passengers on cargos are inevitably those normally assigned to senior officers, so they tend to be spacious and comfortable.  Mine was no exception. It boasted two large portholes, which would have afforded me an enviable view from bed.  As luck had it, they were both totally blocked by dark wooden crates which were only discharged the last afternoon of the trip.

I also have a less than happy memory of what I can describe with no risk of exaggeration as prison-quality food (though after several days of declining much of it, I was only too glad to eat anything available as the days wore on).

Although registered in St Johns for tax reasons, the Sloman Commander was German owned.  Its crew, however, were all Russian, with only the captain speaking a smattering of English.  Otherwise, communication was nil!  

I do nevertheless look back with a certain nostalgia, reviewing the photos that I took of each of the crew members (I never learned any of their names).  Seeing these “portraits” today, you get the feeling of one big happy, communicative family. 

  

 

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

  [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

21 - The Paris Hiltons and the Ukrainian Mafia

 

THE ROYAL HOTEL, San Remo, Italy

One of several lobby areas at the Royal

     Before reconnecting and joining me in Paris in 2006, Brenda lived awhile in Nice, and she has kept a rental property there where we spend part of our time when in France.

We took the train last year across the Italian border to San Remo for a few days at the Royal Hotel.  I was last at the Royal on my first trip to the Riviera 34 years ago.

On the balcony --room with a view

The hotel has remarkably remained a family-owned enterprise for 140 years.  San Remo --now a bit overgrown and under planned-- is no longer considered such a select vacation destination.    I had feared a decline at the Royal, but my worries were unfounded, as the hotel has remained a class act, and the Italian personnel is, to a man, warm and efficient.

My first telephone contact with a most congenial reservations clerk already started things off swimmingly.  Simona had suggested that if I had the flexibility of moving my dates a month earlier, the hotel could offer a more seductive deal.

Entrance to the Royal at twilight

 We ultimately opted for the Anniversary Package (“No anniversary necessary,” she assured me, “and friendlier prices.”), and in addition to all sorts of perks –breakfast, fruit, champagne, massage, etc.—we were guaranteed an upgrade to a sea view junior suite.  The upgrade turned out to be a double one, as we were given a stunning “penthouse junior suite de luxe,” which was a long way from the double room paid for.

Despite fairly high occupancy during our stay, both the concierge staff and restaurant personnel amazingly remembered our name every time they saw us.  It brought back to mind my first trip to the Gritti Palace in Venice.

The first afternoon by the pool we noticed an abundance of Russian chatter.  One couple stood out as kind of a caricature of what we loosely and unkindly call the Ukrainian mafia here in the south of France (see sidebar “On the Riviera”).

Broderick Crawford (Google)

The "Hilton" sisters, poolside

 He was something of a Slavic Broderick Crawford, if you can picture a rougher version of the “Highway Patrol” actor in wet tighty-whities*, she –tall, overweight and demanding—wore a skimpy age-inappropriate bikini.  

 The next morning at breakfast, Brenda was intrigued by two Paris Hilton look-alike/act-alikes.  One was blonde and the other, a redhead.  They were younger, prettier, apparently equally spoiled copies of the original, with red, red lips and a permanent pout.

We assumed they were American, but to our surprise they were soon met by their parents who turned out to be none other than the slavik Broderick Crawford and his blonde wife.

In no time at all they were creating a scene, as they felt all the good garden tables had been taken, and Mrs. Broderick Crawford did not wish to sit just anywhere with other hotel residents.

After some negotiating, I overheard a discreetly exasperated maitre d’hotel, as if speaking to four very small children, propose opening up an adjoining dining room “so you can have all the space you need and choose whichever table makes you happy.”

As they marched into the empty restaurant annex, the whole family seemed quite pleased with its little victory, oblivious to the fact they had been relegated to Siberia.

A very comfortable room 528

 *TIGHTY WHITIES :  Newspeak underwear description, transmitted to me by my delightfully ivy league nephew, Ryan, as opposed to what he considers the more acceptably trendy boxers.

SIDEBAR :  On the Riviera

Menton, looking across the harbor at the old town

Both the French and Italian Rivieras historically counted on British and Russian tourists.

Queen Victoria led the way in the late 19^th century when she added Nice to her list of regular winter villégiatures.  She was soon joined by throngs of well-heeled Londoners escaping the fog and damp.

1900 postcard art

Tchaikowsky set the pace on the Liguria Riviera when he set up residence in San Remo at the turn of the century.

Americans soon adopted the rivieras, particularly the French side, after the First World War, turning the Nice-Antibes-St. Raphael triangle into an elitist Anglo-Saxon literary colony, staked out as the personal playground of Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Somerset Maugham, to name but a few.

Today, the Americans, hit by a reversal of fortune similar to that which sent them home after the onset of the Great Depression, have all but disappeared.  Of course there are still plenty of U.S. tourists, but they are far outnumbered by their more affluent asian and middle eastern counterparts.

The Scott Fitzgeralds, Antibes 1926 (Google photo)

 The British are still numerous around Nice, but they are now often year-round residents, trying to stretch their pension a little further than might be possible back in England.

The Russians, who emigrated around the time of the Revolution, had pretty much died out by the 1970’s, and ceased to be a part of the Riviera landscape.  In recent years, however, they are back, but of a very different variety, most often in flashy clothes, big cars, and for the last decade, buying up the biggest houses on the Cote d’Azur.  

There are, in fact, two kinds of ex-Soviet residents now in view here:  young, single, usually attractive girls in search of a benefactor make up the first group.  Whatever their original aspirations, they frequently find their calling on the streets of Nice and neighboring resort villages.

The others come en famille and they generally seem to have unlimited supplies of money.  They are the ones we refer to as the Ukrainian mafia, even though we have no proof of either their nationality or their source of income.

The Sporting beach at Nice, off-season

 

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

Next Friday:  "Those little memory lapses, a night in Rotterdam "

  [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

 

 

20 - Decaffeinated coffee ... in Hungarian?

Behind the Iron Curtain, Budapest  

Grand Hotel Margitsziget (photo Danibus Hotels)

     The 1970’s saw the first signs of a warming behind part of the iron curtain when the most ingenious countries began to beckon to the international tourist and his dollars.

I had a childhood friend who became U.S. ambassador to Romania, and for a while I thought of going to Bucharest; but I was probably waiting for an invitation to the embassy residence which never materialized.  Then I briefly thought of going to Prague which has always been a popular destination with the French, but the political climate there was frequently too volatile for my timid tastes.

Life of the party (Tsar-Devica)

I am a little ashamed to admit that I ultimately opted for Hungary due to the fact that Elizabeth Taylor had recently given her much publicized 40^th birthday celebration there.

I chose the Grand Hotel Margitsziget in Budapest (in English it’s generally called the Margaret), which I thought E.T. had commandeered for her party.  It was only later that I learned the Taylor shindig was in fact held at the Intercontinental.  Never mind, it was still the catalyst that got me to Hungary.

Vintage postcard of Margaret Island in 1929

Here I need to digress a little back to my first trips to Venice.

When I began traveling in Italy, I decided to make an effort to learn the language, and I made the acquaintance of a mostly out-of-work Italian actress whom I hired as professor.

My idea was to tape a maximum of phrases which I would play and replay with a kind of fanaticism for many months.  I had a precise idea of how and what I wanted to learn, and though it was in some ways effective, it was certainly not the most serious method.

Concentrating on hotel and restaurant vocabulary, I tried to memorize phrases intended to send out the image of a more worldly and less touristy tourist than I really was.

Having weathered the first years in France learning a new language, I well knew the importance of accent.  Extremely, perhaps excessively motivated, I would repeat my tapes morning, noon and night  for months before traveling.  Ultimately, what little I did speak, I managed rather brilliantly.

The downside was that the Italians I found myself in contact with invariably assumed I mastered their language far better than I did.  Also, having no grammatical formation to fall back on, I tended to forget everything about as quickly as I had learned it.

In the short term, however, the results were often spectacular.  If I found myself, say, in need of some salted peanuts and a non alcoholic red San Pellegrino (then a few seconds pause before adding) “…sensa limone, per favore,”      well, I could manage this exceedingly well.

Encouraged by my Italian success, I decided to do the same thing when Ann and I travelled to Hungary.  At Unesco, there were a number of Hungarians, and I finally cajoled one of them to assist me in recording a few phrases.

Hungarian was MUCH harder than Italian, and I concentrated all of my energy over the months preceding our trip to rehearsing a handful of idiomatic bits and pieces.  In addition to Hello, Goodbye, thank-you, and what a magnificent day it is (or alternatively, what a shame there is no sun this morning), I mastered a complicated order for Coca-Cola with a lot of ice and a wee slice of orange.  Another linguistic pièce de résistance was an order for a decaffeinated espresso with granulated sugar on the side.

Ann spoke quite satisfactory German, which was then much more useful in that part of Eastern Europe than either English or French.  Nevertheless, we agreed that I would attempt my Hungarian phrases as often as feasible.

The Széchenyi Restaurant slightly modernized today (google photo)

On the first dinner at the Margaret Hotel’s Széchenyi Restaurant, the waiter appeared appropriatedly impressed by my initial Hungarian phrases, and had managed to decipher everything through dessert.

When I requested the coffees (one normal and a decaffeinated, if you please!), my order was met with an oddly blank stare.  I repeated, enunciating each word carefully.  A polite look of utter bafflement.  Finally admitting defeat, I turned the task over to Ann who proceeded to finalize our order in German.

The young waiter had a surprising reaction.  He explained that he had perfectly well understood my Hungarian.  “I understand what you are saying,” he explained in German.  “It is just that I cannot imagine how one can possibly remove the caffeine from the coffee.”

My Unesco “tutor” had in fact left her native country and language before World War II.  Although she had translated my phrase into impeccable Hungarian, she hadn’t realized, herself, that decaffeinated beverages had yet to make their way behind the iron curtain.

SIDEBAR --More about the Margaret

Margaret Island 2006 (without the peacocks)

Hungary back in the iron curtain days was considered more open and westernized than most of the satellite countries, but only just.  I found Budapest extremely gray and uncared-for that first trip, and the people somewhat unwelcoming.  

As I said, my introduction to the Margaret was a case of mistaken identity, as I was sure it had been the site of the recent Burton-Taylor birthday affair.  Incidentally, their Intercontinental is now a Best Western, so it’s all quite relative.

The Burtons and Princess Grace in Budapest (photo tsar-devica)

If you are wondering what the Burtons and Princess Grace and the like were doing there in the first place, well, for economic reasons Mr. Burton was filming the undistinguished multinational  “Bluebeard” with a cast of international beauties, and Ms Taylor was there looking after her interests.  I seem to remember reading that the whole point of organizing the birthday bash (with 200 guests streaming in from all over the globe) was to relieve the monotony.

The Margaret was built 140 years ago on a beautiful island of the same name on the Danube separating the two cities of Buda and Pest.  Quite a number of handsome peacocks used to roam about, adding to the picturesque of the gardens.  (On a recent trip I saw no more peacocks, but the island was just as beautiful.)

I remember that the young waiter who served our coffee (with caffeine intact) was smiling and friendly; but if I recall so well, it is because he was about the only hotel employee who could have been so described.  Most of the personnel were efficient, and some were helpful; but I remember none other than the waiter ever returning a smile or as a general rule even making eye contact.

Many of the traditional Budapest hotels, like the Margaret, have always offered extensive spa facilities, cashing in on the area's "healing waters."   In the 1970's the Margaret’s spa clientele was mostly Hungarian, Russian or German.   In recent years, with the addition of an extensive medical programme of cosmetic surgery, Americans, British and even a few French have joined the generally overweight hotel guests availing themselves of the so-called beauty treatments.

A nearly unchanged Grand Hotel Margitsziget today

When I returned in 2006, I was curious to compare the differences.  I stayed again at the old Margaret, and found to my stupefaction that the hotel personnel behaved approximately the same as I had remembered –suspicious, curt and unsmiling.  Training might well have included the strict rule to never let slip any unnecessary “please” or “thank-you.” 

Budapest, itself, had changed spectacularly.  The gray of my memory had all but disappeared, but the hotel had not much evolved along with the new Hungary.  In fact, had I not known better, I would have sworn the same staff was holding down the fort 30-odd years on. 

P.S. While in Budapest in 2006 I did discover --thank goodness!-- the Gresham Palace, and that is quite another story.  Stay tuned.

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr
 

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor were also featured in blog No. 39, "Living It Up On Park Lane"; Grace Kelly was mentioned in blog No. 47 "Monaco, Mirage and Reality"; Budapest in "An Encounter With Keith" in blog No. 29  (to access, click on above title).

Next Friday:  "The Paris Hiltons and the Ukrainian Mafia"


http://frankpleasants.blogspot.fr/2013/05/39-living-it-up-on-park-lane.html

19 - Hotel Staff's Best and Worst List

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2013 !

The new year 2013 has arrived, and it is the time for lists.   I’ve never been much for new year’s resolutions, but I do like best and worst lists.

Here then is a potpourri of hotel staff’s favorite and least favorite clients.  The list is short, as staff at the great hotels learn first and foremost discretion.  If I have managed over the years  to elicit a few inside tidbits, I consider it no mean feat:

Hepburn (Google photo)

Bruno, former maitre d’hotel and manager of the Pierre Hotel’s breakfast room in NYC:  “Of all the hotel guests I have known, Audrey Hepburn was the most beautiful inside and out.  Everyone adored her.”

I asked about Jacqueline Kennedy who was then also a Pierre regular, and he looked uncomfortable with  the question.  “She was quiet,” he finally volunteered ambiguously.   

When I pressed him with an inquisitive look, he added in a whisper, “Not very friendly.  Not at all really.”

Jackie Kennedy in NYC (photo Ron Galella)

 

* * * * *

Madame Chirac, France’s former first lady, has long been a regular at the Hotel Meurice’s coffee shop in Paris.  A politician in her own right and spokeswoman for a major French charity, she often conducts business over lunch. 

Ex-first lady Bernadette Chirac (AFP)

I once enquired of Solange, a waitress who has since gone elsewhere, about Madame Chirac’s “friendly quotient,” and she reluctantly conceded that the ex-first lady was rather cold and had been known to be “sharp with the personnel.”

On the other hand, she said that contact with her husband, former President Jacques Chirac, “was delightful, just like talking to you …” which I took as a compliment to both of us. 

* * * * *

Franco circa 1988

Franco, long since retired concierge at the Gritti in Venice, was extremely discreet and never said anything unflattering about anyone.   He lived through several decades at the Venetian palace, and he looked back on the fifties with nostalgia.  He loved Elsa Maxwell and remembered fondly the great charity balls she organized at the hotel.  

Garbo 1946 (Cecil Beaton photo)

Greta Garbo was another of Franco’s favorites, although I have difficulty imagining her as being very gregarious.  The Kennedys were equally appreciated, particularly Rose, the family matriarch ("most gracious and considerate").  The only unspoken criticism concerned the former King of England, the Duke of Windsor, who had “little or no communication” with the concièrge desk.

* * * * *

Allen outside the Ritz 2010 (Google photo)

Woody Allen has had a long-term love affair with the Paris Ritz.  For many years he would move in for the Christmas holidays, usually with his extended family.

Though one of the Ritz’ better known guests, his lack of communicability has rendered him not always the most popular.  At least one of the hotel restaurant’s waiters said they dreaded his arrivals, because when it was time to take his order, Allen invariably stared at the floor for long minutes without a word.

Jean-Paul, veteran maitre d’hotel and former breakfast manager at the hotel’s Espadon restaurant, always championed the American director.   He enjoyed him both as a filmmaker and a client.  The appreciation was apparently mutual, because Allen  insisted on ordering exclusively from Jean-Paul.  When the maitre d' arrived, Woody could usually be counted on to spring out of his trance.

 * * * * *

I naturally have my own best and worst list, but think I'll save it for another day.  In the meanwhile, I have assembled a little selection of hotel movies.  As any reader who looks a bit between the lines of these musings will by now have gathered, I grew up in the 1950s in a world that was signifcantly defined and enhanced  --at least in my eyes-- by Hollywood.  

When I later dreamed of moving to Europe, my motivations were based neither on history books nor novels.   All of my preconceived and frequently erroneous ideas came directly from Hollywood.

The same was doubly true concerning the glamorous world of hotels.  (In Aberdeen, there was the Lantana Inn and the Lloyd Hall, but even Hollywood couldn't have turned them into anything very exotic.)

 

Needless to say, the following list is far from exhaustive. Here are simply a few films --both good and bad-- that have one of the starring roles played by a hotel.  Many of these shaped a part of my childhood world into what was to become a full blown passion. 

A FEW HOTEL MOVIES

Grand Hotel world première at the Astor Theater on Times Square 1932 (Bettmann Collection)

--Grand Hotel, 1932.  The granddaddy of them all, still highly entertaining, however dated, with Greta Garbo, Joan Crawford, Lionel AND John Barrymore, Wallace Berry, etc.  Joan Crawford steals the show with a more nuanced performance than she could muster in later years. [click on above photo for more]

--Weekend at the Waldorf, 1945.  A rehashing of the above, but transferred to the New York landmark hotel during World War II.  A film of sketches, just barely tied together by the common denominator of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel.  Ginger Rogers, Van Johnson, Walter Pidgeon, Lana Turner, etc.  No one nominated for any acting awards, as far as I know.

--Hotel, 1969.  Adaptation of the Arthur Hailey novel with Rod Taylor, Melvyn Douglas, Merle Oberon, and Karl Malden.  More multiple dramas, this time played out against the backdrop of a grand New Orleans hotel. Very watchable, however mediocre. 

 

--Last Holiday, 1950.  British comedy drama starring Alec Guiness with a screenplay by J.B. Priestley.  A charming, forgotten gem that is more tragedy than comedy.  An under-appreciated salesman finds himself with only a month to live, and decides to splurge his savings on an indefinite stay at a luxury hotel.  It all ends rather sadly, though not as one might expect. 

Hotel Carlton in Cannes

--To Catch a Thief, 1955.  Hitchcock's supremely sophisticated romantic mystery set on the French Riviera and memorably at Cannes' Carlton Hotel, with Cary Grant and Grace Kelly.  The seed was planted, and I definitely started to dream of living in France!  [It was shortly after filming in the South of France that the future Princess Grace met her prince.]

--Plaza Suite, 1971.  With Walter Matthau in a triple role, three stories situated in the same hotel suite. Filmatic adaptation by Neil Simon of his long running stage hit, many scenes were filmed at the Plaza Hotel in New York City.  A little stagey, it was probably more effective on Broadway.

--California Suite, 1978. With Jane Fonda, Alan Alda, Walter Matthau again, Maggie Smith, Michael Caine, etc.  A kind of  L.A. version of Plaza Suite, shot on location at the Beverly Hills Hotel.  Despite screenplay by Neil Simon and a stellar cast, it was and remains unwatchably bad.  With the exception of Maggie Smith, who won several acting awards for her performance, including best supporting actress Oscar.  To be fair, some critics liked it; but trust me, you won't!

Cooper, Hepburn at the Ritz

--Love in the Afternoon, 1957.  Gary Cooper and Audrey Hepburn under the master direction of Billy Wilder.  Entirely made in Paris, though for most scenes the Ritz was   recreated in a studio.  Annie Tresgot, a friend and neighbor in my building for the last 30 years, found her first job as an apprentice on this film, and she introduced me to it recently.  A respected documentary filmmaker for 45 years, this was quite an impressive start to her CV, and the beginning of a lifelong friendship with Billy Wilder.  [click on photo for more about Annie]

Vintage postcard, Hotel Del Coronado

--Some Like it Hot, 1959.  Well, everyone knows this one.  Jack Lemmon, Tony Curtis and Marilyn Monroe in the classic Billy Wilder comedy filmed almost entirely on location at the Del Coronada Hotel in San Diego, CA.  Brenda and I were tempted to stay there last year on our way to catch a boat, but couldn’t come up with a price that fit into our budget.  [click on above photo  for bonus about Marilyn]

Ginger and Fred (RKO photo)

--Top Hat 1935.  Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers cavorting about in an imaginary Savoyesque hotel in London for the first half of this delightful, dated, cinematic icon.  No real hotel has ever been quite as sleek as this one.  Hollywood stylists and decorators were ahead of their time, because much of what remains from the American art-deco period in interior design originated from these 1930’s black and white films [click on photo below for another bonus].  The second half of the film is played in a deliriously make-believe Venice with another white-white hotel going way over the top.  Fred Astaire shares one extraordinary bridal suite with Edward Everitt Horton!

Fantasy hotel boudoir from Top Hat 1935 (RKO photo)

"in glorious black & white"

--Separate Tables 1958.  An all-star cast in this highly dramatic huis clos.  David Niven won a well deserved best actor Oscar (albeit for the shortest on-screen time in Academy Award history).  An aging and miscast Rita Hayworth acquits herself well.  Also Burt Lancaster, Wendy Hiller (though even she was purportedly baffled by her supporting actress Oscar), brilliant Deborah Kerr and the sublime Gladys Cooper.  Very British, and though situated in a refined residence hotel in the Midlands, Tables was filmed entirely on a Hollywood soundstage.

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

Next Friday:  "A decaffeinated coffee ... in Hungarian?"