Blog A Go-Go

In which we perfect the pout

Tomorrow night, TCM is running several Sophia Loren movies back to back, beginning at 8pm, Eastern time with Too Bad She's Bad. I am beyond excited. I have them all set to record, and I'm planning on indulging in a serious Sophia film festival over the next few days. (They aren't airing Houseboat, for which I am hugely grateful. Yes, she is fabulous, yes, Cary Grant is forty kinds of suave. But the song--the SONG, people. Worst earworm ever outside of "Que Sera Sera" from The Man Who Knew Too Much.) Anyway, I've never even heard of a few of the films TCM is showing, so this should be fun. I can't think of any of the great bombshells who have aged like Sophia Loren. I don't know if it's good genes or some sort of pact with the dark lord of the underworld, but she looks AMAZING. And if, like me, you can never get enough of her, check out Deirdre Donohue's Sophie Style. It's currently out of print, but well worth tracking down.

In which I ponder glamour

In the comments to my post about the art video, Kristen very kindly left the link to this magnificent video posted on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vEc4YWICeXk It is a gorgeous homage to women in film. Many of the women featured in the earlier frames of the video were also profiled in Annette Tapert's book, The Power of Glamour, now sadly out of print, but WELL worth tracking down. (While you're at it, pick up a copy of Tapert's other wonderful book, The Power of Style.)

The Power of Glamour highlights the evolution of women like Carole Lombard and Gloria Swanson, Greta Garbo and Norma Shearer, from the girl next door to silver screen siren. There are scads of photos, many from very early on in their careers, and the most interesting thing to me is how ordinary they were. Some had thick thighs, others had crooked noses, and in Norma Shearer's case, there was an unfortunate crossed-eye to overcome.

But overcome they did. And yes, they had the powerful studio system to help. There was invariably a masseuse to pummel away the cellulite, strict diets to be followed, perhaps even a bit of discreet plastic surgery. Yet ultimately, these women rose above the commonplace because they decided to. What an intoxicating, powerful idea. They weren't born beautiful, they became beautiful because one day each of them decided she would be. Self-fulfilling prophecy, uttered by Pythonesses who danced over the laurel smoke almost a century before The Secret, conjuring the future they wanted. That says a great deal about the power of a woman's will, doesn't it?

Marilyn Monroe once said, "There must be thousands of girls sitting alone like me dreaming of becoming a movie star. But I'm not going to worry about them, because I'm dreaming the hardest." What are you dreaming about? And, more importantly, what is holding you back? "Glamour" is an old Scottish word. It has connotations of witchcraft, of spellcasting to make people see what you want them to see. So go out and cast a little glamour today and see if whatever you're dreaming of just inched a little closer.

In which I admire Bombshells

I've been reading Laren Stover's The Bombshell Manual of Style for perhaps the fifteenth time. Seriously. (I also have a copy of her Bohemian Manifesto, but I love it second-best.) The Bombshell book is unlike anything I have ever read. It's a biographical style guide, a love poem to the women who shook the world with just a wiggle of their hips. Stover gives a delicious peek into the inner workings of a Bombshell, a glimpse into the lingerie drawer and pocketbook of the most feminine of creatures. She details their perfumes--an expensive chapter for me because I have acquired a demanding Annick Goutal habit as a result--as well as their favorite music and their interior decorating secrets. Reading it is like sipping a rum punch on a hot summer's day, refreshing and intoxicating at the same time.

It also reminds me of a girl I went to college with. I never knew her name or her major, but I saw her on campus fairly regularly. She was petite and blond, with a fabulous wiggly walk and always a teeny black bow perched in her piled-up hair. She always wore heels and snug skirts, sometimes with thin cardigans unbuttoned a smidge too low. There was always a neat clutch tucked under her arm and she never carried a book to class, but always turned in neatly-written papers that I suspect were scented with Shalimar. The male professors always looked slightly bemused when she walked by, and the male students positively beamed, although none of them ever seemed to approach her. What surprised me most was her air of seriousness. She was wide-eyed with a perpetual half-smile of amusement, as if the rest of the world was just too funny. But beneath that sweet, childlike expression I caught a glimpse once or twice of a purposeful young woman who was destined for something bigger. She was always fiendishly prepared for class, and more times than not, hers was the first hand in the air when a question was asked.

I don't know what became of her, and I certainly didn't understand her at the time. But now that I have outgrown the desire to be one of the boys, I find myself thinking about her when I order outrageously expensive lingerie or paint on the perfect red lipstick (Besame Red by Besame Cosmetics, BTW. You can order it from www.besamecosmetics.com and it comes in a gorgeous retro gold bullet tube.) And last year, when I bought my first suit, I turned up my nose at the pinstripes and straight seams. I went directly to the curviest suit I could find, with a snug skirt and a deliciously flippy hem and a belt that cinches my waist down another two inches at least. I plan to wear it with the highest heels I can manage--four inches at least, although if you tell my chiropractor, I will deny it. I hope somewhere little Miss Bombshell will be proud that she was a wonderful lesson in how to get the job done like a man and still look like a woman. She deserves a pink champagne toast.