Truman Capote, flamboyant author of Breakfast at Tiffany’s and In Cold Blood, made a name for himself, in his literary and social heyday, in more ways than one. Indeed, I don’t immediately think of his stories when I consider him. I’m more familiar with the film Breakfast at Tiffany’s than the slick little novella it was based on, having watched Audrey onscreen about, oh, thirty four times, and only read Capote on the page once.
It’s Capote’s character, and private, or not-so-private-life, that absorbs. His name is rather a catalyst for a steady drip-drip of associations that come slowly swirling about one, like confetti or the measured skitter of the snow. And it’s a heady concoction of Warhol, murder cases, Marilyn and Audrey, TV chatshows, feuds, the glorious, iconic Black and White Ball at the Plaza, 60s Hollywood, debauchery and meanness, Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones, and Studio 54.
And then finally, wonderfully New York:
“…as we watched seaward-moving ships pass between the cliffs of burning skyline, she said: ‘years from now, years and years, one of those ships will bring me back, me and my nine Brazilian brats, because yes, they must see this, these lights, the river– I love New York, even though it isn’t mine, the way something has to be, a tree or a street or a house, something anyway, that belongs to me because I belong to it.’ And I said: ‘Do shut up,’ for I felt infuriatingly left out– a tugboat in a dry-dock while she, glittery voyager of secure destination steamed down the harbor with whistles whistling and confetti in the air.”
Read this fascinating Telegraph article about Audrey, Capote and the film here http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/film/classic-movies/8032801/Breakfast-at-Tiffanys-50-years-on.html