sistercelluloid ♦ January 2, ♦ 5 Comments
On the last Friday of the year, Donna Hill said goodnight to her beloved William, who may have been right there beside her, or maybe he was in his little heated bed, or in the velvet wingchair with the brocade pillow, in the living room lined with lovingly framed posters and portraits of stars gone by.
And then Donna went to sleep for the last time, setting off waves of grief from all corners of the classic film world.
Donna had struggled with diabetes for years, but rarely spoke of it. She’d much rather talk about Rudolph Valentino, about whom she wrote the best book of all the ones out there, capturing the romantic soul that so matched her own. Or Dorothy Gish, the subject of the bio she was working on, whose photos she loved to collect. Or Renata Tebaldi, the soprano she adored above all others. She’d rather help other writers and historians by sharing her encyclopedic insights into silent film—which were so extensive that even Kevin Brownlow sometimes tapped her brain for information. And like Kevin, she was always breezy and generous, never show-offy or stuffy.
In the past few days, with eyes bleary from tears, I’ve probably read every tribute out there, as other grieving members of the film community shared their stories about Donna. Pretty much all of them have one word in common: kindness. My memories are no different.
Donna was one of the first people I spoke with after losing my Mom. It was during the pandemic, and she was working from home, but still very much working—she always seemed a little swamped. I kept interrupting our call to say, “You know, I understand if you need to get back to work…” and she’d insist she had all the time in the world. After a long talk that I dearly needed, I finally took the initiative to ring off, knowing she’d have stayed on all day otherwise, just to be there for me.
She was always there in other ways too. When I was struggling to write a tribute piece on Norm Macdonald, afraid I wouldn’t do him justice and would unleash a horde of his passionate fans, Donna talked me through it. Not in a rah-rah, you-got-this kind of way, but with genuine compassion and understanding, along with some motherly prodding. It got to the point where I was more concerned about disappointing Donna than angering any rabid Macdonald fans.
With Donna, I also learned not to admire anything out loud, lest she send it off to me. I swooned when she posted a portrait of Robert Montgomery, only to find it on my front porch in a well-padded envelope the following week. When I scoped out the final season of Endeavour—a series we both loved—on a European website months before it was due to air in the US, I sent her the links, and she responded by sending me a full set of Endeavour DVDs. I posted a s brooch my husband had bought for me, and she sent me a lovely celluloid heart pin from the same era.
Very few people on earth are as kind as Donna was. But to find someone that kind who was also funny and goofy is pretty much a miracle. We were both in love with the soapy and fabulous Rome Adventure, being sure to alert each other whenever it was due to show up on television, and we shared a daydream about opening a bookstore in Italy like the one Constance Ford ran, or maybe just going to work at hers since we loved her character. (Donna was thrilled to learn that my Dad had known Ford through his work and that she was just as great a broad in real life.)
We also talked about going to a Giants baseball game with Cari Beauchamp (Carrie and I used to count down the days till pitchers and catchers reported to camp), and we cried on the phone together when we lost Cari.
But I’m so glad Donna had so many adventures of her own, including the silent film festival in Pordenone, for which she had saved and planned for so long. By the time her most recent visit rolled around, she of course had already made friends with pretty much all the regular attendees, and half her luggage was taken up with DVDs and other film bits and pieces she was bringing along as gifts. And she had scoped out the best place for gelato.
Her only pang of sadness on the trip was being away from her beloved William, named after William Powell. She asked the pet sitter to send her videos of him, though they only seemed to make her miss him more. From the time she adopted him last February, she posted pictures of him almost daily, and you could feel the love pouring through the screen. Just last month, amid Christmas greetings, she called him the best gift she’d ever received. He is being adopted into a safe, loving home, though it will be hard for anyone to match the mom who adored him so.
I watched The Bishop’s Wife for the zillionth time last week, and at one point the professor says Julia is one of those rare people who can make a heaven here on earth. So was Donna. To have her as a friend, or to know her at all, in person or otherwise—it just made your life so much better.
As midnight rang in , I cried at the thought of going into the new year without her, and cursed the old year for snatching her away.
I hope all of us who were Donna’s friends try to do a little better, be a little kinder, carry her spirit with us. But I just can’t escape the fact that she should still be here, sharing whatever this year brings, good or bad or scary, and planning and saving for her next trip to Pordenone.
The last time I spoke with Donna, a couple of weeks ago, she mentioned she hadn&#;t put up a tree for fear it would be too tempting for William. I suggested she put some of her favorite vintage ornaments, which she&#;d been collecting for decades, into bowls on the table. &#;I may do that, until I figure out how to make it work with a tree,&#; she said. &#;Maybe next year.&#;