Le Jour de Gloire

Here's a little something to ponder on this festive Gallic holiday:  what does it mean, you suppose, that so many of my favorite French people - these two, the Austrian Woman - aren't even French?  Even their empresses were imports - Joséphine from Martinique and Eugénie from Granada.  Still - Bernhardt, Piaf, or Mistinguett aside - who are more French than they?

A Kind Word, Two Kind Words...

Worried today, I'm afraid, watching the news out of Cairo.  It's not good, and it's hard to see how it's going to get better. 

In this mood, one needs a good solid dose of Dalida. 

Here the great Parisienne reminds us that she is in fact a daughter of the Nile, a little girl from Shubra (which is kind of like being from the Lower East Side, back when that didn't mean annoying and hipsterish).  The song is "Helwa Ya Baladi," - "My Sweet Land," more or less.  The opening lyric translates as "A kind word, two kind words/For my country/a sweet song, two sweet songs/For my country."  It's the sort of song that makes exiles and expatriates sadly nostalgic, recalling a past that, really, never was.

The politics of it all are complicated, and largely unpleasant.  Religion, in multiple forms, comes into play, and that never simplifies things.  What last year seemed as if it could be a revolution full of possibilities has soured; there are still possibilities, but few of them inviting.  I once imagined a quiet retirement there (well, as quiet as one gets in Cairo; it is after all a combination of Manhattan and Calcutta, on steroids), and now that seems to be one possibility that's fading.

I was talking about this recently when out with a group, about how hard it is to see a place you've loved drifting off, out of your grasp, the way a once-close friend can do sometimes when things go wrong.  One friend looked at me, long and hard, and I remembered he is Persian, his father an ambassador and his mother a great lady in a world that disappeared.  "Get used to it," he said.

And I suppose I will, some day, somehow.  In the meantime - helwa, ya baladi...

Birthday Roll Call: Goddesses and More

It's a banner day on the birthday front, starting with the remarkable fact that sharing the day are ultrastars Dalida (shown here effortlessly demonstrating her fabulousness) and the still much-missed Eartha Kitt.

Those two alone would be more than enough to brighten up your average January Sunday, but there is, it turns out, so much more: demurely foul-mouthed TV survivor Betty White, iron-armed White House tenant Michelle Obama, redheaded Red Shoes wearer Moira Shearer, Lambchop-wielder Shari Lewis, second-tier Blonde Bombshell Sheree North, and Gallic yé-yé songbird Françoise Hardy, for example. That's not to mention, on the distaff side, arch novelist Sir Compton Mackenzie and his camp coeval, Ronald Firbank, pugilistic poetaster Muhammed Ali, the stentorian James Earl Jones, and hairburner extraordinaire Vidal Sassoon.

Altogether, that's enough natal glamour to offset the presence of the last and least Mr. Elizabeth Taylor, Larry Fortensky, and talk-show dullard Maury Povich. It seems presumputous of them to have chosen Dalida's day, but such is her magnaminity that I'm sure she would have risen about it all. And I can't help thinking that she and Eartha are having a hoot, possibly in tandem with Mr. Firbank...

Noël en style Dalida

This Gallic take on Wham's "Last Christmas," performed with characteristic fabulousness by the divine Dalida, doesn't seem especially seasonal - but it's Dalida, so who cares? If nothing else, the gown does Christmas up the proceedings considerably...

Star Power

Dalida, matchlessly splendid. Only the veil protects you from immolation by Total Glamour.

Dalida

Superb. Eternal. Even when, for reasons unknown, sitting on the floor.

Je Suis Malade

As usual, the divine Dalida nails it. Je suis en fait malade - complètement, parfaitement. Bugger.

Dalidamicalement

As part of our goings-on this week in Paris, Mr. Muscato and I carried out a long-time resolution.

We started by fortifying ourselves, having taken the Metro up, up, up to the further end of Montmartre, with a little something for luncheon at a very nice little neighborhood spot called, charmingly, Ginette de la Côte d'Azur.

Having polished off an excellent terrine de lapin and assorted other goodies, we proceeded through the hilly, leafy streets of the quartier, up a flight of vaguely baroque stairs, and reached:

Yes, it's true: we had embarked on one of the lesser, but more intense pilgrimages known to music lovers, the Tour de Dalida. We started in the lovely square that has been named in her honor, an irregularly shaped space of dignified apartment buildings, venerable trees, and, in the center:

This lovely sculpture, with, it must be admitted, more emphasis on the bust than most busts.

It's a popular spot. We weren't alone with our thoughts for five mintes before tourist groups started coming by. The ones who lingered were, I can't deny, more on the elderhostel end of the traveling scale, but they were having a wonderful time.

I was especially taken with this dear lady, who dutifully took notes in her little red notebook. I admire how she has so sensibly stashed her handbag under her very practical spring coat. Either that or that's one hell of a sanitary appliance.

Then it was on to the nearby Rue d'Orchampt, a tiny lane with a sharp elbow turn, at the very corner of which you find:

Chez Dalida itself, commemorated with this touching plaque. It really is a marvelous house:

Called, for reasons I have not discovered, the House of the Sleeping Beauty. It's currently, it seems, having some kind of overhaul but appears to be in private hands. We thought about trying to talk ourselves into its vestpocket garden, but instead decided to move on, through the narrow streets filled with odd shops, desultory galleries, and dark bars, down to our final stop - and hers.

The Cimetière de Montmartre is a densely packed necropolis, chockablock with mausoleums, marble slabs, obelisks, and other funerary monuments. It has a distinguished roll-call of residents, ranging from the original Lady of the Camellias and Dumas, who immortalized her, to the fabulous painter Gustave Moreaue, the great Taglioni, the playwright Feydeau, Truffaut, and even (although I'm ashamed to say I didn't seek her out), the inimitable Musidora.

Of course, we had but one goal in mind:

I'd only ever seen head-on photos of the Diva's magnificent tomb, which make it seem as if set to itself, in some pastoral setting. Much more fitting for this quintessential girl of the city is the reality, which has the tomb at the very edge of the cemetery, with views of Montmartre.

She is surrounded by ordinary Parisian families, whose relatives must wonder - even if they themselves do not - at all the hullabaloo she has brought to their quiet little corner. The grave itself is beautifully planted, and it is surrounded, to the point of spilling over to its neighbors, with flowers, plants, and all sorts of tributes and memorials.

I was especially taken with this little china book, placed now on the nearest flat slab next to Dalida's tomb. I think I will do all possible to popularize the cordial use of "Dalidamicalement."

So it's in this spirit of Dalidaffection that I offer a final image of the great lady herself - depicted as the Apotheosis of Cabaret, Our Lady of the Music Halls, a diva in its truest meaning: goddess.

The rest of our day (and night) was rather in the same spirit, albeit carried out in the district that today is as louche as Montmartre was once, the divine Marais. But more of that anon...

Song for the New Depression

In this time of fiduciary woe, leave it to the glorious Dalida to remind us of the really important things: chorus boys, diva entrances, and money, money, money.

This special extended-play clip even goes so far as to include an ovation (and requisite ovation cloak), a floral tribute, and an encore with adoration-of-the-fans moment.

Is it any wonder we adore her so?

Meanwhile, on Stage...

Well, since it seems we're on kind of a terpsichorean roll today, let's keep up the theme by paying a quick visit to Gay Paree, circa 1979, and see what Dalida and the boys are up to. We know there's one guarantee: it will be fabulous.

Starpocalypse Now

Dalida. Nothing but fabulous.

A Galaxy of Birthdays

If you feel a little something special in the air today, perhaps it's a result of the extraordinary energy generated by the fabulous creatures celebrating their birthdays.

The glorious Dalida, international sensation and tragic muse;

Miss Sheree North, who made it through a rocky start as a Marilyn-wannabe to become a genuinely interesting character actress and Hollywood survivor;

Betty White. Sigh. I just adore her, and her little dog, too.

One of Britain's great contributions to the world of camp divas, ballerina/actress Moira Shearer;

And, last but hardly least, the sadly missed Eartha Kitt, seen here back where it all began, in New Faces of 1952.

It's a testament to the grandeur and force of character of these ladies that they effortlessly defeat all the bad karma generated by today's birthday boys, who include such lamentable creatures as Kid Rock, Maury Povich, Al Capone, Andy Kaufman, and Larry Fortensky.

If You Insist...

...Why, yes, you may bring this as your Hostess Gift to the Café holiday soirée. As long as you bring booze, too...

Miss Egypt, 1955 and Forever

Sometimes I realize that every moment I spend not thinking about Dalida is a moment of my life I'll never get back.

When she sings - as here, but all too rarely - in Arabic (a child, after all, of Cairo's mixed cosmopolitan semi-slum of Shubra, in her own way a real Daughter of the Nile) I think of all that was lost when Egypt jettisoned the tens of thousands of foreigners - Greek, Italian, French, British, Jews, all - who made the country such an incredible potential bridge between East and West.

Enjoy.

Après et Avant: Edition Dalida

Dalida, Paris, c. 1981

Yolanda Cristina Gigliotti, Cairo, c. 1955

Eternal Glamour

Why settle for a simple headstone? Dalida certainly didn't.

The only thing that could make this more perfect would be to have "Les grilles de ma maison" (my personal Dalida fave) playing in a never-ending loop.

Although I suppose that could be rather wearing for her less-starry neighbors...

Celebrate, Dalida-Style

Let's observe the day with the fabulous song-stylings of Dalida, at the height of her Disco Diva phase.

Americana, a bit of dreams and madness, indeed!

Itsi Bitsi Diva...

Dalida, so young, so gamine - Egypt's greatest export since Cleopatra's Needle.

Picture This: Van Leo

Cabaret Dancer, 1940s

Fragments of old Cairo remain: the crumbling buildings that line the downtown streets, the faded cafés, the antique shops in backstreets full of Déco light fixtures and chipped sets of cocktail glasses.

And in the photographs of the master of Egyptian portrait photos, Van Leo.

Self Portrait

In the photographs of Van Leo, old Cairo comes alive - the Egypt of the 30s, 40s, and 50s, when it was a cosmpolitan country at the center of Arabic culture, film, finance, and intrigue, home to thriving commnities of Armenians, Greeks, Italians, English, French (not to mention the tens of thousands of Egyptian Jews whose absence today is a unspoken one).

He was born Leon Boyadjian, and as late as the turn of the century was a presence on the Cairo scene. One of the great proofs of my idiocy is not having been photographed by Van Leo while I lived here...

He is remembered for his intense, saturnine self portraits:

Which did, sometimes, show more than a flash of humor - as here, pictured as a gaucho:

He photographed le tout Egypte, people like intellectual and feminist (and possessor of the most expressive eyebrows this side of Miss Crawford) Doria Shafik:

But he was somehow most at home in the city's demi-monde, photographing the actresses, dancers, and hangers-on who filled the nightclubs and waited for their Big Chance:

He worked, as a studio and movie photographer, mostly unheralded outside Egypt, for his whole long life. He even, during her time in Cairo working with Youssef Chahine, photographed Dalida:

And who could ask for more than that?

There has been something of a renaissance in interest in Van Leo of late, as attested by this gallery with essay tributes from the American University in Cairo, as well as this gallery of almost demented glamour focusing on his entertainment photos.