The Divine Miss M. gives us a little acting lesson, courtesy of Leiber, Stoller, and Norma Deloris Egstrom. I don't generally give much shrift to covers of such iconic material, but for Bette I'll almost always make an exception.
She uses my favorite part of her voice - I think of it as her 40s radio sound - a lot here, along with her Gallant Indomitable Survivor mode. What can I say? For me, it works...
Raye. Ah, the subtle elegance of classic comedy.
Sadly, I'm afraid the answer is yes, for the sad news from the UK is that we have lost the lovely Miss Wendy Richard, whose career stretched from early days as a quintessential Saucy Bird in Swinging London to her long, long stint as a longsuffering EastEnders matriarch.
Initially, though, I was somewhat underwhelmed. Here, I thought was a pleasant enough young man, but really perhaps more one of Thombeau's or Peenee's houseboys than the kind of slightly, well, swarthier types generally found in these parts. 
Nonetheless, I persevered, and additional evidence began to sway my judgment.
In the end, I admit, I find myself close to capitulation. He will doubtless only be yet more vintage in a decade or so, but for the moment, in a (Patel-less) pinch, he'd more than do.
Deneuve by Bailey, 1968. There must have been something in the water in those days. Something fabulous.
Or, to her friends - and they were legion - Janet Flanner. Along with the Murphys, Cole Porter, Gertrude and Alice, et al, she was expat Paris between the wars, and brought the news back in her wonderful writing for The New Yorker. She had a kind of slightly austere lesbian chic; she was debonair.You're soaking in it!
Is it just me, or do Madge and her customer seem a tad too chummy, if you know what I mean? What went on at the Salon after hours?
Last night we happened on My Big Fat Greek Wedding on late-night television, and even better came in on Martin's big scene, in which she grave tells the hapless WASP suitor about "ze lump at ze beck of my neck", which following "za bipopsy... za bioopazi ... za beeoobsy" proved a surprise: "Yes. In za lump ...voss my tvin!" It's a miracle of deadpan absurdity.
She honed her skills in SCTV's sketches from the mid-70s onward, before going on to Hollywood. My favorites include late-night TV pitchwoman Edna Boil. My friend Miss Rheba and I can convulse each other simply by repeating, in Edna's rural whine, "them piggies is greasy!" I suppose you have to be there.
Another of her creations is the great Edith Prickley, who morphed over the years from an officious executive to an unlikely superstar, a diva of mermanesque self-confidence in such memorable moments as Edith Prickley: Live at the Continental Baths and, of course, Prickley Heat.
Perhaps the most Dada of all Martin's creations, though, is the amazing Perini Scleroso, an immigrant lady of no known talent whatsoever whose amazing lack of articulation in any language came to its apex in her appearance as Eliza in SCTV's My Fair Lady.
These days, Martin has turned into a Broadway staple; she's seen here in her Young Frankenstein dressing room, the décor of which would appear to have been, alas, more successful than the show.
It turns out there might be peril in that little weekend minibreak I recommended last week: the possibility of Uncle Leonid here occupying the dacha next door.
That Most Unlikely of Heterosexuals, Tony Randall isn't necessarily the first star (or even among the first five hundred) I think of shirtless, but he appears to carry it off gracefully enough.
And here we have a characteristically demure shot of Miss Betty Hutton, as the world's first Hindu deity in a prom gown. What do you suppose they were taking that day in the portrait gallery?
"Well, really, Lord Hartlington," said Lady VioIa, "given that until this very moment I had no idea such things went on, even among the cricket team at Eton, I do not see how I can be expected to participate, no matter how diverting you find it."
Oh, it starts innocently enough. You begin with just a little demure blue on the eyelids; the next thing you know you're considering shaving your hairline to make more room. Even so, the full nose-coverage takes it a step beyond.
I think the saddest thing about this Moscow fashion extravaganza, circa 1972, is the eager expression on the face of the lady comrade dead center. Imagine coveting that flowered number; the very idea is almost enough to fully reconcile me to the evils of a consumer society.
Miss Ruth Gordon on the streets of a vanished New York City. I believe her little friend looks so apprehensive because he's just discovered that she's wearing his predecessor.
In the center. More and more, this seems like it might have been the right idea from the start, no?
Even dear old big-boned Marjorie Main was one once, starting out all those years ago 119 years ago today.
Today marks what would have been the 94th birthday of the unlikely Polynesianesque love god Jon Hall, best known in film history as the male opposite number to fiery leading ladies like Maria Montez, Dorothy Lamour, and even St. Frances of Farmer.
His is not the most elevated of filmographies, with epics ranging from Cobra Woman to Zamba the Gorilla to The Beach Girls and the Monster, but it's certainly a vivid one.
While it's true he was raised in Tahiti, which might help explain his exotic allure - or at least his marketing in that vein - he was actually born in Fresno, California, with the even-less-exotic-than-Hall-surname of Locher.
Clearly, the South Seas label stuck with him, right to the very end of his B-list career. I'm not sure exactly how one "directs" a record album, but I do know that being referred to on a record jacket as "Famous Motion Picture Actor" is the LP version of starting an infomercial with "You may remember me from such movies as..."
I'm currently pitching a script to star the really rather fetching Mr. Upen Patel (I'm hoping it will distract him from his ceaseless supplicating telegrams). It's a sequel to this year's Best Picture winner, and I'm calling it Horndog Millionaire.
Let's wish a happy 120th birthday to the uniquely bizarre Musidora, the French Theda Bara, star of pioneering movie serial Les Vampires. We see her here in Full - and Considerable - Menace. I wouldn't cross her.
Jackman. Apparently he's going to be on television this evening. It won't get started until well into Monday for us, so I likely won't see any of it.
It all seems rather academic, in any case, since it turns out I've not seen a single one of the nominees. Was Mamma Mia! released this year? I think that's the only new movie I saw all last year, Bollywood, of course, excepted. Why isn't Mamma Mia! getting any Oscars?
I can't even begin to justify running this photo, except, well, look at it. Some things need no justification.
...in the locker room, the Blochowski twins share a moment. And Coach Edwards gets the feeling he's in for a very interesting afternoon.
Depending on your mood, this might be just the place for a getaway. But be careful - the competition for loungers poolside turns fierce, fast!
Morton hoped in vain that no one would find out about his secret life as Myrtle, Pre-Raphaelite drag queen woodcut.
Showbiz survivor;
Sunday Girl;
Surprise! She wasn't always a Rockbird.In today's adventure, Barbie and her lady-in-waiting Midge have a Continental Adventure.
It's actually one of a number of candids taken during the filming of one of her early masterpieces, South Sea Sinner (aka East of Java), in which she shared the screen with, of all opposite numbers, Liberace.
Altogether, the series of photos, of the star in strappy sandals and smock on her lunch break, amounts to something of a comprehensive tour of the Universal lot, whose standing sets of saloon and jungle gave the picture what atmosphere it had. Here we have the alarming vision of an infinite number of Shelleys in a set of dressing room mirrors.
And here Shelley proves the skeptics wrong: she was literate. 
Or Foundation Garments Descending a Staircase, a little hommage to Duchamp, en style Playtex. The jumprope? Don't ask.
Yes, 103 years ago in New York City was born the wonderful slow-burn expert and beloved TV staple Gale Gordon.
...and had a certain something. He was a leading light of radio comedy, on Fibber McGee and elsewhere,
and even assayed the classics. In the ruff, he has vincentpriceian charm, I think.
But once assigned the curmudgeonly second-banana slot, he stuck with it and did great things. He's seen here in avuncular mode with the whole clan Arnaz, and he clearly was considered part of the family. He even accompanied Ball into her ill-fated final foray, Lifelike Lucy.
No, I can't explain the embroidery. I doubt she could, either.
In her early days, she was a fairly standard - if especially stunning - Bright Young Thing, as evinced by this extremely fetching portrait by Cecil Beaton.
She married serially and well, spending a brief period in Ducal splendour as something of a pillar of the establishment, leading to eighteenth-century-style portraits and regrettable (almost Windsorian) taste in ballgowns.
And then it all went rather wrong. Something - a naturally voracious nature; a bad fall that shook loose some shard of crazy that set her off, who knows - made Margaret the talk of London for her wild promiscuity, culminating in one of the nastiest divorces in British history, with a scandal that included a Polaroid camera, her trademark three strands of pearls, at least one gentlemen but probably more, still anonymous, but likely well-known, and some extremely Compromising Circumstances.
She ended her days in reduced circumstances and her final decades in clinging to whatever shards of the high life she could. As seen here, she spent time in some fairly dubious company, and looks rather bemused by it.
