I hope you'll pardon, Gentle Readers, the quality of this image, imperfect as it is, given the sheer treasurability of what it portrays. The year is 1968, and Lady Bird is in Palm Beach as the guest of Mrs. Marjorie Merriweather Post, then wintering at her modest little cottage, Mar-a-Lago. Why she has chosen to accessorize her swoop-ti-doo-sleeved gown and pearls with what appears to be a Play Wig is an enigma lost in the mists of social history.
We have, for various reasons, been enduring enjoying a raft of visiting family over the past several days, culminating this afternoon in one of those occasional kinship rituals that will bring together friends and relatives from multiple sides of the clan. Pray for me.
This 1947 gem from no less than Mrs. Edwin Main (Emily) Post actually contains a great deal of very useful advice - little nuggets that, judging from the dinners I go to, not a few persons in comparatively lofty positions could learn much from.
I particularly enjoy the several things that many would now think likely to be the height of gaucherie that Mrs. Post reminds us are quite correct: drinking from one's soup cup, for example, or the almost entirely forgotten fact that bread plates are not used at a formal dinner, and the bread (if any) is simply deposited on the tablecloth (for sopping purposes only, please, no butter). I'm also quite taken with the parade of horrors committed by Mrs. Inexcusable Cigarette, who was clearly unused to human companionship of any kind, poor thing.
And wasn't American food plain? Those cubed potatoes look to be strangers even to a little pepper, and you just know that Mrs. Post's cook had never heard of cilantro, fenugreek, or hoisin sauce. At least she rose to exotic little touches like that challenging ethnic treat, SPAH-ghetti, and bravo to attractive Virginia Hopkins for managing it so deftly.
This missive from the Emily Post Institute (Emily Post, President) may have been filmed a decade or two before my time, but this was the world I was raised in. There is not a little resemblance between Mrs. Post there in her garden and my sainted Grandmother Muscato, who actually did serve whole poached fruit for dessert and expect one tidily to cut around the stone, at a table that was never less neatly set than here, three meals a day. Under her expert guidance, her Alice (She's a Treasure)* put out sauces no less drenching than Mrs. Post's Hollandaise, not to mention a creampuff in syrup that I'm sure would give Mrs. P's a run for its money. Even now, all these years later, I still feel a twinge of guilt, a cool draught over one shoulder, when I eat a bowl of cereal, milk poured directly from the fridge, perched on a stool, sans underplate, sans placemat, sans any of the things that "separate us from the savages, dear. Sit up."
At a time when we may need more than a little reminding of the basic rules of civilization, on levels even more significant (if such were possible! cries the shade of Grandma M.) than table manners, they do remain a place to start. Tonight I think we'll eat in the dining room, and while we may not rise to finger bowls, we can at least be more Virginia than Inexcusable. It's a start.
* I actually for a little while thought that might be the housekeeper's last name...
Ever since I dug up an issue way back in 2008 (do you believe it?), this classic periodical has gained a certain discerning little following. Dear Donna Lethal discovered several back numbers over in her droll corner of the cyberverse, and dear Jon has even come across an issue or two over in Blighty (perhaps he found them in some tempting corner of the Portobello Road?).
As with the legendary Flair, though, complete sets are hard to come by, and I do believe we can all live in hope of finding new editions. Later issues seem to be especially rare - there's no denying dowagers were an endangered species once Mamie Eisenhower left the White House...
Christmas or no Christmas, Lady Shufflehampton has had it up to here with that dawdling, shillyshalling saleswoman. Fifteen more seconds and she's going to kick her in the shin and remind her that Altman's isn't the only store in town with a Better Coats Department. If that beezle doesn't finish writing up that new fox jacket this instant, there'll be no making her 3:15 at Elizabeth Arden...
Just a quick one, darlings, 'cause your Uncle Muscato has a new obsession - in my constant search for fodder for your entertainment and enlightenment, I've run across the extraordinary Mary Worth and Me, and I'm now hip-deep in the Worthiverse.
If you can't get enough of meddling old biddies and comic-strip snark, you'll follow me right over. You'll thank me - it's advice worthy (get it?) of Mary herself.
One-third less caffein (is that a vintage spelling or just local-market incompetence?), perhaps, but clearly two-thirds more psychotropics. Rather like the mood around here these days.
Remarkably, the inimitable Page Morton Black, Chock full o' Nuts' very own answer to Vera Hruba Ralston, is still with us. As is the brand, which was also a surprise. Their website actually has some fun Flash animation - and a lot of that damn jingle...
Fifty-two years ago tonight, dear Mr. Eisenstadt snapped this perfectly charming shot of what Life described as "Mrs. Gustav Mahler, widow of composer, raptly listening to his 'Resurrection Symphony,' conducted by Leonard Bernstein, at Carnegie Hall."
Well, possibly, but I think we might be justified in thinking that the lady known to her friends and not inconsiderable number of enemies as Alma Maria Schindler Mahler Gropius Werfel (yes, she got around) finds the Maestro's obsession with her late (first) husband just about as tiresome as she found the composer himself by the time he conveniently shuffled off this mortal coil back in '11.
Yes, I do believe we're safe in saying that this is a picture of a widow (twice over, actually; Gropius she divorced) napping, possibly even snoring lightly, happy in the knowledge that not a soul will dare to say a word about it (not to mention perfectly content in her sables, false fringe, and continuing notoriety-by-association). She's probably dreaming of what Bernstein's excellent cook will whip up for the after-party; she looks like someone who enjoyed a toast point and a glass or two, no?
On this Presidents' Day, let's spend a moment considering the remarkable lady we find here looking quite uncharacteristically benign. She is, you see, someone rather special in the annals of the American presidency, having been the goad and gadfly of our fearless leaders for the better part of the twentieth Century: Alice Roosevelt Longworth.
She started with McKinley (she regarded "the President and poor frail little Mrs. McKinley as if they were two usurping cuckoos" at the inauguration that saw her own father seated as vice president, and she admitted, after his assassination, to the slightest twinge of guilt at having hoped so ardently for his death) and ran straight on through Roosevelts Teddy, her father ("I can be President of the United States or I can attend to Alice, but I cannot possibly do both," quoth he), and Franklin, her cousin ("nine parts mush and one part Eleanor," quoth she), and ending up with Carter, whom she considered an over-earnest bore and refused to meet.
She wowed the Dowager Empress of China in 1905 (and therein lies a tale or ten, not to mention gifts of enough fine brocade to keep her in evening gowns for the better part of fifty years), and she was still wowing them 70 years later - her last public appearance was at the official celebration of the Bicentennial. She played at politics, voting more by instinct than party, and she had, it seems, from start to finish and despite some of the inevitable setbacks and missteps, a fairly marvelous time of it all. I hope that the current White House daughters give her a thought or two as they head into what we must hope will be their second term - she's a far better role model, heaven knows, than those dreary Bush twins or the dreaded Nixon sisters. Maybe we'll find them, come 2015 or so, raising a little discreet hell in her memory...
Despite an onslaught of unrelentingly creative guesses, ranging from Sophie Tucker to the Queen Mother (and including the popular favorite, the highly likely Mr. Peenee), the identity of our Edwardian mystery lady remained unsolved. She was, of course, the roguishly charming matron seen above, Miss Mary Boland. With no prizes to hand out, it just means wee drinkies and radio cowboys in the bar car for everybody.
Boland's was a fine career, encompassing everything from turn-of-the-century Broadway to a solid place in moviegoers' hearts for more than two decades after the her appearances in early talkies. As in her best-remembered role as Flora, Countess de Lave in The Women, she generally played vague, funny ladies, frequently of the upper classes.
In her last picture, an obscure 1950 indie noir curiosity called Guilty Bystander, she apparently played against type as "Smitty," a flophouse manager. Sadly, despite being third-billed, she didn't make the poster. From the look of it, she could only have helped.
"Well, it mustn't get around, but... it's all true. Stephen Haines is stepping out on Mary. Her mother told me. Yes, that's right - the one with the strange ideas about swastikas..."
...began with a tentative guess, and then a ringing affirmation. Yes, we have two winners of our latest mystery-lady challenge. Dear Normadesmond noted something charlottegreenwoodische about our fur-cloaked enigma, but it was the enigmatic MC who jumped in with a definite and entirely accurate answer. She is indeed that diva of the Fox backlot, the doyenne of the speciality high-kick number, Miss Charlotte Greenwood.
Mabrouk, as we say in these parts, to them both, and also to all who chimed in - Irene Ryan is certainly plausible, Helen Mirren's grandmother distinctly amusing, and dear Bill's offering of La Stanwyck is at least a sporting try.
Above, by the bye, we see fabulous Charlotte in the final moments of what is very likely my favorite film of all time, The Gang's All Here, in which she is joined by the entire cast - which ranges from Carmen Miranda to Benny Goodman and back again -who appear as floating, bobbing heads to sing one more round of the picture's hit song, whose name forms the title above. Aficionados of this landmark in cinema need to head immediately over to Shadowplay (whence I cribbed the pic) for a savagely funny takedown of this number.
Lord Fogminster had hoped that his faraway expression would cover for his uncontrollable flatulence, but the Dowager Duchess completely blew his cover.
Oh, that Marie! She'd do anything to steal a scene - even if means going all polychrome.
Seriously, wouldn't it have been fabulous if these ladies had done a picture together? What a festival of dithering, double-takes, withering ripostes, lorgnettes, and lace tea gowns it would have been!
I think it would have required the presence of Eric Blore and Edward Everett Horton as token males, and perhaps an Oily Continental (Eduardo Cianelli? Antonio Moreno?) for some gigolo-joke setups. And Louise Beavers and Hattie McDaniel omnipresent in the background, with Isabel Jewell and Iris Adrian as pert Fast Baggages to be smacked down. And a number or two by the Albertina Rasch Dancers. And...
One of my goals in life is to spend my Golden Years doing something that ensures I remain as flexible as Miss Charlotte Greenwood.
This might, however, be something of a (you should pardon the expression) stretch, as I doubt that - aside from a very brief period sometime during the first Reagan administration - that I was ever as flexible as that lovely lady.
Rarely has a performing artist created such an enduring career out of so singular a gesture, but that high kick (oh, and I supppose her perfect comic timing) kept her in embroidered, full-skirted evening gowns for a very long time...
Ah, madam, you are not alone. It was another era that the divine Helen Hokinson was invoking in this, one of her immortal New Yorker cartoons, but it does strike home. We're hardly starving at the Villa Muscato, but things do seem a bit grim out there in the Great Wide World, no?
Despite an onslaught of unrelentingly creative guesses, ranging from Sophie Tucker to the Queen Mother (and including the popular favorite, the highly likely Mr. Peenee), the identity of our Edwardian mystery lady remained unsolved. She was, of course, the roguishly charming matron seen above, Miss Mary Boland. With no prizes to hand out, it just means wee drinkies and radio cowboys in the bar car for everybody.
In her last picture, an obscure 1950 indie noir curiosity called Guilty Bystander, she apparently played against type as "Smitty," a flophouse manager. Sadly, despite being third-billed, she didn't make the poster. From the look of it, she could only have helped.
"Well, it mustn't get around, but... it's all true. Stephen Haines is stepping out on Mary. Her mother told me. Yes, that's right - the one with the strange ideas about swastikas..."
...began with a tentative guess, and then a ringing affirmation. Yes, we have two winners of our latest mystery-lady challenge. Dear Normadesmond noted something charlottegreenwoodische about our fur-cloaked enigma, but it was the enigmatic MC who jumped in with a definite and entirely accurate answer. She is indeed that diva of the Fox backlot, the doyenne of the speciality high-kick number, Miss Charlotte Greenwood.
Lord Fogminster had hoped that his faraway expression would cover for his uncontrollable flatulence, but the Dowager Duchess completely blew his cover.
Oh, that Marie! She'd do anything to steal a scene - even if means going all polychrome.
This might, however, be something of a (you should pardon the expression) stretch, as I doubt that - aside from a very brief period sometime during the first Reagan administration - that I was ever as flexible as that lovely lady.
Rarely has a performing artist created such an enduring career out of so singular a gesture, but that high kick (oh, and I supppose her perfect comic timing) kept her in embroidered, full-skirted evening gowns for a very long time...
Ah, madam, you are not alone. It was another era that the divine Helen Hokinson was invoking in this, one of her immortal New Yorker cartoons, but it does strike home. We're hardly starving at the Villa Muscato, but things do seem a bit grim out there in the Great Wide World, no?
