Rainbow High

On what is, at least in Our Nation's Capital, a gray and snowy day, why don't we go Around the World in Something Less than Eighty Ways with that redoubtable all-singin', all-dancin' star... Maureen O'Sullivan?

Birthday Girl: The Wisdom of Eve

I suppose it says something about me more than anything else, but my feed over at Facebook just plain lit up with the news that yesterday was the birthday of the heavenly Miss Eve Arden.

A Quicker Picker-Upper

When you've been feeling gloomy - crummy, even - sometimes all you need is a little shot of pure adrenaline. Enter Miss Ann Miller, stage right.

Ev'rybody Dance Now!

For no good reason other than it's a suddenly autumnal Sunday morning: ladies and gentlemen - the Penguin Dance.  Apparently this was a thing.

A Birthday Pepper Pot, Vitaphone-Style

Just a day late, here's a chance to celebrate not one but two October birthdays, and if the package this birthday gift is all wrapped up in is a little dated, the contents cram more talent into just about ten minutes than some studio super-spectaculars did into two hours plus...

Shameless Saturday Camp Explosion: Wasted on the Young

Some musical numbers remind one why some people detest musicals; here, I suspect, we have one of those.

Shameless Saturday Camp Explosion: Dance, Dance, Dance Little Lady

One is drawn to Camp when one realizes that "sincerity" is not enough. 

- Susan Sontag, "Notes on Camp"

Shameless Saturday Camp Explosion: Such Elevation

Camp rests on innocence.

- Susan Sontag, "Notes on Camp"

A little treat today, darlings, to celebrate a fine summer weekend.

Mr. Rite

It was just a hundred years ago tonight that this dapper, if somewhat world-weary, cosmpolite, unleashed on the world one of the defining artistic scandals of the twentieth century: The Rite of Spring.  He is the impresario nonpareil Sergei Diaghilev (in an atmospheric oil sketch by M. Valentin Serov), and the work was a collaboration for his ensemble, Les Ballets Russes, that involved his extravagantly gifted protégé, dancer turned choreographer Vaslav Nijinsky (a distinctly toothsome young thing), and the spikily modern composer Igor Stravinsky (who was, despite a titanic talent, rather distinctly not).

As is now legend, when the work premiered in Paris, a riot nearly capsized the proceedings (although there was cheering and bows all around at the finale), and the resulting furor made the piece a byword for the adventurous avant garde.  How much of that was canny marketing by M. Diaghilev remains unclear, but I am quite certain he knew his way around a claque and would have had no hesitation in deploying one to good effect.

At one point someone told me I bore a strong resemblance to Diaghilev, and while based on some photographs that may be the most equivocal of compliments, I wouldn't mind looking half so soigné as he does here...

Two Gentlemen of Manhattan

39 years ago this very day, photographer Gjon Mili caught this intense moment at a rehearsal in New York City.  The work being considered by these two august gentlemen* is the ballet Dybbuk.  Then in preparation for its Lincoln Center premiere, the piece featured the choreography of Jerome Robbins set to the music of Leonard Bernstein.  As a piece of art, let's be tactful and just say it turned out to be not quite West Side Story.  But what is?

Note the discreet and studious presence of one of Mr. Robbins's Nice Young Men.  Unlike some, I'm guessing he was not hired because he could type.  The dance world's funny that way.  As was Robbins, from most accounts for that matter.  Add him, by the bye, to the very short list of Great Names I've encountered (in his case, thankfully, only second hand) about whom I've never heard a nice word.  His collaborator was something of a handful, of course, but generally, and justifiably, I think, considered a far pleasanter gent.  It's some measure of Robbins's force of character that Bernstein looks almost - not quite - cowed.

There are some shows, in all media, that you know you'd far rather be at rehearsals than the final product, and this is one.  Unless, I'm guessing, you were working for Jerome Robbins.  In that case, I suppose you'd far rather be at the St. Marks Baths (well, it was 1974)...

* It took all the strength I have not to to title this post "When Ladies Meet."

Shameless Saturday Camp Explosion: Hula-balloo

"We are better able to enjoy a fantasy as fantasy when it is not our own."

- Susan Sontag, "Notes on Camp"

In this case, the fantasy appears to be Robert Young's, a few decades before his immortalization as Dr. Marcus Welby.  That it features perhaps the least Polynesian person ever to live, Miss Eleanor Powell, is one of the elements that elevates this particular number to the Camp pantheon.  That and her costume, which bears about as much resemblance to a grass skirt as it does to a lamé piano shawl.

This clip, from Honolulu (which also featured Burns and Allen for comic relief), is neither the most riotous nor the most ridiculous SSCE one could imagine, but it's nonetheless a genuine insight into Hollywood's ideas of the "exotic," circa 1939.  Powell's home studio, MGM, was less a center for these kinds of tropical fantasies than, say, Fox (with its South-of-the-Border spectacles anchored by Carmen Miranda and her Banda da Lua).  Nonetheless, Metro applied its usual level of polish to this little gem, for at this time Powell was one of its prestige stars.  I've always found her oddly weightless somehow, a star without consequence.  She gamely did her job, but had she never existed, I don't think she'd be much missed.  Still, here, in her rigorously affixed lei and equally fixed smile, she's pretty swell.  Who else could carry off a tap hula?

Shameless Saturday Camp Explosion: Better Red...

This week's SSCE is a full-on dose of Cultural Revolution Realness, right down to the dancing Red Stars that open the number.  I've long been fascinated by the oddness of 60s Chinese pop-agit-culture, something that's trying so hard to be totally new and totally Chinese, but which succeeds only in being an awkward fusion of traditional Chinese performance, Soviet Russian ballet, and what would seem to be the fading memories of Hollywood spectacles as preserved in the less-than-reliable mind of the formidable Madame Mao, a lady whose career as second-tier Shanghai leading lady Lan Ping paradoxically colored the entire arc of Chinese culture in the second half of the last century.

In any case, if you've ever wondered what Agnes de Mille might have made of a factory workers' picnic (other than the one in Carousel, of course), here's your chance.

Shameless Saturday Camp Explosion

In honor of the 121st birthday of the favorite son of Peru, Indiana, the inimitable Mr. Cole Porter, I thought it might be fun to have a look at what may well be the most (only?) enjoyable moment from one of Hollywood's greatest disasters.

Yes, it's "Find me a Primitive Man," delivered with grim determination by Miss Madeline Kahn as what appears to be an hommage to Dietrich's "Hot Voodoo" number from Blonde Venus.

Oh, and the movie?  Why, it's 1975's At Long Last Love, the film that can if nothing else be described as the best-ever Cybil Shepherd-Burt Reynolds musical.  The writer-director, the estimable Peter Bogdanovich (who really can, when called upon, write and direct, albeit not here), was bound and determined to demonstrate the versatility of his personal leading lady, Miss Shepherd.  It's a puzzling effort that makes one believe it's possible that his encyclopedic knowledge of Hollywood history (as demonstrated previously in The Last Picture Show, What's Up, Doc?, and Paper Moon - he's no slouch) somehow omits any familiarity at all with the words Republic, Herbert Yates, and Vera Hruba Ralston.

But at least there's Madeline, and bless her, she does her best.  The picture was shot live, so she's not lip-synching (it was the first big movie since the early talkies to give this a try; it turns out there's a reason the technique was abandoned at the earliest possible moment), and the challenges of filming a number like this at more or less one go actually greatly enhance its similarity to similar moments in early musicals circa 1930.  She gives it all she's got, and it only takes the couple of short inserts that include her co-stars to make you realize just how dire the rest of that mess must have been.

In a side note, earlier this week I had mentioned in reply to a comment from a Gentle Reader, the euphoniously numerical joel65913, that today might be an opportunity to mark the centenary of that towering figure of '40s exotica, Miss Maria Montez.  She was, no doubt, a one-woman Shameless Saturday Camp Explosion all on her own, but a quick look at the clips available on YouTube establishes clearly the difference between simple Camp and High Camp.  Montez is the former, and once you get past the sets and costumes and "Geef me zat Cobra chool," there's not, alas, all that much more.  Porter, by contrast, is the Highest of Camp, even in the debased form seen here, layer upon layer that can be, with relish, picked apart one by one.  Still, camp is camp - for anyone longing for today's Montez Moment - just click here.

Technical note:  while you'll see a still above, you'll actually have to click on it and head on over to Youtube to take in the richness.  Believe me, it's worth it.  But y'all come on back, hear?

Shameless Saturday Camp Explosion

Because some days, you just wanna fuckin' dance.

It's an oldie, but beyond goodie, and I'm sure quite familiar already to many Café regulars. I'm amazed it hasn't featured here already.  Probably the best dance anthem ever taken from a contemporary "headline opera" (in this case, Jerry Springer: The Opera).  Alison Jiear, a regular on the UK stage, sings the hell out of it.  I like this one of the several edits floating around, as it incorporates footage of her from the stage version.  She sings Shawntel, a frustrated housewife who, well, just wants to dance.

Baby Take a Bow

It's been ages since we've had a look at one of the wonders of Egyptian cinema, hasn't it?  Today, we revisit the glory days of 1950, when King Farouk looked serenely solid on his post-war throne, and Hollywood on Nile was addressing its longstanding moppet shortage by starring the remarkable tot seen to great advantage in this number from a musical called Yasmin.

Her name was Fayrouz Arteen, and she occupies more or less the exact place in Egyptian movielovers' hearts that Miss Shirley Temple does for fans in the West.  She made only a handful of films, but remains even today, sixty years and more later, much beloved, living quietly in retirement in Cairo.  She's part of an extended performing family; two of her more famous cousins are the great stars Nelly and Lebleba, for what that's worth.

Here she's paired with veteran star Anwar Wagdi (more or less the Clark Gable of the East).  It's a long number, and Fayrouz doesn't get to strut her stuff 'til 4:30, but the whole thing is worth sitting through. 

It's a lavish production by Cairo standards, reaching, if one needs an equivalent, up from Monogram standards to reach, if only through the number of costumes and more-or-less dancing extras, the level of a middling Columbia second feature.  Still, Fayrouz does her considerable best, and it's all really rather charming, I think. 

Which must be worth something, since you know I loathe children.

Invitation to the Dance

54 years ago tonight, this handsome couple went for a spin at a little party after the Oscars.  Aren't they perfect?  Don't you wish they were your parents?

I once saw this self-same couple, a few decades later; they were crossing the Plaza at Lincoln Center, on their way to a show at the Vivian Beaumont, and I have to say they managed to be almost as heart-stoppingly lovely on a New York early summer night.  In common with so many people in the Business We Call Show, they were not large (quite diminutive, in fact), but the impact of their passing?  Oh, my...

* * *

Sorry, to those who pay attention to that sort of thing, for the paucity of postings hereabouts.  Life is, alas, demanding of late at the Villa Muscato, and we are very much on the go.  To start with, Mr. Muscato is off on a business trip, and as always when we're on our lonesome, the dogs and I are at sixes and sevens.

The dogs have no real excuse beyond missing Mr. M. (who is, after all, the one who really spoils them rotten), but I'm still recovering from the most unpleasant bug that first manifested itself almost three weeks ago - dispiriting enough of itself, but made infinitely worse by the superior tones of so many colleagues, who confide quite dismissively that they've had the bug for seven weeks now, and they fully don't expect to feel themselves 'til May.

On top of that, our stalwart domestiche, the tiny and enigmatic Sri Lankan lady who rejoices in the Wodehousian name of Mrs Galappatty-Da Silva, has tripped and broken her wrist.  That would be trial enough, for we quite happily cop to being thoroughly spoiled, but Mrs. G.-Da S. seems intent on proving her indomitability by continuing on as if she weren't laid up, which is both disconcerting and potentially disastrous.  Having been home with the crud, I find myself having to haul her down off chairs on which she's standing tip-toe, cast akimbo, trying to dust the moldings, and similar feats of derring-do that are hardly advisable in a birdlike mature lady at the best of times.

Finally, I too am faced with having to travel for business - jetting off to a neighboring principality tomorrow, for a few festive days of sitting in a beige conference room looking at PowerPoint slides, which for some reason the Powers That Be in the home office are convinced will work wonders in inducing us to new heights of productivity and creativity.  Perhaps it's just that we'll all be so glad to be back home and not staring at PowerPoint slides?

I will miss the dogs (on top of missing Mr. M.), but in any gaps in the dreariness will do my best to scout things out and report back on the fascinating, the enchanting, or the simply ridiculous that catches my fancy in the Sandland Next Door.  In my absence, I have secured Mrs. G.-da S.'s solemn promise not to do anything rash, but I caught her this afternoon casting a speculative glance at the water tank on the roof, a feature of the house that she has long threatened to scrub.  As a result, I'm spending part of this evening trying to figure out how best to hide the ladder...

Mildred, Fierce

This is the reason that Youtube was invented.  It may be the reason the Internet was summoned up out of Al Gore's mighty brain.  Watch and worship.

[Lifted shamelessly from a new favorite destination, Nobody Puts Baby in a Horner, which I stumbled upon while trying to learn more about the enigmatic and violently talented Miss Sara Carlson, a new sensation over at the Redundant Variety Hour. ]

Better Safe...

Decreasingly certain of her technique, Gladys took to donning some protective gear before attempting the pointe section of her trademark Dance of the Leopard Lady.

Of course, it wasn't the first time those kneepads had come in handy...

Freeze Tag

I have to admit that the prospect of having been tagged (see horrid logo, left) has very nearly stopped me in my tracks, given that it presented the appalling prospect of having to display this image and then talk about myself.

Well, we've been over this ground before, but Peenee (predictably, what with being evil incarnate and all) showed no mercy, and he was even joined in his devil's work by the 'til now comparatively benign Felix.

So, it seems I've been double-tagged, which - as with so much in life - turns out to be not nearly the naughty romp it sounds like it ought to be. herewith, even so, my turn at the Kreativ Blogger Meme Award, or whatever it's called.

1. Thank the person who nominated you for this award.

Thank you, Peenee and Felix. And damn your eyes, while we're at it.

2. Copy the logo and place it on your blog.

Done, over my better judgment.

3. Link to the person who nominated you for this award.

See 2, above.

4. Name 7 things about yourself that people might find interesting.

...And this is where it gets appalling. I've not been nearly as sharing (to put it kindly) as some people (looking at Peenee), but having been writing about myself in drips and drabs for the past year and a half, it's hard to come up with too much that's terribly fresh. I think I'll just free associate for a bit and hope for the best:

(1) My Arabic has been improving of late, to the point that at times I will pretend to understand less than I do, mostly so I can listen to Mr. Muscato chat with friends while they think I won't get it all. Not that he's ever really come out with anything amazingly indiscreet (although the friends occasionally do, mostly on the Appalling Conspiracy Theory front), but I've kind of got to like being the silent one when we're out with the boys.

(2) I worry that we've gotten too comfortable living in a comparatively quiet and provincial place, and that when and if the opportunity arises, we'll end up being boring country mice anywhere slightly more happening.


(3) The most amusing Big Lady I ever got to work with, hands down: Tyne Daly. Smart, funny, foul-mouthed, and amazingly talented. She can sing an adagio version of "There's No Business Like Show Business" that will, as she herself has said, make strong men weep (never thought about it as a slow song? Believe me, it works - that's a lyric that can be sung sad). She's the real deal. That said, she's not the one I loved the most. But that's another story.

(4) I have been mugged or assaulted five times - twice with a gun - and been burgled twice (once with arson for that extra frisson). Yet the most that any of the idiot failed criminals ever got off me was $5, a ring with a cracked amethyst, and a small bowlful of change and subway tokens (leaving contemptuously behind the small bowl itself, a rather good piece of Georgian sterling courtesy of Grandmother Muscato). The fire, admittedly, got a good deal more, but that hardly benefited the perp.

(5) On a brighter note, I have never in more than twenty years of at times essentially continuous travel had a moment's (knock wood) difficulty, not anywhere from Tokyo to Ouagadougou, despite having now and then been, to be kind, a fairly Easy Mark. Strangers have benevolently put me in taxis and sent me back to the occasional hotel; I've found myself by happenstance in neighborhoods neither accustomed nor welcoming to new faces; small coups, even, have broken out nearby - but to date I've sailed serenely through. Here's to twenty years more...


(6) I may not be freakishly double-jointed like some people, but my first ballet teacher (a small and ill-tempered Russian woman) declared with satisfaction on first looking me up and down that I possessed the best natural turnout she had ever seen in a boy. Sadly, that forever after remained my principal terpsichoric distinction, and it only gets one so far, but it did serve as her principal, if steadily less encouraging, talking point about me for the next five years.

(7) 2010 promises to be a year of changes that may or may not provide the chance to revisit some - I profoundly hope not all - of these issues. Watch this space.

5. Nominate 7 Kreativ Bloggers and post links to the 7 blogs you nominate.

But this is where I reap the benefit of being so terribly late in accepting my tag - I truly think this is one meme that has run its course and needn't be inflicted on anyone further. At least until somebody comes up with a better logo.

Pinin' for the Fjords Nile

Now, normally, few people are more immune to the charms of cute-animal videos than I. However, when faced with a parrot getting down to the beat of Egyptian popular-song star Saad el Sagheer, I find myself helpless.

I also found myself, on first viewing, trying to figure out just of whom it was that the manic avian ecdysiast reminded me. And then it hit: he's channeling the legendary Reverend Alecia!