A Shout Out to All of You and An Achingly Heartfelt Goodbye to Heath

By Victoria Looseleaf

Greetings, cheers and a gigabyte’s worth of hellos to you, our ardent followers, contributors and fans who have been loyally reading, posting and being such a cool, vital part of The Looseleaf Report cyber community—our blog—since its launch last April. Please allow me, then, to take this opportunity—albeit a belated one—to at long last welcome you to The Looseleaf Report Blog.

(DIGRESSION: Last June I intended to make my entrance with thoughts on the final episode of The Sopranos, but since I was addicted to the HBO show and suffering from major withdrawal, I instead fled the country for Cuba, France, Greece, Spain, Holland and Argentina, where I covered a coterie of arts festivals. But hey, I loved the ending, it was sheer fucking genius and am thrilled the cast got its due at the Screen Actors Guild Awards.)

In any event, recapping for new peeps out there, our Tribeca film coverage by New Yorkers, Robert Rosen and Mary Lyn Maiscott, was without peer. (Who knew, btw, that Sarah Michelle Gellar had such passionate fans?) For that I say muchas gracias and do faithfully swear to contribute regularly from now on from my base in Beverly Hills…Adjacent. Seriously, as the online counterpart to our hip, late-night, bicoastal television show on the arts, The Looseleaf Report (catch us in New York, Los Angeles or streamed over the web), this blog will serve as another outlet for Mr. Rosen, Ms. Maiscott and me, Victoria Looseleaf, straddler of high and low culture, to not only shed light on happenings in the worlds of arts and entertainment, but to dialogue with you.

In other words, please talk to us, post your comments and tell your friends to visit us (and for a hoot, check out The Looseleaf Beauty Report on YouTube by plugging in the word, “looseleaf.”)

Now, though, I write simply to express my profound sadness at Heath Ledger’s passing. Heath(cliff) Ledger (named for the stable-boy-turned-faux aristocrat in Emily Bronte’s only novel, Wuthering Heights), we hardly knew ya. But, oh how you were loved…and fantastically brilliant. You’re gone now and way too soon. (I’m not pointing fingers but even without my UC Berkeley crim degree I’d be pissed and puzzled about the masseuse calling Mary-Kate Olsen, not the brightest etoile in the sky—not once, but twice before dialing 911...)

Fortunately, though, we shall have your celluloid self to cherish forever: From your conflicted, repressed cowboy (“Jack, I swear” —who hasn’t felt like that, huh?), to your insanely lovable Cassanova (what’s better, really, than sex in a gondola?)—with forays into surfdom, teen lust and even a wry Bob Dylan portrayal—you gifted us with your luminous presence. But will I be able to handle your turn, Heath, as “The Joker” in the upcoming Batman sequel, The Dark Knight? Perhaps, but only with a big bottle of bourbon and a box of Kleenex. Farewell, sweet prince…and plant a big one on James Dean for me, puhleeze.