There was no shortage of sultry, international starlets during the 1960's, all with varying degrees of cool detachment (Capucine) and erotic allure (Senta Berger). Austrian Romy Schneider managed to convey both; while she radiated undeniable sex appeal, her fierce, feline intelligence prevented her from being just another Continental sexpot. It also meant that she more than held her own against some of the most beautiful, charismatic men on the screen, including Horst Buchholz and real-life lover Alain Delon.
WITH ALAIN DELON, EARLY 1960'S
WITH HORST BUCHHOLZ, 1957
Unlike many of her contemporaries, Schneider was a respected actress who worked with some of the most acclaimed directors of all time (Welles, Visconti, Preminger, Chabrol, etc.); more predictably, her brief stint in Hollywood yielded her least memorable work, the tedious sex comedies Good Neighbor Sam (1964) and What's New, Pussycat (1965). In contrast, her European films netted Schneider two César Awards, the French equivalent of the Oscar.
Romy Schneider's short, stormy life came to an end in 1982 at the age of 43; she was despondent over the accidental death of her 14 year old son, and while the official cause of her death was cardiac arrest, many believed she committed suicide by overdosing on pills and alcohol. Her legacy lives on in the powerful body of work she leaves behind. "I am nothing in life," Romy Schneider once said, "but everything on screen." Nothing could be further from the truth, or more accurate.
...Legs together, please! A lady reveals nothing.
Kick up your heels and lift your skirts.
Less violent than Full Metal Jacket, and a helluva lot more fabu. Modeled by our resident glamour boy about town, Dray, and his Halstonette friend, Jane.
Clotho spun the thread of life from her distaff onto her spindle.
Lachesis measured the thread of life allotted to each person with her measuring rod.
Atropos was the cutter of the thread of life. She chose the manner and timing of each person's death. When she cut the thread with "her abhorrèd shears", someone on Earth died.
We'll leave it for you to decide which fate is which.
Lana Turner and Jayne Mansfield with their shrines to self-worship.
We're slightly horrified by this undoubtedly well-intentioned tableaux, for several reasons.
- The cadaver-like skin tone of the gents in the foreground, their gaping maws, and their sightless eyes, seem to indicate that they're less interested in eating the turkey than in eating your very souls.
- It's one thing to wear clothing that's too tight; it can be chalked up to an accident, or unexpected weight gain, or, given the tough economic situation, a lack of funds to replenish your FCUK/A&F/H&M/AX coffers. It's something else altogether to intentionally paint your subjects' clothing too tight (and to make them appear to be fashioned of rubber). We won't even discuss the disturbingly out-of-place chest hair that the Hostess with the Mostess is sporting.
- And, finally -- is that a cranberry "sauce" mold we see on the table? A cloved ham with pineapple rings? Sweet potatoes with mini marshmallows??? It looks as if the cast of Queer as Folk stepped into a dining room set styled for a Very Special Thanksgiving episode of That 70's Show. Do you really think that any of these queens would dare touch broccoli covered with ten pats of butter, unless it were organic soy lactose-free almond butter? We didn't think so.
But the sentiment this illustration expresses is a nice one: Thanksgiving is a day to give thanks. Thanks for your loved ones; thanks for your families (blood and chosen); and thanks for the fact that we live in a free society where bitter gay bloggers can make snarky comments about bad gay commercial art Norman Rockwell rip-offs. (Say that three times fast.)
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
Hugh O'Brien, Scott Brady, John Bromfield, Rock Hudson and Tony Curtis sit on hot shelves of various tempertures at the Finlandia Baths.
Rock takes a close shave as Tony and John relax.
"You should be in the gambling racket, son," Scott tells Tony, who is beating him soundly at gin rummy. Hugh kibitzes while Rock gets a salt rubdown in the next room so he can go back to the steam room and sweat some more.
Chowtime at Finlandia is a special privilege. Sam Amundsen, owner of the Finnish baths, provides such a spread only for men who make a party of coming down to his establishment.
The hungry mob wastes no time digging in.
"Ahh, this is wonderful," sighs Hugh, as masseur Karlo gives him a vigorous alcohol rub to close up his pores. John and Scott watch skeptically.
Scott shivers as Richard Wolfs, head manager at Finlandia, dries him off after his alcohol rub by fanning him with a sheet. This helps the pore-closing process, but it's a shock right after a 170-degree bath! THANKS
