The Stylesmyths: Vintage Fashion Reportage On Broadway
From vintage Playbills to politics; resistance in brocade and bourbon.
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Who in the world is Nellie Forbush? She was the naive nurse in Rodgers & Hammerstein’s smash hit South Pacific, which premiered in 1949 and won a Pulitzer in 1950. Ensign Nellie is hickish, wide-eyed, and in love with a middle-aged French plantation owner whom she meets on active duty while in the South Pacific. The original “Cockeyed Optimist” is sure things will work out and love will endure. So it seems somewhat ironic and prescient that while thumbing through my sizable collection of vintage Broadway Playbills today, she spilled across my desk.
I think Nells is the perfect heroine for three weeks turned on its head. Project 2025 has rung alarm bells with more than half the electorate. The utterly bizarre RNC Convention saw the nomination of Vice President nominee and Appalachian hillbilly JD Vance—who this past week committed political faux pas by denigrating—and infuriating— middle-aged cat ladies with disparaging remarks that could not be digitigrade back. The disastrous Presidential Debate added fuel to the fire while the nation reeled from the shocking assassination attempt on former President Trump. President Biden’s stunning decision to step down as incumbent only stirred the pot further, paving the way for the rocket-like ascension of VP Harris. And let’s not forget pop culture sensation Charli xcx’s election influencer endorsement “kamala IS brat” spurring Harris’ meteoric rise—indeed a spectacle to behold.
I feel (and you may agree) that it is about time to hold up one perfectly shod kidskin gloved hand (when not using both to solidarity scroll IG), step forward with our silk-stockinged, stiletto-ed heels, and shout in a fierce tone, ‘I Understand The Assignment!’
It would seem we all need ‘a little touch of REVOLT’!
My latest favorite fashion accessory to block the ever-beating AZ sun has been my Ray-Ban Meta Skyler sunglasses. They shade my eyes and give me a unique view. So, in this spirit, I will share in this blog a fashion report titled ‘a little touch of REVOLT’! from the South Pacific Playbill dated October 6, 1958, written by Barbara Blake with illustrations by Pauline Trigere, Arnold Scaasi, and dress label, Harmay– during an era when the country reached a zenith of conservatism and post-war prosperity. M-Ad men ruled Madison Avenue. Cocktail and country club culture reigned supreme. The booming middle class enjoyed their new-found leisure in tidy Levitt homes—an aspiration for many. The big-finned Caddy from Detroit was crowned “Motoring Majesty.” Marcella Borghese’s advertisements enticed “For the woman who selects her cosmetics like precious jewels…”
Roll gently back through the decades…before Lululemon, New Balance, and microwavable dinners. Harken to when the end of the day meant dinner together, and perhaps Chet Baker on the turn table or Ed Sullivan on the black and white tube. Drink in those twilight hours announcing the end of a work day, slide effortlessly into the evening wearing your brocade-plumed slippers and loungewear and enjoy a few hand-mixed classic cocktails….perhaps a world that didn’t really exist in such retro-perfection but one in which my mind’s eye is in sharp focus. Agree, yes?
Then, follow me to my well-appointed home bar and let me stir up your favorite beverage over ice; what will it be tonight?
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Fashion Report: ‘a little touch of REVOLT’!
“Call us Nellie Forbush if we don’t see waistlines–yes, and hemlines, too–edging back to what was a happy norm in this country for seasons on end! The waistlines, often nipping big, full skirts, already are present (see in sketches here, where American fashion leaders are heading). And, regarding hems, we’re willing to stick our little necks out with the prophesy that doom is looming for the short-short skirt.
For the latter revolt in the bud, we’re inclined to give less credit to Paris, where the house of Dior is leading a drop-the-hem movement, than to the dismal discovery that, even in America, legs are simply not what they used to be in the days when Dancing Daughters charlestoned their heads off every night, and luscious stems–perhaps for that very reason–were a dime a dozen. Already the smartest women we know (and we’re talking about “mother-wit” as much as fashion-sense) are letting down, just a little, hems that were raised to knee-height only a short while ago. What a year it’s been for little tailor around the corner!
All right, we’ve been accused before this of cockeyed optimism. But remember the chemise? And how we said, “Don’t look, and it will go away?”
–Barbara Blake
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Perhaps we can all take Barbara’s and Nellie’s forward-looking perspective, my dear friends, and lend a little cockeyed optimism amid caterwauling and prophesies of doom and gloom. While the current landscape may seem fraught with challenges, with our collective unity, we can defeat threats to democracy and overcome, once again, as Americans have done throughout our existence. After all, it is We The People, and fate is firmly in our hands. America, as this article illustrates, was always full of pluck and independence—not looking for cues from others…. We reinvented ourselves and our looks, raising and lowering the hems when we decided. This attitude and nature—it’s in our very cut and drape…
Ponder this over your cocktail of the evening (better if served in ‘Nick and Nora’ vintage-inspired glassware), which is the classic Rob Roy…appropriate for the zeitgeist of the moment; the Rob Roy is made with scotch and sweet red vermouth. Named after redheaded Roy MacGregor, Scotland’s Robinhood, the drink imparts a subtle smoky taste due to the scotch base. Also known as a Scotch Manhattan for the substitution of scotch for bourbon. Combine two or three parts scotch with one part sweet vermouth, a dash of Angostura bitters, and garnish with a cherry. Substitute orange bitters for the Angostura for a Highland Fling (sounds like fun, ladies, no?!) and a dash of Drambuie, making a Bobbie Burns.
Slip on your favorite peignoir, and cheers…Chin up, steady your gaze, lipstick on luscious lips and off teeth… a deep breath, hug your cat, and forge ahead.
Until we meet again…
Ray-Ban, Meta Skyler
From Delta Heat to Digital Haze: Mendacity’s Grip on American Life
In a time when truth and illusion are once again battling for control of the American mind, Tennessee Williams’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof feels less like a relic and more like a warning.
I don’t think it was a coincidence that as my orange tabby slept curled up in the corner chair, my vintage Playbill for Cat on a Hot Tin Roof spontaneously spilled across my desk — emerging from a black hole of bills, letters, and papers piled high. These last few months, I made a mental note to sort through my collection and select one play to write about for my next blog entry. “Cat” is one of my earliest Playbills, dated 1956, and as the Fates would have it, a perfect choice.
A play about the idea of tolerance couldn’t be more in step with the times. This play, written at the height of McCarthyism and The Cold War, illustrates how America paid for its post-war affluence with a national anxiety fueled by the nuclear arms race and politically generated fear. We fomented a fever pitch compulsion to maintain appearances of normalcy and conformity at all costs, regardless of the messy underbelly. Fast-forward and substitute ingredients of postmodern conservatism, civil unrest, home-grown terrorism, suspicion, and conspiracy theories. Shake and stir with the zeal of conviction fueled by the media and blogosphere, and you pour a similarly potent cocktail.
History may not repeat, but it sure can rhyme.
Today, as a renewed chill settles over American media and culture, the themes of truth, repression, and moral hypocrisy that Tennessee Williams explored are once again vulnerable to censorship and distortion.
It is no surprise that a 2013 Broadway revival of “Cat” starring Gen Y bombshell Scarlett Johansson as Margaret and co-star Benjamin Walker as Brick was well received by audiences and critics alike. A 2024 production featured a sinuous performance by Daisy Edgar-Jones portraying Maggie in London’s West End at the Almeida Theatre. Directed by Rebecca Frecknall, the revival used a minimalist set and a sharper emotional focus to underline the play’s timeless tensions.
Tennessee Williams’ play, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, premiered at The Morosco Theatre on March 4, 1955. It was one of Williams’s best-known works and his personal favorite. The play won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama that year and ran nearly 700 performances. A Southern Gothic morality tale that unfolds in the steaming Mississippi Delta, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof presents several recurring themes that continue to define America six decades forward. Need evidence? Tune in today and you’ll be bombarded not just by CNN and FOX, but by a host of independent journalists, Substack newsletters, podcasts, YouTube commentators, and influencer-driven media. Stories about truth versus illusion, out-sized greed, superficiality, lying, sexual repression, and death in every imaginable flavor and form. Add a few egg whites and a pinch of cream of tartar, and you have today’s national obsession whipped into a froth that’s as unstable as it is theatrical.
Set in the plantation home of Big Daddy Pollitt, a wealthy cotton tycoon, the play examines relationships among Big Daddy’s family members, primarily between his son Brick and Maggie the “Cat”, Brick’s sexually deprived wife. The original Broadway production was directed by Elia Kazan. It starred Barbara Bel Geddes as Maggie, Ben Gazzara as Brick, Burl Ives as Big Daddy, Mildred Dunnock as Big Mama, Pat Hingle as Gooper, and Madeleine Sherwood as Mae. Bel Geddes was the only cast member nominated for a Tony Award, and Kazan was nominated for Best Director of a Play.
McCarthyism and the civil rights movement directly impacted one of the play’s stars. Madeleine Sherwood (Mae) was blacklisted during the McCarthy era. During the Civil Rights Movement, she met and worked with Martin Luther King, Jr., and moved South to join CORE (Congress on Racial Equality). She was arrested during a Freedom Walk, jailed, and sentenced to six months’ hard labor for “Endangering the Customs and Mores of the People of Alabama”. Her lawyer, Fred Grey, was the first African-American lawyer to represent a white woman south of the Mason–Dixon Line. During this period, she lost most of her sense of hearing. She passed away in 2016, but before her death, she lived in Quebec, Canada, and was an active member of the Society of Friends (Quaker).
In 1958, MGM Studios adapted the play as a motion picture, starring Elizabeth Taylor and Paul Newman as Maggie and Brick.
To adhere to the standards of the notorious Hays Code that oversaw film and television production during that era, the film version downplayed Brick and Skipper’s relationship. It diminished the original play’s critique of homophobia and sexism. Tennessee Williams reportedly was unhappy with the diluted screenplay, as were the film’s stars.
Central to the story’s theme is the relationship between Maggie “the Cat” and her detached, closeted, alcoholic husband, Brick. The tension in their marriage is ascribed to Brick’s close, possibly romantic friendship with his pro football friend Skipper. This relationship appears to be the source of Brick’s sorrow and the cause of his alcoholism. We eventually discover the hidden truth: Skipper confessed his feelings to Brick and was rejected. In despair, he committed suicide, leaving Brick steeped in self-loathing and guilt.
Ironically, patriarch Big Daddy (whom the family continually tries to deceive) finally speaks the truth. He rightly states that Brick’s disgust with mendacity is, in essence, disgust with himself for rejecting Skipper before his suicide. A repeating phrase in the play, “Wouldn’t it be funny if that was true?” is, in fact, the play’s closing line. This ambiguous sentiment questioning the gap between appearances and reality resonates even more powerfully today, as debates over truth, identity, and personal freedom return to the center of American life. Williams’s vision of mendacity, once seen as a relic of a more repressive past, feels alarmingly current.
As Tennessee Williams himself stated, he wrote Cat on a Hot Tin Roof as a rebuke to America’s illusion that sexuality is fixed and possessions can shield us from death. In 2013, when I first penned this blog, it seemed we were finally ready to hear him. Now, that hope feels more fragile. As suspicion rises, LGBTQ lives are once again under threat, and surveillance seeps deeper into daily life, Williams’s warning against mendacity grows harder to ignore. Yet even amid disinformation and rancor, the message he offered — a call for honesty, compassion, and acceptance — remains. Fragile, perhaps, but not extinguished. One can still hope. It is, after all, eternal.
Let’s lighten up a bit and pivot smartly to cocktail hour, shall we?
That’s right. Settle down gently into your worn mohair theater seat while sipping our themed cocktail for the evening, The Southern Peach. This delicious summery blend of bourbon, Southern Comfort, peach schnapps, lemon, and a touch of sugar is a delight. Go ahead and slip a sliver of peach slice over the edge of the glass to finish off this tasty concoction. Lovely! Oh, and I do love your sparkly rhinestone earrings. Are they vintage? They light up your eyes!
Scene: A bed-sitting room and section of the gallery of a plantation home in the Mississippi Delta. An evening in summer…
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ABOUT TO THE LADIES
This Playbill’s fashion column, To The Ladies, was penned by mysterious fashion writer B. B., whose complete identity is known only to herself, and perhaps her Publisher. In 1956, fashion houses and manufacturers introduced a romantic revival and orientalist theme into their lines. Style moved away from stark simplicity to a more individualized mood. While there was a change in silhouette, from cut to drape, the major evolution was the introduction of softly clinging and floaty sheer fabrics. This was the year of the luxurious textile, with chiffon, cut velvets, lace, charmeuse satin, crepe, silk georgette, and silk tulle with elaborate embroideries incorporated into day and eveningwear. Embellishments such as hand-stitched rose appliques, sparkling white rhinestones, floral motifs, feathers, and furs were evident on capes, hats, dress bodices, and accessories. This brings us to this fashion report on the “Little Fur of many uses”. Fur was used as an embellishment on collars, cuffs, and hats, and became an important part of the story about a new luxury mood. This relatively affordable small mink stole was in reach for many consumers and merchandised in several fashion shades. The little fur stole quickly found its place in many well-dressed women’s closets. Usually, you would find the stole satin-lined and embroidered with the initials or name of the wearer. My great Aunt Dotty, aka D. G., a woman of enviable style and taste (and a passionate theatre-goer and collector of these Playbills), passed along her dark ranch mink stole wrap to me. Although I eschew new fur, I still cherish my vintage stole and occasionally enjoy enveloping myself in its luxurious softness on chilly nights. It keeps the memory of my beloved Great Aunt close to me.
You can still purchase a good selection of these vintage stoles on eBay, local auction houses, and antique markets. While tastes and social mores have changed since the mid-1950s, and many see fur today as an unappealing choice, our desire for luxury, refinement, and self-expression is eternal.
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TO THE LADIES
Furriers, currently the envy of the rest of the fashion industry because the weather would seem to be all on their side this reluctant spring, actually are less lucky than smart.
Their own little invention, the Little Fur of many uses and endless usefulness, rides above the weather in any season and has made fur-mindedness a year-round thing. The same small fur that’s cozy on chilly summer evenings is just right for mild ones in winter; it extends the season of spring and fall suits; it is an angel of adaptability to time, place and occasion and is the parfait gentil traveling companion no matter where you go, or when.
With all this, it’s a rare small fur nowadays that ever sees the inside of a storage closet.
• Our small furs: Shown with the about-to-become-famous fez: Assortment of six fabulous ash-blond Russian sable skins, making an easy, understated small stole of the greatest luxury; by David. (The fez, black velvet or white sharkskin.)
• Above, with petal snood by John Fredericks: Sunbeam fox, the new golden blonde shade in a smashing stole by Leo Ritter, a small fur only in the categorical sense. (The petal headdress, in pink shading to rose, has a scattering of rhinestones and converts to a beret, completely covering the hair.)
With no hat at all, although it takes kindly to hats when worn by daylight—the pocketed shoulder throw in pastel mink, one end to pull through a slot in the other; from Stein and Blaine. Below.
It’s no coincidence that all three pieces are of the stole order—to our minds the most useful and adaptable of the whole useful, adaptable small-fur clan.
–B. B.
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Cut, Drape, and Valuation
I have always wondered why the category of loungewear has vanished chiefly from fashion’s lexicon. Excluding the ubiquitous basic yoga pants and gaudy graphic tank tee (a look, incidentally, that is perfect for Miss Schlep-along), the concept of donning a particular garment for home entertaining or simply to welcome the twilight hour in style is gone. Enter the summery, pool-side appearance of the fabulous, forgiving, and floating kaftan from an Arabian night. Some popular brands include Frances Valentine, Hester Bly, Teggie French, and La Vie. Here, we feature Trina Turk’s classic interpretation, with prices ranging from $200 to $500.
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Is the sun dipping down? It must be Golden Hour somewhere! Let’s begin!
The Southern Peach
Taken from Sexy City Cocktails by Sheree Bykofsky and Megan Buckley
2 ounces bourbon
1 ounce Southern Comfort
1/2 ounce peach schnapps
1/2 ounce fresh lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon sugar
A dash of club soda
1 fresh peach slice, for garnish
Swirl the bourbon, Southern Comfort, peach schnapps, lemon juice, and sugar into your cocktail shaker over ice, and shake well. (Make sure the sugar is dissolved.) Pour it into a Collins glass, half full of fresh ice, and top it with club soda. Then, slip a willing peach slice over the edge of the glass.
Southern Comfort, in case you were wondering, is a bourbon infused with other flavors, such as peach and orange. Although the recipe is top secret, it was first conjured by a Louisiana bartender in 1870. Today, it is produced in Kentucky, the birthplace of other great bourbons.
Cheers, and take your sweet time. Bless your heart!
Come visit me on Pinterest for additional vintage advertising images!
Postscript: Twelve years after I first reflected on Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, the themes of mendacity, illusion, and moral reckoning feel more vivid — and more urgent — than ever. Time, it seems, has not erased the struggle for truth, only deepened its importance.

As a girl, growing up on Eastern Long Island, deep in the heart of its nautically themed suburbs –2 hours outside of the City (the way its denizens measured space, distance and time), my awareness of fashion extended to back-to-school or prom pilgrimages to Modell’s, Swezey’s or Alexander’s—experiences I loathed—and later, taking the local bus to Smith Haven Mall to troll for trendy, cheap outfits at any number of chain boutiques catering to the teenage set.
Levi’s 501 jeans, white Keds tennis sneakers and pastel Izod Lacoste double-knit shirts was the uniform of Our Kind. As I turned 17 and neared my anticipated college rite de passage, I fantasized about a glamorous career in fashion advertising, as suggested by my stylish Grandmother (a vague concept at best to my uninformed, impressionable self)—and a minted bachelor’s degree from F.I.T. –as did so many young women in the Tri-State area.
Located “in the City”, F.I.T. or Fashion Institute of Technology, sat six blocks south of seedy, 1980s era Penn Station, and was a stone’s throw from the rough and tumble Garment District to the east; which had yet to benefit from the whiff of gentrification that later enhanced it at the turn of the Millennia. Famous F.I.T. alumnus included Calvin Klein (who was then a major Star and fashion Brand) James de Givenchy and many other notables who went on to have—as my Grandma would emphatically declare, “Very Big Careers”. A side note: my Grandmother owned her own clothing boutique in the late 1950s called the Miss Anne Shop that catered to the finest ladies in Saddle River, NJ.
On a freezing cold afternoon, my Grandmother, Mother and I journeyed into the City to meet an admissions counselor from the school. It was the kind of dry February cold that made your nose hairs freeze, nostrils narrow and eyes water unmercifully. To expand, the kind of awful, dead-of-winter cold that had no redeemable qualities or saving grace, other than a howling, clench jawed escape to Miami. But, I digress.
Coming up the escalator from the loamy, subterranean bowels of Penn Station, we three (arms linked, with me in the middle) maneuvered our way down 7th Avenue toward the school campus. I remember few things from that day, in this order…the brisk, clarifying icy wind hitting me in the face, the dancing sparkle of the sun playing off the mica-mixed concrete sidewalks, and the bits of trash (condom packages, plastic spoons, sandwich wrappers, blue and white paper coffee cups—(“We Are Happy To Serve You”, Grecian-style) blown in gusts, rattling down the street. And, yes, to add mirth and menace to the scene were a considerable number of homeless men loitering on either side; wearing stiff, worn flannel wool coats and many assorted layers.
We 3 Outsiders presented a stoic monolith of book-ended ranch minks and one central red fox fun fur, swaying in step toward the school. I must confess to you that I am blank on the rest of the day.
The upshot after this field trip was that it was decided that I not pursue entrance to this fine fashion institute, but instead pursue a broad degree elsewhere. Upon early admissions acceptance, I was slated to be packed and shipped off to a collegiate and seemingly safe Syracuse University (located squarely in the tundra snow belt of Central New York State) to study Communications, another fashionable degree of the era. My classmates mostly hailed from suburban Long Island, Westchester Connecticut and New Jersey—commonly known as The Tri-State trifecta. I enrolled with others, just. like. me. Admittedly, S.U. did offer me a fine education, many life-bonded friends, endless opportunities to bend my right elbow and scream “GO ORANGE”, and develop keen social skills.
Wistfully, I can look back and realize S.U. did not offer the diversity, allure or glamour of gritty, post-70’s Warholian F.I.T. I can’t help but wonder these many decades later, what path my life would have taken had those sliding subway doors closed differently? Fashion, as it turned out still played her hand in my future. A decade later, I joined the editorial fashion staff of fledgling Mirabella Magazine as their Sittings Editor and later Wardrobe Manager. Working at the magazine immersed me, full tilt into the crazy world of New York and international fashion— and introduced me to its many brightly, plumed characters. Fashion was, paradoxically, everything I always thought and hoped it would be, but also an unexpected surprise and journey…
The End
October 29th
Beneath a crescent moon barely three nights old, snow fell over the city—too soon, too quiet. Its companions came next, silent as breath and old as memory.
It had been fifty-nine years since an inch of snow fell in Central Park before Halloween, only the fourth time since the Civil War era. Back then, the Silk Stocking blue bloods made The Seventh Regiment Armory (now the Park Avenue Armory) its social hub.
Elite military brass gathered in (more…)
Porn Queens, a deluded angry actor and one vitriolic French fashion designer seems to have stolen the scene this past week with their mad, incomprehensible rants all captured on video for the world to view, replay, pontificate and dissect.
After lamenting the hobbling of the House of Dior and watching the self-immolation of a brilliant but troubled haute-couture fashion designer I yearn for respite far, far away; somewhere resort-y and tropical. A fabled destination where fluffy towels are poolside, staff is helpful & kind—bearing frozen drinks— guests are engaging, wry and humorous. After a long dreary winter for many, let’s whisk to a sanctuary where the tender breeze is jasmine-scented and a sea grape lined shore kisses a sparkling azure sea.
The Cool Customer
“When Eugenia Sheppard made the observation in her Herald Tribune column several weeks ago that she was bored with Pucci prints, the international repercussions must have been staggering. I for one can report that Jamaica’s elegant Round Hill Hotel and cottage colony, the guests who had been wearing them as a sort of school uniform were in a mild state of shock. That simple statement had automatically made half their wardrobes obsolete and deprived them of a visual passport to each other (the assumption had been that any unknown woman who appeared with a poodle or Pucci couldn’t be all bad.) But instead of throwing themselves off the side of the raft, they bravely rallied and did some strategic on-the-spot shopping—which can’t be considered a total hardship. Right at Round Hill, which John and Liz Pringle run like a small self-sustaining principality, Polly Hornberg’s Calypso Shop has a collection of island-made shorts, slacks, beach and dinner dresses, a lot of them in riotous cotton prints, that can hold their own in any resort the world over. The prices aren’t piccolini,as we say around the Uffizi, but then neither are Pucci’s.
In nearby Montego Bay, besides the smart specialty shops that cluster around the base of the leading beach-front hotels, Dorothy McNab’s waterfront emporium does a brisk over-the-counter trade and an even brisker custom order business. Her collection of silks and saris represents an investment of time and taste in addition to hard cash, and her inner sanctum boutique is geared to turning out quite sumptuous gowns, expertly fitted in three-days time. One salmon-silk dinner dress with a bodice beaded in tiny, salmon-colored seashells can be made to measure at about $150. (The beading is done in advance by the local talent.) Dorothy McNab, (sister of New York decorator, Rose Cummings, possibly the first woman to wear truly blue hair into the bright light of day) is also backing patio pajamas (which look divine on Liz Pringle as, indeed anything would) for gala evenings, and party dirndl skirts, either knee or ankle length, made of bright silk and satin patchwork at about $100. Dorothy McNab’s goodies are also available at her second shop in Ocho Rios, and a few, I hear, at Neiman-Marcus. By way of incidentals, the mad straw hats can still be had at early morning market, but I suspect even the natives are beginning to find them tiresome. And hand-culled seashells can be bought from little boys at little stands along the sea roads. The souvenir sleeper of the year, however, turns out to be Benjamin’s Eau de Cologne, a deliciously spicy scent in an un-promotional bottle, that sells at about 74 cents. I was introduced to it by Ralph Strain whose piano playing jollies up the Round Hill bar each night and whose record on Roulette label will be out any week. Jamaica’s Little Season, beginning at Easter, is now in full swing.”–Geri Trotta
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The tinkling of shell beaded bodices, swish of silk saris, spicy scents perfuming the air and the elegance of patio pajamas (lost in the fashion annals of time) remind us of the essential need to relax (in style of course), unplug and take a break now and again. Even if you can’t travel to glamorous Round Hill Hotel and Villas in Montego Bay, you can click off the TV, shut out the din and cacophony, put some calypso on the turn-table and break out the blender, ice, fruit and rum. Go ahead, take that day. You deserve it!
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And now a bit about the play. Irma La Douce, based on a a book by Alexandre Breffort, made its 1956 world premiere in Paris, opening in London’s West End in 1958 and finally on Broadway in 1960 at The Plymouth Theatre.
Billed as a new musical comedy it was produced by David Merrick and had its Broadway premier on September 29, 1960, where it ran for 524 performances. The production, starring Elizabeth Seal, winning a Tony in the lead, was directed by Peter Brook. Repeating their roles from the London production were Keith Michell, Elizabeth Seal, and Clive Revill in the leads. Stuart Damon and Fred Gwynne also were featured and actor Eliot Gould was cast in the production as An Usher. The story was made into a non-musical film in 1963 (Irma la Douce), starring Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine.
Life Magazine called the musical “a French fairy tale for wicked grown-ups who want to believe in love.”
““Irma La Douce” is not only French; it is intensely Parisian French. Set in an area tourists seek, but so seldom find, its musical idiom, its moral atmosphere, its plot and its argot are part of Paris not even all Parisians know; a part of Paris where the underworld is known as the “milieu” A tart is a “poule,” a pimp is a “mec” and money is “grisbi.”
Irma La Douce, a successful prostitute, lives in Paris. A poor law student, Nestor le Fripé, falls in love with her and is jealous of her clients. In order to keep her for himself, he assumes the disguise of a rich older man, “Oscar”, and takes many jobs to keep his veneer. Finally no longer able to sustain his exhausting life, he “kills” Oscar, is convicted of murder, and is transported to the Devil’s Island penal colony. He escapes and returns to Paris, and proves that he is innocent. He and Irma reunite and love triumphs.
You may not know these surprising facts about unassuming and multi-talented actor Fred Gwynne, who gained fame both for his distinctive baritone voice and for the role of Herman Munster in the sixties sit-com The Munsters. He attended the Groton School and Harvard University, where he was a cartoonist for the Harvard Lampoon, beginning his theatre career at the Brattle Repertory in Cambridge while in school. Acting in films and plays after graduation, he joined New York ad agency J. Walter Thompson for five years, and wrote copy for Ford Motor Company while appearing in numerous television shows on the side. He left the agency in 1952, the year he made his Broadway debut in “Mrs. McThing,” also appearing opposite the indefatigable Betty White in “Who Was That Lady I Saw You With?” In addition to his acting career, Gwynne sang professionally, painted, wrote and illustrated numerous children’s books and lent his voice talents to commercials and radio shows. Apparently, in addition to lovable Herman Munster, Mr. Gwynne was a certified M-Ad man. Later in his career, he auditioned for TV show Punky Brewster. He withdrew his audition, however, when the auditioner referred to him as Herman Munster and not his professional name. His last film in 1992, “My Cousin Vinny,” was a huge box office hit. He passed away in 1993 and is buried in an unmarked grave.
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This week’s tropical cocktail is a true classic, The Daiquiri, which countless suburbanites enjoyed patio and pool-side in the backyard.
The Daiquiri was conceived in 1915, when two engineers from Bethlehem Steel found themselves in the midst of a malaria epidemic in the village of Daiquiri, near Santiago, Cuba . They began putting a little rum in their boiled drinking water as a disinfectant. That brew lacked flavor, so they added a bit of lime, then a touch of sugar. When possible, they added ice made from distilled water and soon found the concoction pleasurable as well as medicinal. A true elixer!
A regular Daiquiri is made by combining one and a half shots (3 oz.) of light rum, a shot of lime juice and a teaspoon of super-fine sugar in an ice-filled shaker. Shake, and strain into a cocktail glass, garnish with a wedge of lime. Frozen Daiquiris are made by combining the ingredients of a Daiquiri with a cup of crushed ice in a blender, with fresh fruit often added for even more flavor. Garnish with a lime wedge and enjoy. Until we meet again!
What is a cocktail? It is style on a stem—American fashion designer, Valentina
Harry Belefonte-I Do Adore Her
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EQ8jv_asOxA&feature=related
Round Hill Hotel and Villas, Montego Bay Jamaica
Cougars, (the sexy mature female, and not the purring feline) you might think, are an invention of the new millennium. Not true dear reader. In fact, sizzling, subversive romances between vital young men and women-of- a- certain-age (40 plus– for many “the age of reason”) have long been a source of literature, both farce and tragedy. Rarely, if ever, do these liaisons result in a happily-ever-after coupling on page, stage or screen. Even Sex and the City’s voraciously determined Samantha ends her relationship with Smith, her thirty-something lover, to once again redefine herself and pursue her own path, at age 50.
This week while thumbing through my vintage playbill collection, I came across one from 1970 for Broadway play Forty Carats, which ran for 780 performances at the Morosco Theatre. Adapted from a French comedy and written by Jay Allen, it opened in 1968 with a cast starring Julie Harris. Two seasons later, stunning Hungarian actress Zsa Zsa Gabor followed Harris in her debut Broadway role playing lead Anna Sandy. She won the 1970 Tony for her performance. The comedy revolves around a 40-year old American divorcee who is assisted by a 22-year-old when her car breaks down during a vacation in Greece. Their romantic encounter turns potentially serious, when he turns up on her New York City doorstep– to take her 17-year-old daughter on a date! Sandy’s Mother, ex-husband and a lecherous real estate client adds to the ensemble making for a comedy that became a popular vehicle with the cougar-set.
The 1970s was an age of shifting American mores and a loosening of social restrictions. It was the “ME” generation (EST –now rebranded The Forum, self-enlightenment philosophy, sexual revolution and women’s lib took hold), that was framed by a counter-culture psychedelia that opened the door to pop art, punk and disco. While this sense of personal freedom and expression created transformation on all levels, it also harkened in darker elements of social unrest and a decay in common civility. I find it interesting that this week’s guest fashion editor Bernice Peck observes the same in her column On a personal bias entitled “Bergdorf Goodman loves me.”
Reflecting the casual social order in mode and dress were her fashion picks of ribbed turtleneck sweaters in a dozen colors of cashmere-and courtelle, worn with a perfectly cut skinny midi skirt in fake snake (the big thing for the fall). For the young man in your life: a great shaped midi raincoat, martingale back and inverted pleat right to the shoulderblades, black or navy gaberdine. Pure wool Irish knits with clever cable details. To top you off; The Miss Bergdorf Fur Boutique has a rich-hippie vest in blurry natural lamb fur, all trimmed with suede fringe (groovilicious!)…
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“Bergdorf Goodman Loves Me”
On a personal bias by Bernice Peck
“If you shop without encountering the put-down, congratulations. But half the women I know are rapping about the rise of rudeness in the stores. As for me, my spirit was broken long ago, snubbed by some of the cheesiest sales Ladies in town.
I have waited (evidently invisible) while two of them finished a leisurely chat about pot roast or the skin flick at the Bijou. I have had my fashion sense evaluated by a real frump—“We got no call for that type of thing,” she intones. At tomorrow’s sales meeting the buyer will tell her it’s the next dish on the fashion menu. Another sweet snub is “Not in your size,” which is a twelve, delivered with aplomb by a lardy size 40. Deflating, isn’t it?
All of which finds me going more and more to Bergdorf Goodman, I don’t need to be fawned on, but I do enjoy their graceful, natural courtesy—plus what certainly appears to be an honest interest in my needs. In a store that probably has the most millionaires on its billing list, this is simply standard customer-attitude as laid down by Andrew Goodman, the boss. Anyway, it makes me feel good, makes whatever I buy seem a proper bargain—and who’s averse to that? Just what is a bargain anyway? To me: getting more for the same money. I find this true at Bergdorf’s where it constitutes more chic, fashion, elegance, class, exclusiveness in designs and much more personal service. This goes all the way down the line. All in all, especially when my stocks and spirits are down, the best place for me is Bergdorf’s where, whatever I spend, the boss won’t let anyone patronize me.”
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Many would say that lack of consideration still defines our culture. And rudeness and violence continues to exacerbate unchecked. I do however; see the start of something different. This week’s turn of events in Libya reinforce the fact that cult-of-personality leadership is finished in the 21c. It won’t stand the test of social networking and 24/7 news media. The undercurrent rippling throughout our connected globe is saying, “enough is enough.” We can only hope that what results from this techno convergence and street-level reaction, is a democratic outcome for the people. Civil discourse, dignified respect–or lack thereof– is foremost on people’s minds. My friend Susan DiStaulo and I were shopping at New York’s Bergdorf Goodman recently–well, mostly looking at their fine accessories rather than purchasing. We agreed that this was the best department store in the city, the most beautifully merchandised and pleasant with great customer service. I am sure that Ms. Peck would be gratified to know that her observations echo true some forty-years forward, but equally as dismayed to understand that this level of service is still valued as unusual and rare. I leave you with these little known facts about the glamorous and sophisticated Zsa Zsa Gabor, who at her debut in Forty Carats had already starred in more than thirty films and made three hundred television appearances. She spoke six languages, was the chairman of her own cosmetics company and was educated in Vienna, Luzanne and Turkey. An accomplished sportswoman she was the Junior Ping-Pong champion of Hungary, also adept at fencing, swimming and tennis, and at the time was one of the few women in the world to play polo. She won the title of Miss Hungary at the age of 15.
To all the independent ladies, in the spirit of Anna Sandy and Zsa Zsa Gabor, drip on your grandmother’s largest jewels, grab your favorite faux fur and head out with your other single lady friends on a trip downtown or to a Greek island…you never know what new adventure awaits unless you take the initiative and leave the comforts of your cougar den! Until we meet again…
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This week I share a Vodka cocktail creation of the 1970s “Me” generation celebrating both Zsa Zsa’s Eastern European roots and her 1970 Tony Award-winning performance in Forty Carats. Wishing Ms. Gabor a very happy recent 95th birthday. And to celebrate those qualities that remain untarnished with undeniable staying power…in her prime, she was beautiful, independent and accomplished—often forgotten in those dim memories of her too-frequent appearances on Merv Griffin and The Tonight Show. So go ahead, mix up a tangy, briny Salty Dog and Egészségedre! (Hungarian for Cheers!)
The Salty Dog: The Vodka-based Screwdriver of the fifties became the Greyhound of the seventies when grapefruit juice was substituted for orange juice. Rim the glass with either plain or lime rock salt for a twist to make the Greyhound a Salty Dog. Over ice in a tall glass rimmed with salt, combine grapefruit or pink grapefruit juice and a shot and a half of your favorite vodka.
“Vodka is the only drink.” Diana Vreeland
PS: Calling all fashion independents in Phoenix, Arizona! Please don’t miss just opened, “Fashion Independent: The Original Style of Ann Bonfoey Taylor” at Phoenix Art Museum. Mentioned in Vogue and The New York Times, this is the first major fashion exhibition in over ten years and is a must see. For more info: www.arizonacostumeinstitute or www.phxart.org
In the space provided, please describe a time in your life when you experienced a tremendous amount of professional or educational change. Describe this transformative experience and its effects
Change is a constant.
Surely, you’ve heard that bland platitude dished as cold comfort when chaotic outside forces dictate circumstances seemingly beyond our control.
At 8:00 AM on Tuesday, September 11th, the azure skies and golden sunshine of Lower Manhattan greeted me with absolute certainty, assuring me of my given place in the world. It was an ordinary morning, set to a metered workday march about to break into a sheer hellish run for cover.
But at 8:00 AM, Monday, September 18th, a mere seven days later after the worst attack on American soil since the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941, I found myself and 1,300 of my closest Lehman Brothers colleagues crammed into the Metropolitan Ballroom of the Sheraton New York at 51st and 7th. Dick Fuld, the Firm’s imposing Chief, addressed the jittery crowd to assure us that our $13 billion of liquidity ensured our survival as a Firm. And, thanks to our close banking relationship with Starwood Partners, our new home would be the Sheraton Hotel.
So began my 15-month tenure working from room 963. I was greeted by polite, grateful hotel staff daily, relieved to have full occupancy into the foreseeable future. Our daily routine included hot coffee and assorted teas in the morning, soup-of-the-day room service at lunch, and fragrant white towels at the poolside for that after-work swim and workout in the hotel gym.
My “office” consisted of a hotel room without beds, a room safe, four six-foot folding tables, stackable cardboard files purchased from Staples, and a Bose Wave radio set to WQXR—NYC’s classical music station. Our television sets were removed by Management, so we congregated like nervous swallows by the elevator banks on each floor, monitoring CNN throughout the day. I diligently worked out of my new hotel home until January 2003, when our new office at 399 Park Avenue was finally finished and ready for occupancy. The hotel staff threw us a festive Hawaiian Luau goodbye party, genuinely sorry to see the last of us go.
9/11 taught me that people and relationships, not job titles and trophies, make the sum total of your life. Patience is not simply the ability to smile and feign interest through another mind-numbing and pointless meeting but the emotional steadiness needed to calm the nerves of a fellow employee who is so despondent that they feel they cannot ride the subway one more day to work within the confines of a stale hotel room.
Science recognizes that every seven years, the human body replaces every cell with a new one. In effect, we regenerate our entire beings. For me and others, the day of September 11th was transformative on a cellular level. What changed most profoundly was my psychology. My sense of security and entitlement to increasing material gain were obliterated. I now realize there is no demilitarized zone, not in lower Manhattan, not in the formerly “friendly skies.” Preparedness, access to information, and resilience became prerequisites for our new world order. As a result of my experiences, my ability to deal with stress and handle sudden and unperceivable change has been improved, along with the recognition that change can bring unexpected opportunities, new life paths, self-awareness, and growth.
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Penny’s department was located on a newly renovated twenty-first floor of 1 World Financial. Tastefully appointed in light cherry veneer, brushed stainless steel and Berber beige carpet, her coordinated cubicle sat in front of Mark Spellman’s office, the head of marketing for Private Equity Investments. A high-strung and charismatic man in his late fifties, this be-speckled Viet Nam vet shared her love of words and language in a field obsessed with numbers. His storied career on Wall Street netted him a fortune by the age of forty-five. In early 2000, Mark cashed in his “smart water” stock and netted a reported 10 Mil. In addition to his base salary and lofty bonus paid by the Firm. “Not bad for a Providence under-grad,” he would often brag out loud to an office chock full of frustrated and arrogant Ivy Leaguers. His corner office’s large glass window was situated at an angle that framed both Twin Towers–North and South. The interesting thing about the iconic view was that you rarely noticed the buildings at all. It’s as if these two monolithic phantoms hovered in half-tone just beyond your sight line. Although close enough to reach out and touch, the world famous “Twins” faded pale into the skyscape. Two plain Jane steel wallflowers silhouetted among hundreds of others stretching out endlessly due-north into the horizon.
In 1998, two years before the bloody tech bubble burst across the Northern California peninsula, the Firm opened their Menlo Park office, in an ill fated attempt to chase young or increasingly not-so-young Silicon Valley Technocrats and fulfill their financing needs. The Firm relocated a well-known and famously aggressive New York investment banker, specializing in technology, to lead the West Coast charge. During an interview with the Wall Street Journal the reporter inquired how he enjoyed his new pastoral view of fog shrouded hills, so different from that of New York Harbor. He curtly replied that he was too busy constructing sophisticated financial deals to notice something as insignificant as the view. The insinuation being that the Divine Power of Capitalism was above the Almighty himself and his natural order. Wall Street’s Fin de Siecle behavior dictated that if you stopped to admire the daisies, you belonged not in the exalted profession of i-banking, but at an artist’s colony throwing ceramic pots for your living. Such was the money and title-obsessed measure of importance that Penny’s cohorts lived, breathed and believed.