Redux: Freeze Tag

Stop time.  Have her remember why they need to leave.  Decide to fly out that night, back to the capital, fly back to the children.  Think of a reason.

Freeze Tag

Stop time.  Have her remember why they need to leave.  Decide to fly out that night, back to the capital, fly back to the children.  Think of a reason.

It is San Antonio, Texas, November 21, 1963.  They still have to do Houston and Fort Worth.  In the morning, they go on to Dallas.  She plans to wear her pink; she hasn't worn it for a year or more, since the visit of the Maharajah of Jaipur.  She has no idea.

Lady of the House Speaking

Fifty years ago today, this lovely lady - then most commonly referred to as Mrs. John F. Kennedy (and which makes you feel older, that form of address or the phrase "fifty years ago"?) became a TV star.  She led Charles Collingwood of CBS News on a tour of the White House that was one of the most widely watched programs to date.  She even won an Emmy (well, an honorary one, but still).

Millions of viewers got a heaping helping of vintage Jackie, in a film that, seen today, seems almost as primitive as a Biograph two-reeler.  It's hard to imagine the country now glued to something as stately, sedate, and reverent as the factually titled A Tour of the White House with Mrs. John F. Kennedy, and in 2012 it makes for curious viewing (you can see it,whole, here, although alas without contemporary commercials).

Mrs. K. won plaudits for banishing from the president's residence what were then seen as decades of bad taste - to paraphase that Ultimate Arbiter of Good Taste, June Bride, she gussied up the McKinley Stinker she moved into, making it into, if not a Kennedy Modern, then at least a paragon of American Elegance.  To today's eye, though, she replaced Teddy Roosevelt's moose heads and Taft's potted palms with something that looks very much like every middle-brow resort hotel lobby of the next decade (until mod swept away the last vestiges of Mid-Century Federal, sending smoked-glass mirror tiles and mud-colored shag carpet cascading up walls at Hyatts and worse across America). 

It's odd, too, to see so much of the future Jackie O; once her image was frozen forever a year and half after the broadcast, she was never again so present, in such abundance.  Watching her drift from room to room, her vaguely anaesthetized voice murmuring rapturously about "masses and masses of gold and glass..." or the night Pablo Casalas played the East Room, she is at once charming and disconcerting.  Her artless delivery recalls nothing so much as that of a supporting player in a John Waters movie, and the whole thing moves at an underwater pace. 

Her often parodied accent (the still-unfinished Treaty Room is "a chambah of HAAARahs...") is even more distinctive than one expects, an at times beguiling, at times giggle-inducing fugue of Boston (did she pick it up from the in-laws?), lockjaw, and the breathiness more associated with her famous blonde rival.  She smiles on cue, she nods her vast coiffure (Mr. Kenneth at his most cotton-candied), and says things like "It really is terribly good," (of a Van Buren-era portrait) in a way that calls forth the spectre of Gloria Upson.  When her husband joins in for the last few minutes, he seems by contrast to be speaking perfect Broadcast MidAtlantic.

We leave them there, that handsome couple, serene in the cluttered, half-decorated Treaty Room.  All these years later, we know more about them then they ever could have dreamed, a depressing amount of it not even slightly flattering.  The White House still looks much the same, even though it's survived being Ultrachintzed by Nancy Reagan and Little Rock Contempo'ed by the Clintons.  Bits of the Obama updates look even more Conference Center Classic than Mrs. Kennedy's Diplomatic Reception Room (there's a good article on presidential decorating, by the bye, here).

And yes, I am home sick from work today, with too much time on my hands.  Why do you ask?

What's Greek for Golddigger?

I have all due respect for America's Widow™, really I do, but in this shot I can only believe that what's running through her mind is "You said he's worth how much?"

Maybe it's just that I find snaps like this one, in which she looks so much like a rough-draft Norma Jeane, unnerving...

Muffing It

A recent conversation over on Fabulon celebrated the ever-perfectly-accessorized Miss Ida Lupino, and in particular - thanks to the trenchant eye of MJ - her penchant for keeping her hands warm...

Which got me thinking about muffs. So practical in one sense, so ridiculous in almost every other...

I mean, surely in that gown, keeping her hands warm is the least of Miss Monroe's problems...

While Persian lamb just doesn't seem warm enough, however much it reinforces the visual message that Judy is perfectly fine, whatever else the readers of Photoplay might have been hearing.

As was so often the case in her pre-Desi career, Lucy seems less to be wearing than being worn by this particular costume...

While William Powell seems to be reacting with an inappropriate alarm when presented with Miss Binnie Barnes's impressive silver fox muff - although it must be admitted that she is wielding it superbly.

They go beyond Hollywood of course - on this important day, Jackie is actually using hers (something of novelty after all the foregoing) to keep her hands warm...

...while here it would seem that it is only the combination of muff, collar, and hat that's keeping the late Princess of Wales from spontaneously combusting on the spot.

Muffs! So versatile, so lovely, and so much of eras past! I trust that Miss MJ will now lead us a characteristically high-toned discussion of their sizes, depths, virtues, and uses.

Jackie O: Megapod?

So I'm re-reading Carol Channing's charming book of memoirs, Just Lucky I Guess (admit it - not at all a surprise, is it?), and a detail leapt out at me: Miss Channing - not a tiny gal herself - claims that Jaqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis was the proud posessor of a pair of size 10 1/2 feet.

Beyond the fact that back in my wilder days I possessed more than a couple pair of fabulous pumps in just that size, it struck me as so unlikely. Photo evidence is hard to come by. Based on this photo of the great lady with her mealticket second husband (who was a tiny gal, as it were), her clodhoppers were easily the size of his, if possibly narrower.

I don't know what to think, or why, really, I find this so potentially disturbing.

Clothes for a Summer Hotel

File this away for next July: when dressing for warm weather, whether East or West, sari or sheath: it's all about the pearls.

(Why, yes - that is our dear friend the Maharani of Jaipur with ol' whatshername. Aren't they, each in her own way, lovely?)