Birds, Bees, Finns, Eels... and Eartha

This gem recently popped up on my feed over at the FaceBooks, and not having seen it previously, I was even more than usually transported than I generally am by the insinuating charms of Miss Eartha Kitt.

Birthday Geniuses

Two of American music's most towering figures celebrated birthdays this week; let's hear one perform the other, just about as perfectly as can be imagined.

A Fine Day for Singing

Over in another corner of the cyberverse, dear TJB has noted that today would have been the 102nd birthday of a now nearly forgotten lady who was once one of the great éminences grises of Broadway and Hollywood, Sylvia Fine Kaye.

Whatever Happened to Finnan Haddie?

Here to celebrate this festive day we have an old familiar number in what I imagine is a rather unfamiliar setting.  As Mr. Cole Porter rolls in his grave, the one and only Miss Violetta Villas and her Double-Knit Dancers give us their interpretation of "My Heart Belongs to Daddy."

Lazy

These days, I'm with Marlene here...purely lazy...

Birthday Girl: Infinite Joy

Today marks the 113th anniversary of a singularly good thing: the birth of Miss Mabel Mercer, the Queen of Cabaret.  I rarely run sound-only videos, but the combination of this roguish snap and her just about perfect go at Cole Porter's "Experiment" seems a lovely way to mark the day.  The lyric is one of those deceptively simple things that Porter makes seem so easy, while Miss Mercer turns into it as good a credo to live by as any I can think of:

Be curious, though interfering friends may frown;
Get furious at each attempt to hold you down.
If this advice you only employ
The future can offer you infinite joy
And merriment. Experiment -
And you'll see.

Mabel Mercer, did for 84 years.  I was lucky enough to hear her once, and in some ways things never again were the same.  For which I am eternally grateful...

'Round Midnight

Trust dear Miss Ann Miller to be the one to lead us on our way out of this old year - if there were anyone from Olde Hollywood with whom I think it would be a kick to spend New Year's Eve, I suspect it would be she.  Katharine Hepburn would want to do something improving - recite Longfellow, perhaps; with Bette Davis, the evening would surely end with recrimination and the furious tossing of barbed insults; Joan Crawford would make us go upstairs and ooh and ah over those damned twins; and, of course, Miss Garbo would really rather that we weren't there at all.  Ann, though, would meet us at the door with a nice cold glass of champers and the latest dirty joke, and isn't that how any New Year's Eve party should start?  Also, by 1:00 a.m., I don't believe it would take much to persuade her to put some Cole Porter on the hifi and recreate her big number from Kiss Me, Kate, which would certainly be a hoot.

Which brings us to an anniversary, for it was just 64 years ago today that Kate bowed on Broadway, starting on the journey that took it through a run of more than 1,000 performances there, a national tour that may still be rattling around somewhere, the splashy 3D MGM spectacular in which Ann stole every scene she could, a 1968 TV version starring the singularly unappealing combination of Carol Lawrence and Robert Goulet (they were married, but I can't imagine it helped any), and regular revivals from here to Tashkent.

As for New Year's Eve, we're running up the coast a principality or two and spending the big night with our pals The Teacher and his very fetching partner - if nothing else, it should be more festive than last year, when Mr. Muscato and I sat, each with a terrier on our lap, waiting for midnight so that we could for God's sake go to sleep.  I feared then that terminal middle-age had set in, but perhaps there's life in the old girl yet.  We shall see.

How about you?  To steal a line from dear Miss Whiting - what are you doing New Year's Eve?

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?

Honey, We're Home!

Well, our Eid mini-break was a smashing success, interrupted by moments of trauma and ending up with a domestic disaster.

Good stuff first: a lovely trip, really, visiting both the usual destination for depravity in these parts, Dubai, and several of its satellite emirates (one, Abu Dhabi, is actually the center off which the others, even Dubai - especially Dubai, these days - depend, but don't tell Dubai that). We lazed poolside at our favorite hotel and were pummelled into submission by large, stern Indian masseurs. We ate and, yes, drank immoderately. We shopped, we caught up on the local gossip (the general opinion: the bottom, although perhaps not yet here, may be in sight, although it's still dispiriting to see all the half-finished towers languishing), and in general we enjoyed life on a slightly larger scale than is generally possible in our own little Sultanate.

We also got lost, a lot, for signage is not always this region's long suit, especially given how frequently, up in the Emirates, construction has gone on well ahead of common sense, meaning that you will realize just as an exit ramp fades into the rear-view that the sign really meant... all very boring. On the other hand, we certainly did see parts of the various statelets that we would have missed by going direct from points A to B.

And let's not even talk about the traffic. Mr. Muscato and I agreed that one of the less salubrious developments over our time in this part of the world is that the Sultanate's drivers have in that time managed to catch up with and even exceed their neighbors in sheer badness of driving, with the local specialities - extreme tailgating and signal-free lane weaving - adding a very special frisson to the travel experience.

It's as if driving offered the normally congenitally mild-mannered and intricately polite local citizen an irresistably enticing outlet for aggression and rudeness, one which they seize with highly uncharacteristic gusto. When you're surrounded with worse drivers than those in Cairo or Dubai, you know you're facing some of the world's most challenging roads. Sadly, the local fatality statistics reflect the situation all too accurately, and I'm starting to be surprised that the Powers What Be, normally so concerned with maintaining the image of pristine perfection in regard to all things local, haven't taken more vigorous steps.

Our homecoming, alas, was not quite the idyll promised above by the euphoniously enamed Cyril Ornadel and his terribly formal-sounding Westminster Orchestra of London (which also seems vaguely redundant - one wouldn't expect, after all, a Westminster Orchestra of Bucharest, would one?). No, indeed; we instead were faced with a distraught Ermilia and tales of a broken pipe and an inundation that wreaked havoc upstairs, including completely flooding our cosy parlor.

The combination of the climate and the concrete construction used to create the Villa Muscato (and all its neighbors, for that matter) pretty much guarantees a slow drying-out and the possibility of vicious molds, but fortunately Ermilia is extremely resourceful and had already marshalled a platoon of plumbers, cleaners, and other necessities, likely minimizing the longer-term difficulties. As it is, we may be in the catbird-seat position of at last persuading the landlord to remove several rooms of regrettable wall-to-wall and possibly even a full bathroom makeover. We shall see.

The dog, of course, was quite delighted by the chaos and the chance, disgusting creature, to roll around on sodden rugs. It could all have been a great deal worse, but as it is we've lost a stack of books (don't you keep some handy in the bathroom?), will have distinctive strips of lost finish around the feet of various pieces of furniture, and will have to make unaccustomed use of our mostly-for-company downstairs drawing room until we regain possession of the flood zone. Bother.

But we've resolved not to let all that interrupt our enjoyment of our last day of Eid holiday, instead working to maintain our mini-break-induced zenlike calm so as to be ready for what promises to be a busy few months. Tomorrow it's back to the grindstone, and I for one don't plan to let a little extra water here and there distract me from a last day of lounging, reading, and a little something cooling. Just like Mr. Ornadel's be-peignoired pal up there, in fact.

What a Bright Shining Star...

Let's just keep the drag-theme running and spend some time with the immortal Miss Zarah Leander. Oh, yes, I know, Z-Lo was an actual girl, more or less, but, come on - has there ever been a more mannish vibe (at least from any entertainer this side of Rose Marie)?

Here she regales a 1972 television audience with a staple of her concert repertoire, Mr. Porter's "Wunderbar" (which she interprets, as always, as "Wunderbarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr"). It's about the only thing I can think of that makes me think kindly of Kathryn Grayson, although even my cold heart can't resist the chorus boys.

Zarah Leander's later career answers the unasked question: What would Marlene Dietrich have been like if (a) she never left Germany and (b) she had had not one iota of taste? Now's your chance to find out.