A Flame That Flickered

The Rialto - what's left of it, corporatized, Disneyfied, and be-Lion Kinged - gleams a little less brightly tonight, for tonight one of its longtime, long lost leading ladies bade farewell.

Portrait Gallery: Remembrance of Scandal Past

In light of today's unflattering headlines in regard to a lesser member of a certain British family, I think it's worth remembering that they've been through this kind of thing before.

For instance, the blue-eyed gentleman seen here, in a typically bravura portrait by dear M. de László, was the cause of many trials in his comparatively short life.  He is George, Duke of Kent, son of the difficult but distinctly longsuffering George V and Queen Mary, uncle of the present monarch and great-great-uncle of today's tabloid miscreant. 

His deeds and misdeeds ranged from a rather too pronounced fondness for the nightlife (he most certainly, in a different decade, would have been a regular on The Disco Round, especially in regard to its pharmaceutical angle) to a reputedly indiscriminate approach to matters of the heart (and other less seemly parts).  He is said to have included among his amours everyone from Barbara Cartland to the scandalous Duchess of Argyll, along with jazz diva Florence Mills, Mr. Noël Coward, and even the mother of Café favorite the Rajmata of Jaipur. 

He married well, to Princess Marina of Greece, and whatever else went on on the side, they seem to have gotten along fine.  In addition to his three Kentish children (all still among us and paragons of royal service, especially his daughter, the estimable Princess Alexandra, said to be the Queen's favorite cousin), he is alleged to have had several others; the Duchess of Westminster tried to start a rumor that one of them was Lee Radziwell's first husband, but that seems a little much even to me.

Rumors are just as rife about his political proclivities as his sex life, although scuttlebutt about his supposed Nazi leanings seem less justified than that that clouds the memory of his brother the ex-king and his harridan of a wife.  He died in service to the nation, in a plane crash en route to a visit to the troops in Iceland, just 70 years ago this coming Saturday.  His widow lived on irreproachable splendor 'til the late '60s, and the blots on his copybook have come, over the decades, to seem more interesting foibles than shameful lapses.

In short, a couple of blurry nudes should not, if all continues to be handled sensibly, go too far in diffusing the impact of these last few triumphant months for the Windsor clan.  They've gotten through Windsor and Wally's affair (not to mention Koo Stark, embarrassing phone calls, killer corgis, and unflattering headlines going all the way back to poor Lady Flora Hastings and beyond), and they'll get through this.

Taxi for Two

Though we all might enjoy
Seeing Helen of Troy
As a gay, cabaret entertainer
I doubt that she could
Be one quarter as good
As our legendary, lovely Marlene!

- Noël Coward on the friend he also

referred to as "the canny old Kraut."

Propping up the Bar

I wasn't there, of course, and so can't be entirely certain, but I'm going to guess that this little group was snapped sometime not too early in the evening. Not too late, of course - they're all still presentable - but in that sometimes dangerous stretch when everyone is still more or less coherent, but it's not at all clear that things are going end well.

Miss Kendall, for example, would appear to have had just about enough of whatever it is Miss Bacall is going on about, and there's something ominous in Viv's (surprisingly jowly) look of discontent. Were I Noël Coward, I might suddenly remember an appointment, or perhaps claim to spy poor Princess Margaret all on her ownsome on the other side of the pub. However charming, individually, the ladies involved, this is one conversation from which the getting is good.

The Perfect Blendship

I'm especially fond of pictures of Judy - and there are many - with her friends. They tend to be taken at times that reinforce the mantra one hears from so many people who knew her: that at least some of the time, and often much of the time, she had a wonderful time. That's somehow comforting.

Of course - this being Judy - it also stirs up feelings quite opposite, ones that dwell on the special sadness of someone who knew and was adored by everyone interesting in the whole world who still managed to squander all that and die alone, sharing a house with someone who, by comparison, she barely knew.

One can also marvel at the idea that one of these remarkable creatures is still with us. Images like this seem as much ancient history as if they were of Jenny Lind, David Garrick, and Lillie Langtry.

Sir Noël Puts One Over

Consider this as penitence for inflicting La Zadora on you all yesterday, carissimi - Noël Coward performing one of his comic creations being about as far at the opposite ends of the entertainment spectrum as can be imagined.

As you will gather from the introduction, this clip is from the extraordinary 1955 CBS special Together with Music, which brought together Coward and Mary Martin for a ninety-minute lovefest the survival of which makes me terribly happy. There are lots more bits on the Youtube, and you really ought to go see them, pronto.

And Uncle Harry? Well, he certainly reminds me of some of my relatives, I do know that.

Queen of a Far Country

This regal lady is none other than Sālote Mafile‘o Pilolevu Tupou III, Queen of Tonga, and why she's on my mind today I really couldn't say.

She's one of those colorful figures of recent history about whom one reads something once, files it away, and finds it floating occasionally to the surface ever thereafter.

Queen Salote is probably most remembered today for her appearance at the coronation of her fellow queen regnant Elizabeth II in 1953. Those who were there remember her for her extrardinary presence - at something over 6' 3" and reputedly topping 300 pounds, she was hard to miss in a procession - and for being unfazed by the London weather that sent showers squalling over the royal parade.

Those who are anecdotally minded, however, are more likely to remember her, and her participation in the historic event, for a possibly apocryphal remark by dear Mr. Noël Coward.

He was one of a number of people, including Miss Gertrude Lawrence, who were watching the procession from a comfortable balcony, and he was proving invaluable to his companions in identifying the myriad notables rolling by.

"The lady in the next carriage," said Mr. Coward, "is the Queen of Tonga."

"But who," asks Miss Lawrence, "is that with her?"

"Oh," replies the Master, "That is her lunch."

Much hilarity ensues.

The gentleman in question - undeniably dwarfed by his vast and affable carriage-mate - was in fact the Sultan of Kelantan, who would most certainly be remembered for nothing at all had he simply been put in a landau with an ordinary royal.

Her coronation-fame aside, Queen Salote seems to have been a truly lovely and remarkable person. Her long reign - from the end of the First World War right into the mid-sixties - is considered a kind of Tongan golden age, and it's nice to think she enjoyed so many decades of appreciation by her people. She was a musician, poet, and patroness of many worthy endeavors, and amid it all had time to give birth to her even vaster successor, King Tāufa‘āhau Tupou IV , who only just recently shuffled off this mortal coil after a rather more fretful reign.

But before all that she was a sweet-faced young girl in Edwardian dress, and isn't it nice, seeing what an innocent young thing she seems to be, to know that it turned out so well?

Drifting, Drifting...

This mashup of Dinah Washington and "The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone" somehow only intensifies the superb melancholy of Vivien Leigh's performance, distilling it into a Kabuki-like study of anomie.

Oh, get me. It's just stunning, because it's just Vivien.

Who Can You Trust?

...If you can't trust a biographer of Tallulah Bankhead? From the New York Times comes this bizarre story - one that goes to show that Nasdijj, JT LeRoy, and James Frey haven't had the last word in literary finagling, after all.

Writer Lee Israel, having hit a rough patch in the early nineties, apparently used her pitch-perfect grasp of various luminaries' styles to write and sell "autographed" letters, including some that have ended up as part of their putative authors' canons.

Israel's Miss Tallulah Bankhead sits on my shelf back home, one of the very first star bios I ever read and one I still remember as a glimpse into a world I very much wanted to know more about (and, if possible, inhabit).

Earlier this year, I read the new Letters of Noël Coward, which includes samples of Miss Israel's "work." I don't claim any special expertise, but I remember thinking at the time that Coward's catty comment about Julie Andrews (and her overbite) seemed somehow off - I suppose I attributed it to his having had too much Champagne the night before, and would certainly never have thought it an outright fraud.

I don't know how I feel about the author now having written a book more or less celebrating her derring-do. But I have a sinking feeling I shall probably read it...