It's not the French which puzzles me, but the can-can ass chair backs... Sitting in one removes all the titillation factor. And most mechanical risque humor cards have a surprise when you open them; this one, not so much. Puzzling.
"In the 1930s, pyjamas were exotic, the sort of thing worn by young flappers. These so-called 'new women' dressed in skimpy clothes, they smoked, they drank, they partied and they laughed at convention" -- and when they were murdered, it was what they deserved. Alessia presents the whole nasty scoop of clumping kitty litter that is The Pygama Girl Mystery in, My Pajamas Made Him Kill Me (Or, In Which I Review A Film I Haven't Seen).
Poet Sylvia Plath's Son, Nicholas Hughes, Commits Suicide
From Hillel Italie & Rachel D'Oro of the AP (links added by SPS):
When Nicholas Hughes was in his early 20s, his father, poet Ted Hughes, advised him on the importance of living bravely.
"The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated," Hughes wrote to his son, who committed suicide at 47 last week at his home in Fairbanks, Alaska, 46 years after Nicholas' mother, poet Sylvia Plath, killed herself.
"And the only thing people regret is that they didn't live boldly enough, that they didn't invest enough heart, didn't love enough. Nothing else really counts at all."
From the time that Plath died, in 1963, Ted Hughes had tried to protect and strengthen their children, Frieda and Nicholas, from their mother's fate and fame. He burned the last volume of his wife's journals, a decision strongly criticized by scholars and fans, and waited years to tell his children the full details of Plath's suicide.
And only near the end of his own life, in his "Birthday Letters" poems, did he share his side of modern poetry's most famous and ill-starred couple.
"What I've been hiding all my life, from myself and everybody else, is not terrible at all. Though you didn't want to read it," he wrote to Nicholas in 1998, months before Ted Hughes died of cancer.
"And the effect on me, Nicky, the sense of gigantic, upheaval transformation in my mind, is quite bewildering. It's as though I have completely new different brains. I can think thoughts I never could think. I have a freedom of imagination I've not felt since 1962. Just to have got rid of all that."
"But I tell you all this," Hughes added, "with a hope that it will let you understand a lot of things. ... Don't laugh it off. In 1963 you were hit even harder than me. But you will have to deal with it, just as I have had to."
Nicholas Hughes, who was not married and had no children, hanged himself March 16, Alaska State Troopers said. He was a man of science, not letters, the only member of his immediate family not to become a poet. A fisheries biologist, he spent nearly a decade on the faculty of the University of Alaska Fairbanks as a professor of fisheries and ocean sciences. He left in December 2006, according to the university's Web site.
Hughes' older sister, poet Frieda Hughes, issued a statement through the Times of London, expressing her "profound sorrow" and saying that he "had been battling depression for some time."
"His lifelong fascination with fish and fishing was a strong and shared bond with our father," Frieda Hughes wrote. "He was a loving brother, a loyal friend to those who knew him and, despite the vagaries that life threw at him, he maintained an almost childlike innocence and enthusiasm for the next project or plan."
Nicholas Hughes graduated from the University of Oxford in 1984, and received a master's of arts degree from Oxford, in 1990, before emigrating to the United States and getting a doctorate from the University of Alaska.
Hughes' family history was an "urban legend" that was passed around from student to student. But it was a subject no one discussed with him, said Kevin Schaberg, a former student in a fish ecology class taught by Hughes.
"It was obviously something he did not want to talk about," said Schaberg, who added that he knew Hughes struggled with depression. "I never brought it (his family) up. He never brought it up."
Mark Wipfli, an aquatic ecologist at the University of Alaska and a good friend of Hughes, said that Hughes never spoke of his mother to him, but he talked warmly of his father, who sometimes visited Hughes in Alaska. Even though he had left the university, Hughes remained active in research and was a key scientist in an ongoing study of king salmon.
"I would really like to see him recognized in his own right, not just as the son of two famous people," Wipfli said. "In his own right, he was an incredibly wonderful person."
Hughes not only taught about fish, he also enjoyed fishing and other Alaska pursuits, such as skiing, boating and hunting moose and caribou. What stands out the most for Schaberg, however, is Hughes' vast knowledge of fish, his instant recall of authors, titles and journals on even the most obscure subjects.
"Nick was probably one of the smartest guys I've ever met," he said. "When it came to fish, he was a walking bibliography."
Hughes was only 9 months old when his parents separated and was still an infant when his mother died in February 1963, gassing herself in a London flat as her children slept. A few months earlier, she had written of Nicholas: "You are the one/Solid the spaces lean on, envious/You are the baby in the barn."
Not widely known when she died, Plath became a cult figure through the novel "The Bell Jar," which told of a suicidal young woman, and through the prophetic "Ariel" poems --"I shall never grow old," she wrote-- she had been working on near the end of her life.
The immediate cause of her breakup with Hughes was his affair with Assia Wevill. Plath's legacy haunted her husband, hounded for years by women who believed he was responsible for her suicide and by a procession of biographers and fans obsessed with the brief, impassioned and tragic marriage between the two poets.
Ted Hughes relived the tragedy not only through the constant reminders of Plath, but also through the suicide of Wevill, his second wife, who in March 1969 killed herself and their 4-year-old daughter.
The single most collectible and rare item we've ever had, probably. This late 60's man's vintage shirt with a photo of a gorgeous naked black lady, with an afro, on the back and a smaller print of her on the front chest. White semi sheer probably nylon but it's not labeled.
You should not give canines chocolate; similarly, human dawgs should thus be teased.
Both illustrations by A. K. MacDonald appeared in the February 28 1934 issue of The Sketch and are titled Delikatessen!
The Sketch, one of Ingram's "Illustrated Newspapers" was published in London from 1893-1959. The publication was "entertainment for the masses," focusing on music hall, vaudeville, early cinema, pin-up, high society, sporting occasions and light gossip. Just our cup of tea! It began as a weekly publication & then was published fortnightly from mid-WW2 onwards.
Grey Villet's 1961 photo of "Starlet Ann-Margret Olson receiving a playful spanking from her uncle" combined with happy memories of Elvis spanking only make me dream a little dream of seeing Elvis spank Ann-Margret.
This Weston nude photograph titled Nude (Charis, Santa Monica) will be up for auction March 30 at Sotheby's and is expected to fetch $6,000 - 9,000.
The details of the work are as follows:
9 3/8 by 7 1/2 in. (23.8 by 19.1 cm.)
DESCRIPTION
mounted, signed, annotated, and stamped by Cole Weston on the reverse, 1930, printed later by Cole Weston from his father's negative
LITERATURE AND REFERENCES
Conger 968; Edward Weston Nudes, p. 83; Photography and Modernism, pl. 75; Through Another Lens, pl. 29; Edward Weston's Book of Nudes, pl. 39
CATALOGUE NOTE
The full catalogue information for this lot is as follows:
mounted, signed, titled, dated, and numbered '227N' by Cole Weston in pencil and with the 'Negative by Edward Weston/Print by Cole Weston' stamp, on the reverse, matted, 1930, printed later by COLE WESTON from EDWARD WESTON'S negative
If you wonder what impact year of creation, edition, signature etc. have on art auction prices, check out the history of pricing (collected by ArtNet)
Title Nude (Charis, Santa Monica) Medium gelatin silver print, mntd Size 9.5 x 7.5 in. / 24.1 x 19.1 cm. Year 1936 - Printing/ Casting 1951 Edition ed.100 Cat. Rais. Conger, 968 Found./Pub. Brett Weston, prntr Misc. Signed, Stamped Sale Of Sotheby's New York: Tuesday, October 16, 2007 [Lot 194] Photographs Estimate 25,000 - 35,000 US$ Sold For 91,000 US$ PREMIUM Currency Converter
Title Nude - Charis, Santa Monica (from Fiftieth Anniversary Portfolio) Medium gelatin silver print, mntd Size 9.4 x 7.5 in. / 24 x 19 cm. Year 1936 - Printing/ Casting 1951 Edition ed.100 Found./Pub. Brett Weston, prntr Misc. Signed, Stamped Sale Of Sotheby's New York: Tuesday, October 17, 2006 [Lot 139] Photographs Estimate 20,000 - 30,000 US$ Sold For 52,800 US$ PREMIUM Currency Converter
Title Nude Medium gelatin silver print, mntd Size 9.4 x 7.5 in. / 24 x 19 cm. Year 1936 - Printing/ Casting Later Imp Description EDWARD WESTON Nude, 1936 gelatin silver print, printed later by Cole more ... Edition no. 227N Found./Pub. Cole Weston, pub. Misc. Signed, Inscribed, Stamped Sale Of Christie's New York: Tuesday, October 14, 2008 [Lot 335] Photographs Estimate 8,000 - 12,000 US$ Sold For 20,000 US$ PREMIUM Currency Converter
Title Nude Medium gelatin silver print, mntd Size 9.5 x 7.5 in. / 24.2 x 19.1 cm. Year 1936 - Printing/ Casting Later Imp Misc. Signed, Inscribed, Stamped Sale Of Christie's New York: Thursday, February 15, 2007 [Lot 95] Photographs Estimate 4,000 - 6,000 US$ Sold For 18,000 US$ PREMIUM Currency Converter
Title Nude Medium gelatin silver print, mntd Size 9.3 x 7.5 in. / 23.7 x 19 cm. Year 1936 - Printing/ Casting Later Imp Description EDWARD WESTON (1886-1958) Nude, 1936 gelatin silver print, printed more ... Misc. Signed, Stamped Sale Of Christie's New York: Wednesday, February 20, 2008 [Lot 190] Photographs Estimate 7,000 - 9,000 US$ Sold For 13,750 US$ PREMIUM Currency Converter
Title Nude Medium gelatin silver print, mntd Size 9.5 x 7.5 in. / 24.2 x 19.1 cm. Year 1936 - Printing/ Casting Later Imp Found./Pub. Cole Weston, prntr Misc. Stamped Sale Of Christie's New York: Wednesday, October 18, 2006 [Lot 313] Photographs Estimate 5,000 - 7,000 US$ Sold For 12,000 US$ PREMIUM Currency Converter
Title Nude Medium gelatin silver print, mntd Size 9.1 x 7.5 in. / 23.2 x 19.1 cm. Year 1936 - Printing/ Casting Later Imp Misc. Signed, Inscribed, Stamped Sale Of Christie's New York: Thursday, October 18, 2007 [Lot 285] Photographs Estimate 5,000 - 7,000 US$ Sold For 10,625 US$ PREMIUM Currency Converter
Title Nude (Charis, Santa Monica) Medium gelatin silver print, mntd Size 9.4 x 7.4 in. / 23.8 x 18.7 cm. Year 1936 - Printing/ Casting Later Imp Description Edward Weston (American, 1886-1958) Nude (Charis, more ... Misc. Signed, Inscribed, Stamped Sale Of Bonhams & Butterfields: Wednesday, May 21, 2008 [Lot 185] Photographs Estimate 5,000 - 7,000 US$ Sold For 8,400 US$ PREMIUM Currency Converter
Title Nude in the doorway, Charis, Santa Monica Medium gelatin silver print Size 9.4 x 7.4 in. / 23.8 x 18.7 cm. Year 1936 - Printing/ Casting Later Imp Description EDWARD WESTON Nude in the Doorway (Charis, more ... Misc. Signed, Inscribed, Stamped Sale Of Phillips de Pury & Company London: Saturday, May 17, 2008 [Lot 205] Photographs Estimate 3,000 - 5,000 BP (5,915 - 9,859 US$) Sold For 4,000 BP (7,887 US$) PREMIUM Currency Converter
Title Nude Medium gelatin silver print, mntd Size 9.4 x 7.5 in. / 23.8 x 19.1 cm. Year 1936 - Printing/ Casting Later Imp Found./Pub. Cole Weston, prntr Misc. Stamped Sale Of Phillips, de Pury & Company New York: Thursday, June 7, 2007 [Lot 121] Photographs Estimate 5,000 - 7,000 US$ Sold For 7,350 US$ PREMIUM Currency Converter
Katherine Heigl Under Siege From Celebrity Sleuth Magazine, 1996
Two pages of chatter about Katherine Heigl -- with photos, of course -- found in a 1996 issue of Celebrity Sleuth (Ingenudes 9, "Issue #69!")
Billed as a "Beauty To B-Hold" and promising to deliver talk of Under Siege 2 (where Heigl appeared with Steven Seagal), most of the article is spent dishing like gossipy school girls, turning nothing into a risque giggle-fest.
For all the underage innocence Katherine exudes {like in this hands-on candid from a Seventeen magazine bash in '94, facing top left}, there's also been a dark territory hidden behind her squeaky-clean surface {like the dark cleavage, bottom left}. And isn't that Sandra Taylor with her hands up next to Katherine in a scene from Seige? (middle right) -- Taylor used to be Penthouse Centerfold Sandi Korn.
Seriously?
Seriously.
The majority of the film-focused talk is on the 1993 Disney flick, My Father, the Hero, Heigl made with Gerard Depardieu. From the blue box on the second scan, titled Ingenews:
"The smirkiest touch in My Father, the Hero involves parading naughty little Nicole {Heigl's character} in a thong swimsuit (below right)," fumed one critic, while another angrily wrote, "Some Americans in the audience might well cluck their tongues at the way the skimpily attired 14-year-old Heigl's body is exploited by {director Steve} Miner's camera." Now add to that the twisted incest plot-twist, and we discover Disney's real definition of "family" entertainment: "When Nicole falls for a hunky local, she concocts a jealousy-making scheme to rope him in. She pretends {dad} Gerard Depardieu is actually her lover and an international spy. The vacationers all think he's a child molester and give him scorching stares." ____________
Disney was nervous about the film before its release, as evidenced by the post-production makeover Katherine's costume received for previews. Bottom right: "Disney wanted to market My Father by showing its trailer along with G-rated movies. Unfortunately, Heigl's outfit didn't quite have the, um, material to play the lion King crowd {as opposed to the Loin King crowd!}. A quick digital paint job meant the Mouse could have its cheesecake and eat it too."
___________
THE SCENE: "I'm going to the beach," Katherine tells her protective papa. "Aah," Gerard gasps, grabbing her discarded towel. "What are you wearing?" he stammers. "My bathing suit," Katherine responds. "Are you sure you didn't leave part of it in the box?" he demands. "Get real, Andre," Katherine crows, flaunting her cheeks to the poolsiders. "Everybody's wearing them." "Everybody's staring at you," he blithers -- following after her bouncing buns with the towel.
The souvenir that says, "Mom & Dad went to Sparta, and all I got was this vase with a nude woman on it."
The Etsy seller says this vintage pastel double-bud vase has a sticker on it that says it's a souvenir from Sparta, Wisconsin.
Just who did you bring that back for... The kids? For the in-laws who got your mail and fed your dog? (If it was me, hell yea!) Or maybe it was what folks who honeymooned in Sparta, Wisconsin brought back.
All I know is, I've got to visit Sparta; if these were the souvenirs of yesteryear, what can you get there today?
This painting with nude breasts by Rolf Stoll was formerly owned by Chef Boyardee (aka Ettore Boiardi) and so hung in his Ohio restaurant -- which is proof that old Ettore had better taste than his canned pasta.
Andalusian Fantasy oil on canvas signed l.r. housed in stenciled Art Deco frame 50" x 35"
EXHIBITED
Ohio State Fair, 1934 Cleveland Art Museum, Exhibition of Works by Cleveland Artists and Craftsmen, April 2nd-June 3rd, 1934
Provenance: This painting originally hung in the Italian Restaurant Giardino d'Italia in Cleveland, Ohio, and was owned by Ettore Boiardi, founder of the Chef Boyardee Company Descended from the Above to the Present Owner
Condition: Very small area of craquelure in center, four tiny flakes to paint in center, otherwise excellent condition. (EST $4000-$6000)
We used to own a Just Pants store; it was a miserable failed business experience, in part due to the double books being kept at the time of the sale. ...But maybe it was a lack of advertising?
Found in the December 1970 issue of Playboy, a decade prior to our owning the store, a sexy ad that actually lists the store we owned. Maybe if we had kept up with ads like this, I'd still be measuring men's inseams & climbing that denim wall.
(The scan is huge; I can't tell you how much this find thrilled me.)
I'm rushing to post this because hubby, who regularly reads at the A.V. Club and Metafilter, told me there's been some heavy panting over Oh mighty Isis! and we both knew that I had recently bought at auction a magazine with The Secret of Isis: JoAnna Cameron.
The trouble was, which one? Well, I took the time to page through the stack of vintage & retro mags just for you -- and those Metafilter and Onion folks. Oh, the things I do for you...
But I found it: Inside Celebrity Sleuth's Network Nudes Volume 2, 1986 by Trianon Publications, Inc. (pages 44-45), photos from Cameron's topless and other scanty appearances in Peeled, B.S. I Love You, and Pretty Maids All in a Row.
A 1963 Dell Purse Book promises "101 adult ways to beat boredom" -- but don't expect to 'beat' away your blue balls to photographs; this book is all about the brain action.
Slip of a Girl has been sharing photos from the Fall 1951 issue of Photography Workshop (#3). The photos are from, and most of the issue devoted to, "Assignment in Studio 61", an artistic experiment in which 12 photographers photograph the same items. Here's a more precise description from the publication itself:
Each photographer was shown into a studio room that contained an assortment of interesting props. Each was also given a dozen sheets of test pictures for selecting one to three models. Working within the confines of this one studio room and with these particular props and subjects, the photographer was then to let his imagination loose and make any sort of photographs that came into his mind -- portraits, still lifes, figure studies, abstractions or fashion pictures.
The most recent photo she's shared comes from photo-journalist W. Eugene Smith, who was at the time a staff photographer for Life magazine. There are 20 more photos, little 2 & 1/2 inch squares, which I'm showing here -- not just because of their nudity, but because of the text published along with the photos.
We begin with the first paragraph (of four), written as an introduction by the publication:
W. Eugene Smith, an intense, congenial, 33-year-old photographer whose work we have admired for the past decade, approached the Studio 61 project with some reluctance. To Gene, a photograph is no simple matter of tripping a shutter. It is a profound personal experience. He insists on becoming, through his camera, intimately involved in his subject. He approaches the scene of picture making with a "desperate terror" that he will fail to record the perfect picture. The perfect picture, he explains with passionate vagueness, is a "three-dimensional, or mental essay" on the subject, and anything less than this is a humiliation just short of death.
The text continues to say that the photographer spent from dusk to dawn at the studio and still, "as usual, he was not satisfied with the results."
He only allowed the prints to be seen and published "after getting our promise to run his testimony that the pictures were to be considered only as 'finger exercises' for limbering up a subject."
And then Gene's own words were printed -- I find them fascinating:
I had just returned from Spain and a story that had involved my emotions to the exhaustion point, when it was suggested that I do this trick for the Workshop. All right, I thought, for once I would do pictures in which there was no need to be emotionally involved.
In that night of work, the nearer I got to shooting, the more upset I got. I soon realized that I couldn't compromise my integrity. I had no definite statement to make with a subject brought illogically into an assortment of props. I was trying to compose nothing into nothing. What I am interested in, as a photo-journalist, is truth. You would not ask Arthur Miller to write an Olsen and Johnsen musical. Nor would you ask William Faulkner to write an advertisement for Maidenform brassieres.
I objected to the layout treatment given my pictures. There were arbitrarily cut into twenty small squares by the editors. I never compose in squares, and when I do compose with the camera that I used that night -- a Contax -- I compose to the edge. Most of the time that night, I was searching and operating the camera for the sole purpose of relaxing my subject. I started taking pictures to build to something in the same way that a play is rehearsed; you allow the the thing to grow. (How many times have I taken a three rolls of of pictures as fast as I could! Just to get the subject to bored and unaware of of the camera.) Sometimes I wouldn't even have bothered to focus.
I feel that these odd scraps of pictures should not be published. No one would think of playing all the disconnected musical fragments Beethoven wrote in the construction of a symphony.
I aim to devote my camera to sincere presentation of character. I want to express this character accurately. Recently, I withdrew a print from an exhibition of mine -- a print that several critics had called one of my best photographs. I withdrew it because, since taking the the picture, I had come to know the subject better. My understanding of that person had changed; I had lost respect for this person and did not believe that he deserved the dignity that the portrait conveyed. To me, then, the picture was a fraud.
I would like to take my Studio 61 subject, study her for weeks, and then photograph her again. Perhaps, then, I could show in pictures what she truly is, who she is, why she is.
At the risk of sounding like your Art 101 instructor, here's what fascinates me about Smith's words and work...
I can't help but wonder what the photos looked like before the editor cropped them to those small squares... For example, #15 is the cropped version of the latest one at Slip's blog; there's certainly a huge difference in the appeal to me.
And after reading Smith's words, I cringe at the obviously non-linear order the photos are presented in (yes, they are shown in the order presented on the page); it seems more insult to injury to have destroyed any attempt to show the growing story.
I also cringed every single time Smith used the word "pictures" rather than photographs (and then again when I typed it). This due to former my art instructors who insisted we use the word "photograph"; like "painting", it separated art from doodles, graphics & other visual things, and also distinguished one form of art from another. Perhaps this is not necessary to the conversation today; but, hey, it's my blog.
Speaking of art...
I would have enjoyed the photographs more (or at least most of them -- certainly some are 'better' than others to me) had I not read Smith's words. But knowing what I know now, I must say it begs the question that I once threw at my art instructor when she showed us images of a Venus statue buried deep in a garbage pit, found by archaeologists, then proffered as "art": Is it really art if the artist himself is dissatisfied? If art is expression & communication, and the artist is unhappy with his result, then can it really be called art?
If not, then Smith's displeasure at the photographs renders them what... pornography? Maybe not, because while I like many of the photos, I don't find them arousing. (Hmm, well, maybe #6; but that's because I have breasts and I can feel the coldness emanating off of the metal headboard finger my bare -- not touching the headboard, but merely near it -- breast.) Then again, I don't get aroused by much of what is called "pornography." But as the photos were cropped, adjusted by an editor, would that make the editor the pornographer? Similarly, if I like them in any way, does that make the editor the artist?
And if the photos had both pleased Smith and aroused me, could they really be porn at all -- because Smith himself defines his work as pictures that show "what she truly is, who she is, why she is" and, since no one is "all arousing all the time" (no matter what your lover says!), doesn't that remove all possibility of his nude photographs being porn at all?
Maybe then the photos are indeed just 'pictures' or snaps like anyone with a camera would take. But they were not taken by just anyone; they are photos by W. Eugene Smith.
Does his credibility change, do his words change in meaning -- or your interpretation thereof -- when you learn that Smith was institutionalized at Bellevue a year or so prior to his taking the photos?
"Her Legs Aren't Legs, They're Dramatic Exclamation Points!"
More from Tip Top magazine, this a bit of gossip about Jill St. John from Notes On The Leg Line, "News and comments from the leg-watching world", a column by Goodwin Stephens:
I only remembered Jill St. John as a Bond Girl (she played Tiffany Case opposite Sean Connery in Diamonds Are Forever) when I watched Bond Girls Are Forever. That was released in 2002 and Jill looked fabulous.
Oddly enough, I do remember her as being in Hart To Hart with hubby Robert Wagner -- and Jill was only in the pilot episode.
Since the Tip Top bit features a photo of Jill St. John stripping in The Oscar (a film I've yet to see), here's the scene:
I've long avoided films with Jack Lemmon in them. Because of Tony Curtis' poor treatment of Marilyn in Some Like It Hot, all things & persons connected with that movie were sour. I don't have to explain it (and frankly, if you weren't ever a teen aged girl who idolized Marilyn, you'll never understand it anyway), it's just the way it was. So Jack Lemmon became a real lemon to me -- about as welcome as lemon scented dishwasher tabs which leave that smell which makes me think what I'm drinking has a (most unwelcome) lemony taste. I hated lemons before Jack, but they both elicited the same nose-wrinkling "No, thank you," response.
Enter TCM with it's broadcast of several Jack Lemmon films.
I don't mind telling you that I'm a TCM addict -- and I have no plans for quitting, either. I was more than greatly disappointed to find Jack hogging my favorite television channel; I was twitching for something to watch.
Eventually I decided to give Irma La Douce (1963) a try -- the lure of a retro Parisian prostitute played by Shirley MacLaine was too much to pass by. And since I'd never heard of the film before (or if I had, I'd blocked it due to Lemmon), I figured it might just be train-wreck-y enough to make mocking of Lemmon my evening's real entertainment.
Enter my surprise that Irma La Douce is a fabulously fun film.
Just campy enough, but not overdone with kitsch; gorgeous in fashion, rich in absurdity, and lush in MacLaine's beauty; all good things. Perhaps most surprising was the blend of risqué & reality -- sans the predictable post code moral judgments.
The plot revolves around an honest & naive Paris policeman, Nestor Patou (Lemmon), who falls in love with titular prostitute (MacLaine) who always appears in her signature color green, and the lengths to which he goes to win her affections -- which, in typical male thought, means she will give up her life of impure sex crime and sexually belong to him alone.
She, like any independent career woman, doesn't want to give up her work, her life, for some man who will probably only be temporary anyway.
Her practical stance, one most any sane woman holds today, is quite unusual for the time; but her high regard for her sex work career is still something not oft depicted in media even today. I'm not saying that this film is a true rendering of sex work, then or now, but it was far more frank and unapologetic than I had anticipated. (Perhaps it was a 'blame it on the French' attitude which allowed Wilder to get away with it all?)
Nestor, unable to convince her to quit, divines a plan which will keep Irma off the streets and only in bed with him. He dresses up as a rather foppish elderly English lord, pays her 500 francs just to play cards with him, and promises to visit her twice a week.
Irma excitedly does the math and, as Nestor had hoped, concludes she only needs to work twice a week with Lord X as her only client. She announces the happy news in public and all the prostitutes and pimps elect Nestor as their leader -- which means he's to pay the huge bill for the party along with the 500 francs he borrowed to start his plan. And so begins the multiple lives of Nestor.
He works multiple jobs at night, spends time with Irma by day, and twice a week appears as Lord X, the money ticket. Now, the money Nestor earns is given to Irma by Lord X, but Irma spends it nearly as quickly as she gets it, putting Nestor further and further behind. In the rather typical 1960s comedy-of-errors-fashion, Irma becomes suspicious of so-tired-I-can-barely-can-keep-up Nestor, believing he is seeing other prostitutes.
So, at Lord X's next visit, Irma seduces him into playing more than cards and tells him that she wants to leave Nestor and go with Lord X to England.
Nestor decides it's time for Lord X to leave permanently. Shouting "Goodbye your bloody lordship!" and other insults, Nestor throws his Lord X costume into the river -- which, of course, is overheard by one of Irma's former pimps, who then thinks Nestor has literally rather than symbolically murdered Lord X. Irma becomes convinced that Nestor killed Lord X out of love for her and decides to stand by her man -- even when Nestor goes to jail.
The bar owner (far larger in film character -- and person -- than mentioned here) helps Nestor escape jail and return to a very pregnant Irma.
In a very absurd scene, Nestor brings Lord X to life and then is able to meet Irma (all in white - the only time she is not seen in green) at the church just in time to marry her -- right before the babe is born.
While the ending is one of Moral Right, it isn't the usual post Hollywood code judgment in which Shirley MacLaine's Irma, like Tom Hanks' Michael Sullivan in Road to Perdition, must die for her sins.
And what of Jack Lemmon's sins?
Well, despite the fact that Irma was a role one could easily see Marilyn playing (and in fact, Billy Wilder was so impressed with her performance in Some Like It Hot, that he originally wanted Marilyn Monroe to play Irma -- but Marilyn died before film production began), I forgave Jack Lemmon his sins.
It was Lemmon's acting, not the green of Irma's wardrobe, which cast Lemmon in a new light -- a greener light of a lime, a fruit I much prefer in everything from drinks to dishwasher tabs. He is so funny & touching in this film, I would have preferred him to have been in The Seven Year Itch (though Lemmon's age may have been an issue there?) rather than Tom Ewell.
I enjoyed Irma La Douce so much that I have since watched several other Lemmon films.
Other notable tidbits from Irma La Douce:
The film was one of the biggest box-office hits of the year, grossing twice as much as The Great Escape and The Birds; I'm going to put part of the film's success down to the unapologetic risqué attitude.
Tura Satana played street walking prostitute Suzie Wong.
Jane & Ruth Earl played the fabulous kitschy Zebra Twin prostitutes.
Risque 70's tie by Gill's, it's retro tackiness is a conservative front for the nude on the back which hysterical salesmen can flip up and flash at special clients. Available at Dorothea's Closet.
Hugh was cleaning up his desk and ran across something he had saved from about 1965:
A friend and I, just out of university - went for the first time to LA - and wound up at the Pink Pussy Cat.
That led me to search the web - since I thought I remembered a recent news cast that said the Pink Pussy Cat burned down. I found your blog, noted the artifacts in your blog and found I had a couple that you don't have. See attached jpg.
The pink feathers were stuck into your hair by the waitresses - they are meant to be "ears".
Notice, lads and lasses, when you click the image to read the larger scan, that the Pink Pussy Cat Stripper's Kit includes not only costume pieces (aka "Teasing Togs") and the stripper curriculum (with you boys giving the final exam), but a subscription to the Pink Pussy Cat Magazine -- now that's what I'm talking 'bout!
This sex positive carnival highlights posts/articles promoting the sexual rights and freedom of women -- you can get an idea by seeing past editions at Better Burn That Dress, Sister and Sex-Kitten.Net. However...
I just might be mixing things up a bit with my edition. I'd like to focus on the past -- for otherwise we are doomed to repeat it. So, in my official call for submissions, I'd like to outline a few specifics ideas or topics I'd really like to see.
Because this blog is about history, I'd like to see/read posts which are focused on the past. That includes, but is not limited to:
* Explorations of your personal sex/relationship history -- not fiction, but non-fiction musings about lessons, frustrations, etc. Bonus points if you can tie it to a film, show us art which reflects it, point to parallels in the life of a pinup, or otherwise connect it to some pop culture reference point.
* Biographies or discussions of famous folks; what they've taught you, forced you to think about, or rudely awakened you to.
* Art history, artistic movements, artists, specific works, etc. which explore themes you dig, wish would return "because", or otherwise have you pondering gender, sex and rights.
* Political, religious, criminal, cultural history lessons involving sexuality & human rights.
* Reviews & analysis of film, music, magazines, books, etc. from the point of view of where they fit in or the messages they send/reflect regarding sexuality & society.
* How & where pop culture and public policy intersect regarding sexuality, sex education, and private lives.
Again, the above are suggestions, hopes, dreams -- but don't feel like you are crushing them (or my spirits) if you write/submit something that's more traditional fare for the carnival.
You are free to write anything along these lines just for this carnival edition, send me a link to a piece/pieces you've already written on any of these or related and appropriate themes, and/or submit a post/article you've read by someone else that seems to fit & rocks your world or impresses you enough to make the effort to nominate someone.
Please email your submission to me at Naughty(dot)Words(at)gmail(dot)com prior to noon on January 4th, 2009.
Nettie Rosenstein's Odalisque Perfume ads in the 40's and 50's romanticized "odalisque" including the risque use of artistic nudes in the print ad campaigns.
"Odalisque" is a French form of the Turkish odalık, meaning "chambermaid." The term specifically signifies a virgin female slave who, being the lowest ranking member of a harem, was not allowed to serve the sultan but instead his concubines and/or wives.
There's not a whole lot of romance there, Nettie Rosenstein; not in being a slave, not in being the one to deal with the piss-pots of the harem, not in being too-lowly to even deal with the master -- unless, of course, you could prove a 'talent' and work your way 'up' from piss-pots to male pissing tools and be a sexual servant.
But Nettie was not alone in romanticizing these women. In the 19th century, odalisques were common fantasy figures in the Orientalism movement, featured in many erotic paintings from that era.
Scream-Singing The Praises Of The Black Canary Figurine
Collin writes of the latest luck of "B-list DC superheroine", the Black Canary, to get have three high end action figures released at once -- and it amuses me.
Barbie collectors recently got a high-end Black Canary figure for about $40, but the figure caused something of an uproar because of Canary's black-leather-and-fishnets attire. While the comic costume is meant to evoke something of a burlesque crimefighting kind of thing, overzealous parents decried Black Canary Barbie as a prostitute, or a participant in that most unholy of all personal practices, bondage. Never mind that most people should be aware by now that many Barbies are intended for adult collectors and are sold as such - someone just needed an excuse to be outraged.
I don't know why Barbie collectors act so damn weird about this stuff when there's not a kid in the world who collects Babs and Co. All the 'fashion dolls' are for adults, of various levels of perversity and orientations, and they have the adult price tags to prove it.
Collin continues:
Tonner's female figures are absolutely the company's strength but my love of females definitely provides a bias. Man, do I love females. While I loved Tonner's Batman, he's a very pretty man. The delicate, angelic doll look that Tonner employs fits so much easier with the female figures, which are radiant and idealized - very true to the idea behind much comic art. Apparently, superpowers make you really, really hot - unless you're being written by Grant Morrison. That guy's messed up.
I love a grown man who not only admits to playing with dolls (and action figures are dolls), but loves the erotic nature of the babes too. (OK, he doesn't quite use any erotic terms, but do I have to fill in all the dots for you?) Here's a passage wherein the collector hints at his lust more specifically:
Correct me if I'm wrong, ladies, but there must be something pretty awesome about modern fishnet technology, because I'm seeing it used everywhere, and more effectively than ever. Even DC Direct's 6" Black Canary action figure had these great fabric fishnets fixed around her legs - which is always so much more aesthetic than sculpted-on fishnets, which often end up looking like scarring from some kind of horrible waffle iron accident instead of high fashion. Canary has great fishnet stockings, and under them is a thin layer of flesh-colored fabric that covers the leg as a second stocking, and completely hides the knee joins, creating a seamless leg very effectively. And the perfect little boots? They zipper down the back. I almost wish I had some kind of weird shoe fetish, because the engineering of these is really impressive.
"Almost wish" you had a shoe fetish? Sounds like you're already there, Collin.
Personally, I'm intrigued with the metal stand holding her crotch. Now that looks like a great BDSM toy; part chastity belt, with access for forced orgasms.
I don't know a thing about the Black Canary, but I'm told that her secret weapon is a screaming head -- pretty sure that stand's got something to do with it.
Tip Top magazine billed itself as a "cultural, scientific, and sociological publication produced and distributed as adult educational material aimed at illuminating on-going changes in contemporary patterns of societal behavior" -- but that was just to be allowed to sell & distribute smut. The magazine's tagline, "From the Tip of the Toes to the Top of the Hose," tells a better story of its true nature as a mag for nylon, pantyhose and stockings fetishists.
It's not a teasing peek-a-boo type of men's magazine but an explicit retro publication, with lots of natural (i.e. hairy) pussies shown spread wide open above those stockings, garters, & high heels. Not only does this magazine clearly remove any notions that "old porn was always classier", but I couldn't resist saying that this woman with glasses was no Tina Fey.
Not only do the babes wear hosiery, but they love it so much the lick it -- and of course, that leads to licking and screwing one another.
Tip Top, a Parliament Publication, Volume 10, Number 1 (August, September, October, 1970)' published by Jaybird Enterprises, Inc.
I absolutely abhor it when a person starts off a blog with "I'm sorry I haven't written", a preamble to some excuse that, frankly, nobody really wants to read; but today I have to do it. (Such is the curse of uttering the word "never".)
I've had a dreadful sinus infection, keeping me couch-ridden for several weeks as moms cannot afford to take to their beds and still watch the tots -- yet I was too tired to climb the stairs just for a change of sleeping venue. The reason I mention this is not to 'excuse' my absence (as a hobby-blogger, you pay me nothing for my services; so I owe you nothing in return), but rather to explain just how I managed to watch hours upon hours of films as I just have. OK, and maybe to justify things if, still under the influence of cold medicine & an antibiotic still ripping its way through my digestive tract (and sure to cause a yeast infection), I don't make a lot of sense right now.
Enough of the disclaimers already; get yourself a beverage and settle in to read because I'm about to begin a long post.
For the second time in my life I watched Let's Make Love (1960). The first time I saw it in its entirety I was about 16 & I really disliked it.
I told myself that I didn't like it because of Yves Montand. His personal ickyness in his relationship with Marilyn was so visible in his character (Jean Marc Clement) -- or at least that ickyness was the general perception of Jean Marc Clement & why the theatre group in the film was mocking him. Also, because 16 was the age at which I began stalking Marilyn Monroe, knowing how horrid director George Cukor was to her made me feel the whole film was a mean mess. While this film isn't Marilyn's greatest, and there's something valid in Marilyn's real life situations which would affect the film thus, the real truth -- the honest truth -- is that sixteen-year-old-me was uncomfortable with Marilyn's sexuality.
And it hits you right from the start of the film, with the voluptuous blonde wearing a bulky but short purple sweater over a sheer black nylon catsuit.
Strangely, I've always loved Marilyn singing My Heart Belongs To Daddy. I've owned it on CD and even performed the song, including public impersonation of Marilyn singing it (actually I did so twice, if you count my parody performance of My Heart Belongs To Mommy at a "lesbian music festival"). But the vision of Marilyn in such sexualized 60's beatnik garb just didn't sit right with me at 16; while the song was verbalized peek-a-boo & tease, the physical display was nearly vulgar to me.
Aesthetically speaking, I prefer more glamour and peek-a-boo tease than blatant sexuality in dress; but what made me squirm at that age, though I never would never say so out loud, was all those curves -- including a soft, feminine, rounded tummy. Watching the film again as an adult, I was once again embarrassed -- but this time, over my confused, immature, 16 year old self's reaction.
It's easy to understand, and forgive, a young woman's discomfort with such an out-there, highly-sexualized presentation of the female form. And I did forgive myself for that easily enough. But that other part, that lack of acceptance of a woman's real form -- including her belly, that seems unforgivable... Unless you allow for my early indoctrination of beauty standards which eschew the realities of the female form. And that's precisely what upsets me.
How unforgiving I was, how unkind to my idol, to not allow her her humanness in physical form when I was so ready, willing and able to condemn those, like Cukor and Montand, who wouldn't allow her human frailty-- or would exploit her for it. My inability to accept her non-perfection -- even when so uncomfortable being confronted with her attractiveness, her sexuality -- seems nearly unforgivable.
My only consolation is that I have out-grown such childish notions. Having put them aside, I no longer will need to avoid watching Let's Make Love.
Feeling wiser and somewhat emotionally victorious, but no better health-wise, I was prompted to then watch another movie that I had not seen since I was 16.
That movie was Blue Lagoon.
Blue Lagoon was the 'it' film for teens in 1980, and raised quite a ruckus which I felt was a much-to-do-about-nothing. Maybe it's because I was already reading far 'worse'; or maybe because while I found the film to be a sensual ode to (primarily) Brooke Shields, I did not find it erotic. Shields was (still is) beautiful, but I found the film footage to be more artistic than smutty... The island setting, the flora and fauna, the ocean and sky, were beautiful and Shields' beauty just seemed to blend in with that. It was natural. Not that sex isn't natural, but I didn't feel any heat. Not 'down there', not on my cheeks either.
You'd think that after all I said about Let's Make Love and Marilyn's obvious prancing sexuality that I'd have had some discomfort or other with this film. Especially as Let's Make Love was watched at home alone, while Blue Lagoon was a public trip to the theatre with my peers. But I didn't experience any sexual confusion or discomfort; at least not directly.
Perhaps this was because Christopher Atkins did next-to-nothing for me. He was too soft & pretty -- like those non-threatening boy-band guys (then and today). Which totally explains his 1982 nude appearance in Playgirl.
Even watching it again as an adult I was more moved by, attracted to, Brooke's beauty than his. But I certainly didn't feel 'erotic'.
Not that Let's Make Love made me feel erotic (then or now); but there was the idea of sex, much more so than in Blue Lagoon... In fact, Blue Lagoon, while lush & far more beautiful (in terms of film quality too), just had the feeling of kids playing at being grown-ups. It could have been the awkward acting, simplistic dialog dumbed-down rather than portraying innocence (almost mocking what we then-called Third World countries for a lack of education and superstitious rituals in place of actual Religion), but even then I held the director, Randal Kleiser, accountable for being too in lust with 'beauty' to care about the story.
In fact, I wasn't just "not erotically moved" by the film, but disappointed angry at what was delivered as opposed to what could have been. There were hints of possibilities, things to think about, but it was campy -- and what was up with that tacked-on rushed ending? Wasn't the family's return to 'society' one of the most interesting concepts to explore?
I guess Brooke & Chris were too beautiful for anyplace other than that island setting.
Anyway, the sticking point for this film, the food for thought for today, is what happened after my friends and I had watched the film back in 1980. All my friends, those I had seen the movie with and those who had just seen it period, were absolutely in teenage love-lust with Christopher Atkins -- and staring at me oddly because I was not.
This is where my embarrassment kicks in.
No, I didn't think I was a lesbian; I didn't think I had any problem at all. I was embarrassed by their adoration of this pretty man-child, that they would fall for some mishap of movie making which attempted to manipulate them -- transparently, cheaply, and without any skill or finesse. Like a cheesy country song or the clumsy hand of a careless lover whose only concern is to please himself. (Yes, Kleiser, you can take that personally.) How could girls fall for that? Truly embarrassing.
It was even more embarrassing & disconcerting than those who objected to the film for moral reasons.
I was keen to watch Blue Lagoon again after my recent experience with Let's Make Love, I wondered how I'd feel about it now; but nothing had changed after all. I'm still disturbed that anyone could be moved by the film enough to fall for the romance or be outraged by the immorality.
Whatever points 16-year-old-me lost with Let's Make Love I more than recouped with Blue Lagoon.
But my re-run movie fun isn't over yet.
Next, up The Wedding Singer. There's not much to say other than I have always loved this film (I own it and the soundtrack); as a product of the 80's why wouldn't I? While watching it with my husband he asked, "What else has the actress who plays Linda been in?" I couldn't think of a thing -- which is rather a shame because Angela Featherstone's excellent as the bitch-to-hate.
But the real reason I mention this is that right after The Wedding Singer ended, I flipped channels.
What did I find?
On the Sci-Fi channel, Caved In: Prehistoric Terror, an as-to-be-expected campy horror film -- starring Angela Featherstone and Christopher Atkins!
I shit you not.
Featherstone is still pretty; but Atkins isn't -- he's finally handsome!
Chris and I have finally grown up, I guess. And now I wouldn't mind some nude photos...
PS If you're still reading this, I will be (fingers crossed) moving this blog to its own domain & private hosting this weekend.
I do this because ever since the "blogger warning" has been issued to me (and yes, I take it personally), traffic (also affected by a lack of posting, I know) and stat tracking (which should not change with poor posting habits) has dropped drastically.
I honestly have no idea what fresh hell I shall discover with such a move, but, despite the possibly snarky sounding (yet accurate) statement that I owe you nothing as far as guaranteed postings, I do apologize in advance for any craziness which comes from 'moving' the blog.
Having fallen in love with Queen Marie, I was thrilled to discover in the February 22, 1941 issue of Liberty magazine "Madame Pompadour Of Rumania: The Story of Magda Lupescu and King Carol" by Frederick L. Collins.
Billed as a "new drama in the vivid chronicle of a red-haired woman who ruled a monarch", the story reads like fiction -- an exploitative fictionalized biography with a huge emphasis on lurid depictions of Magda, "the beautiful half-Jewess."
I don't own this magazine; Pop Tart does (she let me read it and sent me these scans) and as I still owe her some magic beans for the Pink Pussycat goodies I can't dare dream of it (yet). However, as this is part four of the serialized story, I'd have at least five more issues to get anyway. (The soap-opera styled teaser at the end promises the next chapter, not the last chapter.) Saved eBay search, here I come.
I Think I Love You, Sadie, Sally, Whatever Your Name Was
Still fascinated by the Pink Pussycat, of which there is little on the tubes of Internets, I've become drawn to Sally Marr (aka Sally Marsalle and Boots Malloy), the former dean of the college of strip tease who was also Lenny Bruce's mother.
Virtually whenever anyone writes about Marr, and admittedly few do, they mention her 'bawdy' and 'outspoken' nature. The examples are that she's said to have 1) taken son Lenny to see burlesque shows when he was just 12 and 2) allowed him to read adult materials.
These two statements are repeated ad naseum, becoming one-liner legends I'm tempted to dismiss as being copied one from the other in a strange daisy-chain of cut-and-paste -- but I won't. For while those statements are repeated at a frequency worthy of dismissal (further penalized by the blandness that only an absence of documentation coupled with a lack of description can provide) they also represent something else.
First looking at the context of the statements, the on-one-hand 'credit' (these experiences creating the comedian's successful act) and on-the-other-hand mention (a nod to the bizarre foreshadowing the comedian's doomed life), points to the question of Marr's fitness for motherhood. Because moms cannot be sexual or sex positive without damaging herself and her children, her parenting is so unorthodox that no further explanation is deemed necessary.
For the record, I snort & chafe at such beliefs.
In Seriously Funny, by Gerald Nachman, there seems to be some discrepancy over Sally's literal mothering -- some claiming that she was rarely around for Lenny between the ages of 8 to 17. Surely at odds with the stories of how the 12 year old was watching the burlesque shows him mom emceed; make up your minds, people.
(And, speaking of such things again, it should also be noted that at burlesque shows in those days, no strippers went nude -- it was an art form of tease and humor. While I cannot say just what 'adult materials' Bruce had, let alone which momma Marr allowed him to have, we cannot ignore that while complete nudity and even penetration porn may have existed, Marr herself is to have said, "A woman's best weapon is a man's imagination." In that case, it's pretty clear that Marr knew that a g-string dollar was proffered for the teasing suggestion, not any actual delivery.)
Many go further and seem to seek to mar Marr's reputation by depicting her not only as morally questionable, but as opportunistic as well. They mention how she dared to enjoy being famous as Lenny Bruce's Mom; ignoring the fact that Lenny's big break, the gig at Ann's 440 where Hugh Hefner spotted him, wouldn't have happened had Sally not told the manager of Ann's 440 not to hire herself but her son. They mention how she sought Lenny's limelight, even milking it after he was dead; but side-step Marr's willing assistance & support (including financial) to other comedians. (She is credited for spotting the talents Cheech & Chong, Sam Kinison, and others.)
What's really telling about all of this is the irony. While they are busy depicting Sally Marr this way, the truth is seen: It is they who are only interested in Lenny Bruce, and Marr for her relationship with him.
Born Sadie Kitchenberg, Marr had, at age twelve, been a contestant in a beauty contest judged by Rudolph Valentino. She was offered a job on the basis of her provacative performance, but her father refused to let her accept it. She began dancing, winning a variety of contests, giving dance lessons, and always looking to perform.
During World War II, with her son Lenny off in the navy and her husband long gone, Marr worked in bars an an emcee. Audiences responded well to her slightly off-color jokes, and eventually she moved on to larger comedy clubs. When her career waned, Marr transferred her show business ambitions to her son, becoming Lenny's coach and number-one fan, in the tradition of Sadie Berle and Minnie Marx.
Such intriguing brief hints at Marr's life before motherhood -- of her having a life before and outside of being the comedian's mother... I drool from my aroused organ (my brain; sheesh, you're smutty).
Even if she wasn't going to ever win any awards for World's Most Traditional Mother (and who the hell wants that honor?!), even if she was thrilled to bask in Lenny's fame, even if you don't like her -- I do.
I'm intrigued by this woman who impressed Valentino, who taught girls (of all ages & sorts) to dance (all sorts of dances), who understood seduction, who played with risque humor, who not only raised a son so funny & wise but got his humor too. It's her biography I want to read.
And if you've got any more info about Sally Marr, any objects & photos etc., no matter what name she's billed as, please share!
Ephemera from The Pink Pussycat of Hollywood, 7969 Santa Monica Boulevard, Hollywood 46, OL 4-0280
Pop Tart traded all of this to me for a player to be named latter. Thank you!
A napkin (one of two!)
The Pink Pussy Cat Burlesk "A STAGE FULL OF THE MOST EXCITING GIRLS IN THE WORLD"
A table topper, proclaiming a two drink minimum per person (exclusive of food):
HARRY SCHILLER presents The Pink Pussycat BURLESK you'll PURR!!! when you see "A stage full of the most exciting girls in the world."
But The Pink Pussycat was more than a club... It was a college of strip tease too. Per Time, November 10, 1961:
Once upon a time, little girls agrowing used to think dreamily of the day they would matriculate at Vassar, Smith, Wellesley, Bryn Mawr or Sweet Briar. But with the population explosion, those colleges, can no longer take care of everyone, and some girls have to settle for less. In Los Angeles, for example, there is the Pink Pussycat College of Striptease.
Founded six months ago, old Pussycat is steeped in tradition, and the campus bustles with a sense of purpose. "There are lots of girls who want to strip, but few know how," said President Harry Schiller in his first baccalaureate address. "Now they got a place where they can come and learn."
Tuition at Pussycat is $100 for a ten-session curriculum. After such basic, required courses as The History and Theory of the Striptease and The Psychology of Inhibitions, girls can major in everything from Applied Sensual Communication to Dynamic Mammary, Navel, and Pelvis Rotation. The entire faculty is Sally Marr, 52, mother of four-letter Comedian Lenny Bruce. With knowledgeability gained during her career as a tank nightclub comedienne, Professor Marr lectures her pupils: "Keep your eyes on the audience at all times. Learn how to look at one man and take your clothes off for him. Not too much bump and not too much grind—that's passé and went out with Minsky."
To prepare for a screen role in Seven Thieves, Actress Joan Collins dropped in at Pink Pussycat College to see how it is done. But most undergraduates are less celebrated—ambitious unknowns with names like Dee Pontius and Jo Lynn, who will go out into the world after graduation with new professional names selected by the college's vocational-guidance department: Peeler Lawford, Fran Sinatra, Toni Curtis.
Old Pussycat, says President Schiller, is filling a vital need "in a field barren of talent and ideas." Indeed, just as Cambridge University developed soon after Oxford, old Pussycat may some day stand at the head of a great line of U.S. institutions of higher learning, ranging from the University of Pantsylvania to Tartmouth and M. I. Tease.
What's pink and cuddly and worn almost all over? And has "THE NAVEL ACADEMY OF THE WEST" written in purrrfectly svelte black velveteen? And is 100% warm, cuddly, pussycat-pink cotton? And you can buy it only from the famous Pink Pussycat in Hollywood? And costs only $5.00 Give up? She will... when you give her the Pink Pussycat Tease-Shirt.
However, Sten didn't learn English very well and so did not endear herself to American film fans; she was dubbed Goldwyn's Folly.
The movie has consequently been rather ignored, but really isn't as bad as folks might have you think; I rather enjoyed it on TCM tonight. The only irksome thing for me was The Code ending.
And the fact that TCM doesn't allow you to embed the videos; so you'll have to click the links above to see them.
Ads on page 14 of the San Francisco-Bay Area Official Amusement Guide, Week beginning May 4, 1967.
Galaxie ad: "Pretties Topless Dancers", featuring Jeani Monroe, original amateur topless contest, record stars Rick Stevens Four.
And ad for Finocchio's Worlds Greatest Female Impersonators, featuring Jackie Phillips, "The Riotous Redhead."
Moulin Rouge promo for Marta Dane -- "The Gorgeous Dane".
And Follies Burlesk, oddly enough, promoted themselves as having "S.F.'s only live stage show" -- which implies that Jeani, Jackie, Marta and the rest were dead? The Follies Burlesk also had "Girls Galore" and "Zany Comics" (dibs on that last one as my stage name!)
I'm sure most of you have seen these old bootjacks where the V notch for boot removal is a woman's crotch, but this one is especially neat as it's marked "NELL'S PLACE". While it's supposedly marked for a business, the fact that it's put on a bootjack of a spread female form has additional innuendo (or would that be a double entendre?)
It occurs to me that I have not ever shown you any of the sketches found in that Paramount Folder. Since it clearly belonged to a student of the arts (formalized education or no, I cannot say), it seems only proper to show examples of his or her work.
To Provide For The Various Phases Incident To Love, Courtship & Marriage
Love Letters With Directions How To Write Them by Ingoldsby North includes "the Art of Secret Writing, the language of Love portrayed, and rules of grammar" -- Because the various phases incident to love are affected by grammar.
An ad in the back of Donohue's Vest Pocket Webster's Dictionary & Complete Manual of Parliamentary Practice, copyright 1901.
Bran Castle, built in the 14th century as a fortress to protect against the invading Ottoman Turks, was home to the Romanian royal family from the 1920s until the communist regime confiscated it in 1948. At the end of communist rule in the 1980's, Bran Castle was restored, dubbed "Dracula's Castle," and thus became a popular tourist attraction, with some 450,000 people visiting the castle each year.
While Vlad III, Prince of Wallachia, aka "Vlad the Impaler", may or may not have ever stayed at Bran Castle, the Transylvanian castle did inspire Bram Stoker's classic 1897 novel Dracula -- and apparently that is enough for millions of people.
Me? I'm not such a fan of horror & blood. But I am a lover of affairs of the heart & hearts themselves... beating with life they literally keep the beat of our lives, turning the rapid pulse of emotion into the racing hearts of passion and then the heated pumping of erotic acts... and how the heart stills with emotional too, be it the skip at romantic introduction or the pause when the heart is broken... I even love them long after they've stopped beating. So, I'd still go see the Bran Castle -- but not for Dracula; I'd go for Queen Marie of Romania.
While married to Ferdinand of Romania, Marie not only had an affair with Lieutenant Zixi Cantacuzene which produced a child "disappeared from history"; a longer affair with Barbu Ştirbey which produced at least one son, Prince Mircea, and possibly one daughter, Princess Ileana; but Princess Maria (called Mignon) might have been the daughter of Grand Duke Boris Vladimirovich of Russia.
Certainly all of this had to have affected Marie's thinking regarding her son, King Carol II, and his relationship with Magda Lupescu -- first his mistress, and this his wife after his abdication -- but she publicly stated he had "sinned grievously". The irony seems to have been lost to Marie who only became further estranged from her son.
All such juicy things to further investigate...
And then there's this bit: Queen Marie made arrangements in her will for her heart to be kept in a cloister at the Balchik Palace -- her son Carol II dutifully carried out the request.
In 1940 her heart was transferred to the chapel at Bran Castle (the casket with Queen Marie's heart has since been moved to National History Museum of Romania in Bucharest).
Who doesn't want to pilgrimage to this woman's home?
If that's not enough to seduce you to, how about this quote from Queen Marie regarding a proselytizer:
I have met ..... I did not like him. He seemed to me to be a snob. He spoke of God as if He were the oldest title in the Almanach de Gotha. And all that business about telling one's sins in public -- He wanted me ... me ... to get up before my children and confess everything I had ever done! It is spiritual nudism! Ça se ne fait pas.
In 2005, the Romanian government passed a law allowing restitution claims on properties seized by the Communist government of Romania in 1948. It was due to this law that, in 2006, the Romanian government awarded ownership of Bran Castle to the son and heir of Princess Ileana, Archduke Dominic of Austria, Prince of Tuscany, known as Dominic von Habsburg -- then a 68-year-old New York architect.
Because of Princess Ileana's questionable lineage, among other things, the property distribution was challenged; but as Queen Marie herself named Ileana as the one to inherit Bran Castle, the Constitutional Court of Romania and an investigation commission of the Romanian government reaffirmed the validity & legality of the restitution procedures used and in December 2007 issued confirmation that the restitution to Ileana's son, von Habsburg, was made in full compliance with the law.
According to the contract signed when Bran castle was returned, the government pays rent to von Habsburg for the right to run the castle as a museum (including charging admission) for three years. That period ends in 2009 and full rights to the castle & property will then transfer to von Habsburg.
Having no experience with running a museum, von Habsburg and his family have put the castle up for sale to those "who will treat the property and its history with appropriate respect."
I'm not sure my lusty love of history would meet approval; but as Bran Castle is expected to fetch over $135 million, I don't suppose I could afford it anyway.
a little risque....a little naughty by 1940's standards anyways....they are along the line of "Jiggs and Maggie", if you remember that cartoon strip.
(Link added by SPS.)
Risque?!
Let's get real here. The woman brandishes a rolling pin -- from the lump on his head, she's connected at least once already. How does he retaliate? By removing her breast!
Honestly, just where did one display or use such S&P shakers? At the dinner table with the kids? When one entertained business associates? When the in-laws came over? Or maybe they were just used in the basement or rec-room bar, where drunk folks thought such risque things were supposed to be.
We're concerned (yet again) with a bare breast but not the violence -- even when the violence has severed a breast.
These are so bad that I must have them; like African Americans collect the horrible history that is Black Americana, I must have them.
I don't ask you for much, readers... So donate money to me so that I may buy them -- or let me know that you'll be buying them for me. (No need to bid against one another now!)
Rather unusual vintage nude S & P shakers -- wanna guess which end poos black bits of pepper and which dribbles white salt? I guess we should just count ourselves lucky there's no dispensing of paprika.
We all know pulp novels (which is a category of books wider than the term 'pulp' technically refers to) are exploitative works; but sometimes I just have to draw the line. Even if it's only 50 cents at a thrift shop.
Today's example, a copy of Super Cop Joe Blaze #3, The Thrill Killers, by Robert Novak.
It's not that I don't need to start collecting a bad series of cop adventure novels (supposedly by a Washington pundit), it's not that today I needed 50 extra pennies of my meager budget to go towards something else; I had after all lifted the book up to see what it was about. Nay, my refusal was based entirely upon the front cover text:
Nurses were being brutally raped then carved to ribbons by a pair of killers looking for kicks
My initial reaction was, "Aren't the readers lusting over the same kicks?"
And the more I ponder it the more my reaction stays the same, for the book doesn't say a single word, however clichéd, about how said super cop 'vowed revenge' or thought these murderers the 'worst sort of criminal'.
Instead it sells the rape & mutilation of women -- nurses who, by the way, are the pulp icons of 'good innocent & intelligent girls'.
Sexism, in light of the times & target consumer, may be rampant in pulp novels; but such misogyny is quite another thing entirely.
At the risk of regression, I have to point out this gem of a quote from Marilyn on the mutual non-love affair between herself & Tony Curtis on (and likely off) the set of Some Like It Hot.
In a letter to a friend she wrote:
"There is only one way he could comment on my sexuality and I'm afraid he's never had the opportunity."
Aces.
The fact that Marilyn owned a child's recording of Walt Disney's Snow White is sweet...
I'm trying to resist all urges to comment on how Monroe had too many dwarfs in her life... How she was not only both Madonna & Whore, but both the Sweet Princess and the Evil Queen, poisoning herself into slumbers that only the kiss of true love could wake her from...
A limited number of classic original art works from Playboy's legendary archives are being via Heritage Auction Galleries on October 15.
Playboy—The Art of Beauty is a "selected group of 16 sexy, humorous artworks represents some of Playboy’s most renowned contributors, including Alberto Vargas, LeRoy Neiman and Gahan Wilson, as well as four full-length, full-color Little Annie Fannie strips by Harvey Kurtzman."
Should your pockets be deeper than mine, you can view the offerings and bid here -- and if your pockets are deeper than mine, please consider donating winnings to me.
Many women are searching for the answers to what it means to be female, historically and right this minute, and how we feel about that ~ and we're using porn & erotic materials to do it.
...No matter who the body before us belongs to, it becomes our own. That could be our tits, our ass, our labia spread wide open like a briefcase on his desk. We could be the whipper or the whipee. Just how do we feel about all that?
A rather crudely drawn postcard, featuring a woman behind a dressing screen in a doctor's office. She appears to be nude, except for her shoes; her stockings and bra draped over the screen. The male doctor appraises her.
"ARE YOU SURE DOCTOR? WINCHELL'S ALWAYS BEEN RIGHT BEFORE"
I gather the Winchell referenced is Walter Winchell, making this a humorous stab of gossip about the doctor's reputation, or the woman's, as well as Winchell's.
Then again, my guess that it's Walter Winchell is based, in part, upon the fact that the postcard's incomplete sentence relies heavily on the reader knowing about Winchell & the period's current events and persons -- something Winchell himself was known for.
Not knowing the context, the postcard becomes cryptic & convoluted. The humor is hinted at, but like a child hearing a double entendre, I just don't have enough knowledge to share the laugh.
I appreciate any information from readers.
Other postcard info: Signed ERICK (or E RICK). Divided back, unused; published/printed by Glacier Stationery Co., Great Falls, Mont. No year, circa 1940's - 1950's.
October 4th was Buster Keaton's birthday. Growing up, I always thought Buster Keaton was a euphemism -- even when I wasn't sure what it would be a euphemism for. But then, I also didn't know what a "Buster Keaton" was, so it only added to my confusion.
(Of course, Buster didn't come up in conversation too often. Diane Keaton did, however. And, combined with the attitudes & jokes about Mr. Goodbar, such namedropping conjured the weirdly reminiscent, "Hey, I'd like to bust-her keaton!" ideas.)
In any case, I eventually came to know just what a Buster Keaton was -- and became rather smitten with him. Sure, most of his films are rather formulaic, and they don't exactly feature strong women, but they are charming for what they are. And the absence of strong females in Keaton films doesn't appear to be (nor even feel) misogynistic. From The Keaton Heroine:
It was totally intentional on Keaton's part to make his heroines distant and dramatically underdeveloped. They were there purely as an impetus for his journey through the picture. His silents were love stories of some description, all with the same formula -- Buster wants girl; girl or her family doesn't want Buster: Buster proves himself through some heroic fete: girl (generally) wants Buster or her family finally approves of him -- End. Keaton said of his leading ladies,
"There are usually but three principles - the villain, myself and the girl and she was never important…. The leading lady had to be fairly good looking, and it helped some if she had a little acting ability. As far as I was concerned I didn't insist that she have a sense of humor. There was always the danger that such a girl would laugh at a gag in the middle of a scene, which meant ruining it and having to remake it."
What was Keaton's reasoning behind the lack of development in his female co-stars? To push them into the background so he could egotistically be the center of attraction? Doubtful, he was considered to be a generous performer by his peers. The public were paying to see a Buster Keaton film staring Buster Keaton. That in itself dictated a high priority for Keaton screen time. There is also little room in comedy for extended passionate and involved love scenes between the hero and heroin… it just isn't funny. Once a love scene becomes funny it is no longer believably passionate. A quirk of the times seemed to dictate that comedy films had the morals of Victorian culture rather than that of the Jazz Age (the exception being Clara Bow). Sex were not the territory of the young, it was an adult privilege to be earned, not an instant proof of adulthood to be embarked on as soon as the hormones kicked in. A respectable young man of the middle classes was expected to prove his love and maturity through non sexual displays of valor, and show he had the means to support a wife before being allowed the joys, or otherwise, of marriage.
There are three exceptions in Buster Keaton films; and you can read about them The Keaton Heroine.
Apparently the photo taker/shopper, drowningmermaid, had not even noticed the genitalia and screwing:
I like to imagine that these bookends are zombies and their beards are made of brains. EDIT: HOLY SHIT, you guys!! I didn't even notice all the sexual stuff before. I kept going back to them in the store because there was something about them but I couldn't pinpoint it. I'm going back tomorrow and I'm buying them!! The call has been made to the store. They're behind the counter waiting for me! WOO and HOO!
Too bad, because for $2 I was gonna ask the mermaid to get them for me.
Simply watching 80's porn won't do that for me because for the most part the fashions shown rarely reflect "me" at that time. And, no, I didn't really watch porn in the 80's. Aside from a few views for a fellow I was dating, I had no need to watch it.
She brings up a few points which were likely brewing in my subconscious... Like how much do things like clothing & setting affect my viewing or porn?
I know when I laugh out loud & become snark-master rather than slipping my hand in my panties; but what about more subtle things, like when I want to connect to the time and place? I know I can't really relax into arousal with erotica so poorly written that a character has a third hand reaching for her heaving bosom, or when his shorts inexplicably find themselves back on again. Like readers of historical fiction who freak when there's a car being driven on roads before Queen Victoria's birth, I can't help but be annoyed by those things -- and such annoyances interfere with my willing suspension of disbelief.
Now, we all know porn by & large offers little in the way of practicality & accuracy, but we do have to find something to relate to. So what happens when you are turning to porn for a sense of nostalgia? Surely porn can offer the fantasy of your own yesteryear, right?
But what Gracie says is that she's yet to find porn that can transport her back to her youth, her "glory days", because none seems to capture or reflect the fashions & settings of her at that time.
Is that too much to expect from porn?
Maybe; but it still raises some good questions, if not libidos horny for nostalgia.
It makes me wonder what & who the fashions in porn reflect today... What other elements in porn might be missing which renders porn non-relatable... Is this what makes amateur porn so appealing ~ that we see ourselves in those clothes, those situations and so are more responsive?
I don't know. I'm still looking through porn and thinking about all this. Of course I'm also still just looking at porn for the fuck of it too; so it may be awhile before I get any closer to those answers.
Me too. *wink* But now I have another excuse to look at more of it.
The seller of this reprint, who has marked the image with his seller ID, claims this is a reprint of an item from his own collection -- but sadly says nothing else about it. (Too bad, because I occasionally buy reprints if I know something about the original.) The fruit & breasts as wares on display naturally reminds me of the vintage bumper crop of boobies promo piece.
Discover the lurid secrets of sex and sexuality as you wind through the streets of the Jewish Lower East Side. Spanning from the 1880's to the 21st century, from synagogues to sex shops, the former shtetl will come alive with tales of Jewish prostitution, pornographers, birth control pioneers, undergarment peddlers, bath houses, burlesque performers, erotica, fetish and fashion.
When this was cut out of the mag, that left this lady with a partial head. I didn't think most of you would mind not being able to meet her gaze. But maybe you do... I don't know; you tell me.
XXBN gets inside the Arse Elektronika Conference, with Gracie Passette speaking live with Johannes Grenzfurthner 9/26/2008 at 9 PM Pacific/11 PM Central (9/27/2008 at 12:00 AM Eastern). This year's conference theme is Do Androids Sleep With Electric Sheep? Critical Perspectives on Sexuality and Pornography in Science and Social Fiction.
It might delight you to know that I'm a freak for ancient Egyptian history -- and I say 'freak' because any anthropologist, archaeologist, or historian will tell you that Egyptology draws the freakiest of all persons, making Egyptologists the butt of all jokes.
My affection for such study began in childhood, followed me through college course selection, and remains with me today. Back in 1973 I was an ankh obsessed girl -- earrings, bracelets, chokers, you name it, I was covered in it -- so it would have thrilled me then to have discovered The Coven, "A sensational novel of Washington intrigue and witchcraft by Watergate conspirator E. Howard Hunt writing as David St. John" (Fawcett Crest, printed October, 1973).
The back of the book, sans mention of ankh, would still have held promise to a young me who fancied romantic notions of secret sects:
WHO WAS ANDREE LESCAULT?
No one really knew much about the murdered songstress except that she had been extraordinarily beautiful, that her singing cast a strange spell over all who listened, and that even sophisticated Washington had fallen victim to that spell. There was talk that some of her tribal chants were really secret rites. There was also talk that a certain powerful and handsome senator with presidential ambitions had a special interest in her. A very special interest.
Jonathan Gault found that out when they summoned him to find her murderer. He had also heard Andree sing and felt the presence of something macabre and evil...
The victim, Lescaunt, was more than an Afro-French chanteuse; the mystical ankh that she and most of her musical followers wore leads the investigation into a cult, of course.
From page 45:
Out of delicacy or ignorance the jeweler hadn't told Ellen a few other details about the Ankh that I was able to learn at the Georgetown Library. The basic form was an oval atop a tau cross. A magical symbol, at its most elemental level it represented a human being. Antedating Christianity, it was believed a precursor of the crucifix. And its sexual significance was explicit. According to Dioscurian legend the Ankh established both the rising and falling currents of life. The symbol abounded on the tomb of Tutankhamon, even as filigree design in the pharaoh's funerary furniture. And wherever it was displayed it signified inexhaustible, all-prevailing potency.
The Ankh. The ansate or handled cross.
An amulet, periapt, magic charm; a talisman for those it touched. Andree Lescaut had worn it, and her enthusiasts as well. Was it a recognition sign among members of some latter-day Egyptian secret society, devotees of a cult? Dedicated to what? African Music?
Aside from the fact that the author stretched his word-count with the behavior of a thesaurus, what else do we learn...
That black is beautiful, baby -- so long as it comes hither via France.
That religious things predating Christianity are not only secretive & sexual, but murderous -- especially if linked to another culture's music.
While my thirteen year old girl's loins flush with heat at such simple sentences as "And its sexual significance was explicit", even then I was disappointed that such a ripe sentence not only bore no fruit but, lacking any attempt at back-up, had apparently sprung from nothing more than the author's mind; just another diversionary perversion.
The rest of the novel with Gault as its aggressive and sexually swaggering male lead reads like classic pulp detective fiction, albeit there are a few timely updates such as the reference to Gault's equally aggressive and sexually swaggering female gal pal, Gina. Case in point, this example from page 47:
[Gina] leaned back against the sofa and stretched, catlike. "I can think of things even more interesting--but there I go, seducing you again."
"Women's Lib influence. Equal rights for females."
Yeah, having the ERA referenced by some white male Nixon punk as a means to some sexually aggressive tail is exactly what I enjoy. Not.
In fact, there's really nothing to please me in this book -- not even the romantic ankh loving girl of my youth would have been satisfied with the shoddy writing, stock characters, fade-to-black sex scenes, the poor diversionary perversion of the Ankh, the thinly veiled stabs at Kennedy & youth culture, or anything else in this book. It could have been a sinfully good bit of escapism, as many pulps are, but it missed the mark.
When discussing Hunt's books, (too) many folks focus on his Washington & CIA experiences, saying, as Tim Weiner at the NY Times did upon Hunt's death, that, "His works followed a formula of sex and intrigue but offered flashes of insight." Poo. That's people wishing to legitimize poor books based on the employ of the author -- when they can't boost the written work any other way.
So why give it so much space here at SPS?
Well, what is rather interesting about The Coven is its author, E. Howard Hunt.
Yeah, yeah, everybody knows that the guy was a criminal. But wanna know what else is creepy? His son's own description of him.
I would imagine Mary was probably a romantic interest. Only his closest friends called him Howie. My father was quite a playboy back in the day. Being a writer, musician and secret agent he had his pick. He was a smooth operator for sure. We did have a nanny named Mary Trainer for many years in Japan and Spain but I doubt he would use “Howie” when signing something for someone in his employ
Here poor naive David waxes nostalgic on his pa's hero status as a sexual predator, yet manages to turn a blind eye to the possibility of the smooth operator's ability to bonk the nanny.
I don't know the nanny in question or even anything about her, but it seems to me that a playboyesque spy with a penchant for extramarital activities would certainly have the potential to at least be on friendly enough terms with the female help to sign a copy of his book with his nickname.
Reading and rereading David's comment, it sure sounds like married daddy was having affairs... Well, that was his due as a man with "his pick" of women, right?
Or maybe the son just likes to imagine his father as something better than he was, more like the leads in the novels... Triumphing in sexual conquest is the male ideal -- as long as it's not with the nanny.
Do I believe E. Howard Hunt was a playboy & a smooth operator?
I'd say he'd have to be better at that than he was as an author.
According to this article, Josephine Judson Carringer was musically gifted, highly intelligent, ad entered college when she was 16 yrs old. She wrote Three Little Fishes with Betty Lynn Kirk, her sorority sister at the University of Tennessee in the late 1930s. They then sold the song for $200 and Saxie Dowell adapted the lyrics and music into the piece that became a number one hit in 1939 as performed by the Kay Kyser orchestra with Ish KaBibble singing.
According to Time, June 19, 1939, "Saxie Dowell recently heard, in the South, an old nursery tune called Down in de Meddy. He thought it mighty cute." We can't blame Saxie for the giant PR machine which would deny buying music (especially for a mighty cute old nursery rhyme song), and so we can likely believe the rest:
The result was published last April by Santly-Joy-Select, Inc., which got out The Music Goes 'Round and 'Round and admits to liking "crazy things." Under its title Three Little Fishies, Saxie Dowell's song last week had set something of a current record by leading the field in sheet music sales for a month.
Three Little Fishies has verses which can be sung either in English (Down in the meadow in a little bitty pool) or in "fish talk" (Down in de meddy in a ITTY BITTY POO). The chorus can be sung only one way: Boop boop dittem dattem whattem Chu! The song, likely to cause reverse peristalsis in fastidious stomachs, is all about some "itty fitties" who "fam and dey fam" until they "taw a TARK!" (shark). Den dey fam back to deir poo. The publishers, wary of overplugging Three Little Fishies, withheld it from all but a few big orchestral names—Hal Kemp, Guy Lombardo, Kay Kyser, Paul Whiteman, each of whom recorded it. The song was plugged on the radio by Mildred Bailey, Fannie Brice, Judy Starr. Along with the itty fitties, fat Saxie Dowell fam into such fame that he is now thinking of leaving Hal Kemp and starting a band of his own.
The song is a relative childhood classic -- that is to say, if you had a corny family like mine, you heard your relatives sing it. Often. You may have even heard Madonna and Rosie O'Donell perform a cover of the tune.
Now, you might be wondering why I'd be taking so much time to discuss a cute old kids' song here at SPS. Well, the idea of Baby Snooks, the bratty character played by Fanny Brice fascinates me.
It plays well-enough on the Baby Snook radio shows but, as Brice was fond of dressing & behaving 'in character', once you can see as well as hear it takes on other elements.
Putting a grown woman in little-girl-garb may have it's humorous elements, but it also says something about power & dominance -- and you don't have to be a perv to see it. Little girls are innocence, but they are also property; they belong to daddy. Short baby-doll dresses, oh-so fashionable these days, communicate these things -- innocence and access -- which is why I don't own a single one of those monstrosities.
Having a bratty girl-child mouth-off to her master may be cute, but underneath it all lies -- as sure as those ruffled panties -- the idea that she will eventually heel and heed her master. Or, if she does not, then he is less-than-a-man and plays cuckhold to her charms. Sure, all this can only make it funnier; but did they get it?
Without Brice & Snooks, we likely wouldn't have had Lily Tomlin's Edith Ann on Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In -- but there's a huge difference between the two.
Tomlin's Edith Ann appeared alone in her giant rocking chair where she told stories about her family & dog. Having her be alone could have been a choice to deal with scale; but even so, simply being alone meant Edith Ann was not (as) eroticized.
Baby Snooks, by comparison, not only acted with others but interacted physically with them, drawing in all those adult contexts. There is a large difference between discussing a punishment, a la Edith Ann, and showing a grown woman dressed as a child over the knee of her daddy figure like Baby Snooks; the image has erotically charged elements.
At the base of this humor is prettified misogyny &/or glorified cuckholding. It's all good & fine for adult role-play sex-scenarios, really; but as entertainment one really ought to be aware that's what they are enjoying.
Baby Snooks (with Hanley Stafford as "Daddy") was performed on television only once (and this was Brice's only TV appearance too), on CBS-TV's Popsicle Parade of Stars in 1950 (one year prior to Brice's death). Entertainment folks document Brice's height &/or age as the reason for its failure, and Brice herself is said to have admitted that the character of Baby Snooks just didn't work properly when seen... But come on!
This wasn't the first time Baby Snooks had appeared before people. Baby Snooks was even in Judy Garland's Everybody Sing (1938) prior to radio success.
While Brice & Garland are wonderfully funny in that scene, this was not the usual Baby Snooks routine. Baby Snooks was built on the annoying relationship with her father and, sometimes, other men. The Baby Snooks character had been preformed live on stage for years and, height of male actors aside, there clearly were other issues at work here.
Fanny, who rejoined the Follies at the Winter Garden, was still not in the best of health, and had to clear her throat in her Snooks scene Hope. "That's my cold clearing up," she ad-libbed at one point.
"I thought you were just oversexed," was Bob Hope's quick reply. The line stayed in.
Yeah. No wonder it just didn't work properly on television.
I wonder just what it is that people were thinking about Baby Snooks at the time.
Note:Gone Fishing (06/01/1939) & Baby Fish Story (04/11/1940) have quite a bit of similar content for a woman who eschewed rehearsals, saying she wanted to give performances a spontaneity and unpredictability that would be lost with an over-familiarity with the lines and other players. That could just be the writers milking their own jokes. What do you notice about the shows?
The bottom line of all these themes is the intimidating / overwhelming / frightening nature of women's sexuality for some men. Fear often ignites a sexual response. (I remember being reprimanded at work when I was 25 and nearly having an orgasm as I listened to my superior dress me down.)
And women are the ultimate scary creation because they're so unassuming. Yes, they look soft and speak with a lilt. They nurture and comfort. But you'd do well to worry, buster. Women's capacity for god-knows-how-many orgasms ... the unknowable how-to-score with women that all men must somehow learn, and the classic, now-cliched-but-still-asked -- and unanswered -- question looms and dooms so many men: "What do women want?" ...
My absolute favorite find this morning was "Giantess Ultimate (Got Milk?)." (It's posted below.) A beautiful woman in a milk ad on a billboard comes off the billboard in the middle of the night and teases and toys with a man nearby who was admiring her two-dimensional beauty. Once she's real, though, his lust mixes with fear (intensifying his lust).
He fearfully claims the gorgeous, giant, sexual woman will "corrupt the whole city of two million people" if she wanders into the town nearby. She does so anyway, him in tow. Along the way she teaes him, "Does it bother you to be so small?" and then derides him, "Poor little thing, poor little insect."
He runs from her. She coos, "I won't hurt you." She captures him. "You're so warm," he says softly. So touching. To which she responds, "I'm going to eat you." He claims her perfume is intoxicating him; he's losing control, succumbing (so as not to have to take responsibility for his actions). He claims she's taking advantage of him because she's "so big." The old she-made-me-do-it.
Substitute "women's sexuality" for the beautiful blonde and you have one of the greatest unspoken fears amongst many men: women's sexuality. Unspoken - but not undepicted. Enter, the giantess fantasy.
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I've been interviewed on Radio Blowfish (direct link to the specific podcast download here).
Peter of
Jane's Guide says, "This blog site is perfectly charming. What an enjoyable time I had here. Your hostess, and the site, is named Silent Porn Star - with no doubt interesting and untold stories behind the name. The focus here is in curating - and celebrating - sexual iconography. I browsed the site's last couple of years of archives, hip hopping over such delights as old pulp fiction cover art, black & white vintage photography, occasional contemporary censorship issues, and even - to my delight - a link to a YouTube clip of Cher and Raquel Welch, all glitter-glamoured up in their prime and glory, singing Peggy Lee's "I'm A Woman". If that isn't as iconic as you could ask for, you're not looking. The commentary is smart, positive, and insightful. This is just the sort of unique site we love to encourage." (Silent Porn Star even made Peter's list of favorite sites!)
Cinema Retro says, "[A] gem of a site that will appeal to any libertines among our readers. Silent Porn Star is an addictive, often hilarious look at how sex and pornography has presented in pop culture over the last century. There are vintage postcards of topless Polynesian dancers, tasteful nude starlets of yesteryear and some delightfully distasteful photos and stories of more recent vintage. We don't expect too many contributors to Mike Huckabee's presidential campaign to patronize the site, but those of us who are proud to be less pure can have a field day looking through those old ads for movies about promiscuous teenagers as well as reveling in other forbidden delights. There's plenty to gawk at whether you're straight, gay or in between - fun for the entire family!"
"Required reading," and "When it comes to sex and collecting, there is no better blog to read because it is always about the sex and the collecting," says Shon Richards.
Blowfish Blog says, "Although the writing is warm and friendly, an aura Sphinx-like and cool surrounds Silent Porn Star. Written by a female collector of historical erotica and risque objects, in it we find out a great deal about a great many things, although not much about the author. But that is part of its charm; like an expert strip-tease, you think you see everything, and then realize that you only saw what you were permitted to. If you are a lover of historical smut, this site is simply mana from heaven, of course. But for everyone, the commentary is learned and witty, intellectual without being snobbish. And we learned so much about the mafia, too."
Starla of The Naughty Guide says: "The writing is elegant and flows off the screen with ease and the site is packed full of information. Some humorous, and some thought provoking. I am sure you will find something to tease your taste buds on this site."
Engaging in "rampant presentism," says anonymous. (Ha!)
Erotic Mandy of Sexy Blog Reviews says, "This is a sex blog of a more 'cerebral nature'," and gives Silent Porn Star 3/5 Orgasms because I'm, "interested in vintage sexuality and is probably quite smart."
Terra at The Naughty Guide gushes, "Silent Porn Star was a joy of a find for me, due to my fetish for vintage erotica. LOVE IT!! This is a blog that is a collection Vintage Erotica bringing it to us in one spot. It is a must visit for those of us that are curious or enthralled with the history of erotica. ...Content is slick, almost as if it was a commercially produced site. I usually read personal blogs, but this interest blog is one that I am adding to my daily read list."
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