Manolo for the Big Girl

Humphrey Bogart is my kinda guy.

First of all, he was a fellow Episcopalian which I didn’t know until about 20 seconds ago but it doesn’t surprise me. No one can have THAT much style and THAT damaged a liver and NOT be a member of the Anglican Communion.

Secondly, he liked strong, straight-talking women which isn’t really a surprise either, since his illustrator mother was a committed suffragist and the main breadwinner in his family.

So we all know he and the much-younger (and dead fabulous) Lauren Bacall after they fell in love on the set of “To Have and Have Not” in 1944, BUT did you know Our Lady of the Scotch Soaked Voice was nineteen, NINETEEN, when she taught Bogie how to blow in To Have and Have Not in 1944?

(btw, do we know who “discovered” Lauren Bacall? Louise Dahl-Wolfe and my very own heroine, Diana Vreeland)

Which isn’t to say Bogie wasn’t occasionally swayed by body parts other than a sharp tongue:

(busted)

(more…)

Do you know my favorite thing about Mo’Nique’s near-inevitable (and strangely controversial) Oscar acceptance?

I
Loved
Her
Walk.

She took that stage like a queen, like she knew she had every right in the WORLD to be there and she was going to own every.single.minute of it. She wasn’t falsely humble. She turned out a great performance, went about her business and when she won the award for which she did not campaign (thus the comment about the performance vs. politics) she walked up in a $400 off-the-rack gown and accepted the accolades she earned. She was emotional, but composed, and in an homage to Hattie McDaniel –the first African American to win an Academy Award– wore a sapphire dress and a gardenia in her hair.

As Kate Harding wrote in Salon:

It was about being there as a credit to her profession, not her race or her gender or her size or the sisterhood of hairy-legged comics in open marriages, or whatever else people want her to represent. It was about unapologetically standing up for herself and her performance in a way Hattie McDaniel never could have. It worked, and she earned it.

Hey gang! We’ll have the next installment of 12 Months of Cocktails coming up later, but Francesca’s post about Oscar nominee Gabourey Sidibe on the cover of Ebony got me thinking:

Would we ever see a full body shot of a big girl –not a “big girl” like Crystal Renn– on a non race-specific aspirational glossy like W or Vanity Fair without it being fetishized or turned into a bit of tokenism?

Because I think no.

Sure we’ve seen Beth Ditto on the cover of a few alternative mags like Love and NME, and when she’d get a feature in a regular glossy it would always, ALWAYS be about how she’s not afraid to shock the world with her size blah blah blah. She’s an enfant terrible, and her size and willingness to get her kit off at any given chance is part of her gimmick.

And of course There’s this photoshopped into oblivion cover of Queen Latifah from Glamour

Lovely photo BUT: not on this planet nor any other has Queen Latifah had that slender a neck or arms, and she might just be corseted from here to eternity (speaking of: have you ever tried to roll around on a beach in a corset? WAY ill-advised) but methinks Dr Shoppe has done a fair bit of virtual nipping and tucking. Glamour has ALWAYS had the worst, most blatant retouchers on the planet.

But even if she wasn’t retouched to high heaven, it’s still about SIZE.

Lest we forget that the #1 attribute of Queen Latifah is her size and not, say, the fact that she’s won an Oscar, has had a successful music, acting and producing career and is a hell of a good model and role model.

I’ve noticed the magazines aimed at black readers are far more willing to embrace the idea of beauty at every size without making a big honking deal of it.

Granted, the photo editing isn’t great on this mag either, but do you see anything talking about Queen Latifah’s size? No. It’s the same check-out fodder (maybe a little better) as any other women’s interest lifestyle mag.

I would love to see Gabourey Sidibe win an Oscar –and Mo’nique too, whom I love and always have– and I would love to see her looking pretty on the cover of a mainstream glossy magazine without a reference to her size. It would be great. I’d buy a dozen copies and probably not even make fun of what she was wearing. I’m just not sure it’s going to happen.

Today Miss Plumcake wants to know:

What say you? Are mainstream glossies ever going to be as willing as niche publications to put a big girl in all her glory on the cover without mentioning she’s big?

One more note  about operas and fat ladies (see what I did there? With the note? Because it’s like music, get it?)
Soprano Daniela Dessi walked out of the role of Violetta in Verdi’s La Traviata when director Franco Zeffirelli--you’ll remember him from the Romeo and Juliet we all saw in junior high with Olivia Hussey and Leonard Whiting– said she was too fat to sing one of opera’s most famous consumptives.

THIS is La Dessi (with friends):

What
a
COW.

By the way, that is EXACTLY what I wear each morning as my favorite houseboy attends to my toilette (in my head).

Now for those of you who aren’t familiar with La Traviata or La Dame aux Camélias the Alexandre Dumas fils novel (his daddy wrote The Three Musketeers which incidentally has 30% less fat than other classic French adventure novels) on which the opera was based, it’s your tried-and-true Consumptive Parisian Hooker with a Heart of Gold story à la Moulin Rouge except for, you know, not awful in every conceivable way (I’m sorry it just IS and not even Ewan McGregor’s hotness is going to change the fact that Baz Luhrmann directs like a coked-up housefly with electrodes on his balls.)

Marguerite, renamed Violetta in the opera, was based on courtesan Marie Duplessis with whom Dumas fils had a torrid affair before she died at 23.

She’s seen here wearing a white camellia. Apparently Duplessis wore a white camellia when she was available to entertain guests  and a red one when she was having her Special Lady Time, which I suppose is a lot more elegant than MY tell which involves taking the safety off my .38.

So if Zeffirelli –who has always been for realism in casting– wanted to cast a sickly-thin 23 year old in the role, then why didn’t he? Is his Google finger broken? Because a quick image search showed me exactly what La Dessi looks like.  MAYBE it’s because it’s nearly impossible to find someone that young who can carry a principal with meaning and artistic flair and even LESS likely to find someone capable of singing that role who doesn’t weigh at least a buck fifty.

In fact, the only one I know to have done a credible job –and I’m not saying there aren’t others– is Beverly Sills when she sang Violetta in 1951.  The “youngest prima donna in captivity” was 22 and although she was a good bit slimmer than Dessi, no one was going to confuse Bubbles with a consumptive waif.

Ms Dessi says:

‘I can accept criticism before I put pen to paper but not afterwards. I was working well with the conductor of the orchestra but the problem these days is that theatrical directors have too much say.’

Ms Desi [sic] added: ‘I’m stunned. I still can’t believe what I heard him say. I am 1.60 metres tall, weigh 65 kg and take a size 44. There – that’s the first time I have given my vital statistics in public.’

So basically this woman  is 5′3″ and wears about a size 14, she had the role and had been rehearsing. Then Zeffirelli calls her “too portly to perform” and Dessi walks out, as does her husband who was playing the male principal and the show went on with two lesser voices.

Perfect!

I mean, I’m not super bright, but isn’t a big part of opera the singing? Because I kind of think it is.  Like,  if  it was just a bossy woman with a great rack and interesting taste in headgear  yelling at people for three hours  then I feel like I’d be offered more roles than I am, instead of the current number which is –let me rummage through my datebook– exactly zero.

Shout out to Sarahbyrdd for being the first reader to bring this to my attention!

It’s the final Tuesday of the year, time to see what Miss Plumcake is…

Reading: A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby. A re-read for me, since it first came out in 2005. You’d think a novel about a quartet of people trying to commit suicide on New Year’s Eve wouldn’t be very sweet or touching (or funny) but it is, with a good slathering of misanthropic mustard to keep it darkly funny. You can pick it up pretty much for the price of postage at Amazon. Just click the link.

Watching: It Happened One Night starring Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert, directed by Frank Capra. As I mentioned earlier, I don’t love It’s a Wonderful Life, preferring instead this, the ne plus ultra of all screwball comedies. As a fashion side-note, you’re probably already aware that Clark Gable did irreparable damage to the undershirt industry when he unbuttoned in this film and revealed nothing more than a hairy chest under his dress shirt.
Hearing: Handel’s Messiah. I sing a lot of Handel, rare is the week I don’t have two Handel arias in the works and another one on deck. You’d think I’d get bored of GFH’s greatest hit.  I don’t. Yes, I still prefer it at Easter, but Christmas is no time to be pedantic. The Rutter/Royal Phil is my favorite widely-available recording.

Smelling: Filles en Aiguilles by Christopher Sheldrake for Serge Lutens. I am an old and jaded frag hag. I roll my delicate nostrils at 99% of mall fragrances. I don’t jump at the newest niche release and I’ve almost given up hope on Jean-Claude Ellena ever releasing anything truly brilliant again –he’s the house nose for Hermes now, which means he’s got marketablity to think about– I am, according to Angela’s brilliant list at Now Smell This, a stage four perfumista. Which is why getting a fragrance that really excites me is a rare experience. Filles en Aiguilles (literally “Girls on Needles” though it’s a play on words, since the French slang for stilettos is talons aiguilles) excites me. A lot. A LOT a lot. Aiguilles opens as a pine bomb like I’ve never experienced, with just a bit of camphor,then it develops into something more resiny. It evolves into a high mass on Christmas eve, where the incense and the wreaths and the smell of old polished wood melt together into something transcendent and just slightly wild around the edges. As it dries down you’re left with a bit of warm pine and buttery skin incense. Equally good for men and women, it’s only available in the states at Barney’s.

Loving: Jon Richardson’s BBC 6 podcast. Generally speaking, comedians and humorists are –as a species– little more than seething balls of neediness, sexual deviance and empty takeout containers. It’s true. I mean, I’m not. It’s a well-documented fact that cartoon bluebirds dress me every day and when I smile you can literally hear the silvery ting! of sunbeams and happiness. But the rest of them? Useless, impotent and in need of a bath. Which is why it’s rare for me to bestow my highest honor –the Order of The Good Egg– to comedian Jon Richardson. I admire his work professionally but more importantly, he is responsible for propagating good deeds hither and yon via his Deed-ication feature. Basically he invites his listeners to write in with their good deeds for a chance to have the show dedicated to them, which is brilliant. Co-presenter/sidekick Matt Forde receives entrance into the Order of The Speckled Puppy for being adorable, endearing and definitely not allowed on the couch.

Hating: Bad Chocolate. I don’t know much, but I do know this: life is too short for small jewelry, faked orgasms and bad chocolate. I’ve managed to eradicate the first two, now if ONLY I could get people to stop giving me the third.

Wanting: Laphroaig Whisky. Islay malts aren’t to everyone’s taste, but they’re certainly to mine. Laphroaig, easily the most famous and accessible is It’s a big peaty smoke bomb of deliciousness. In my head, this is what Mister Badger’s sweater smells like. Drink it neat, with a drop of spring water or for an interesting take on a martini, mixed 1:4 with Hendrick’s gin.

Buying: Kiva Gift Certificates. By now everyone knows about Kiva, the microlending project that’s revolutionized charitable giving. I’ve been into microlending for years, ever since I met a group of women from southern Malawi. If you’re new to microlending, check it out.

Today is Brother Plumcake’s birthday.

Brother Plumcake is my favorite living person, despite his stupid goatee, but we do not share a common sartorial view. For example, at the anniversary gala of our beloved grandparents –where I wore a custom designed dress and Michael Kors heels made out of unglazed python with gold leaf on the soles– my brother wore what could only be described as a gangster pinstriped suit complete with VINYL FAUX-SPATS and a bifurcated goatee.  In the parlance of my people “I liketa died”.

Today’s GSU50 is an homage to my brother, who would probably wear these.

Graffiti-print hi-tops from Cheap Monday on sale for $29. Heck, I’d probably wear them too. In fact, I’m going to order a pair right now. Wear these with jeans and a chunky cashmere pullover and you’ve got a whole Jules et Jim 2.0 thing going on.

Love.

Toyland! Toyland! Little girl and boy land! By now you’re probably all toyed out, but I’ve saved if not the best, then possibly the biggest-haired one for last.

If you’ve never seen Walt Disney’s Babes in Toyland –released in 1961– you’re in for a treat. Annette Funicello’s hair! Ray Bolger’s evil moustache! Ed Wynn playing the same role he played in every movie he was ever in! Tommy Sands before Frank Sinatra personally ruined his career for divorcing Nancy!

I know purists might prefer the 1934 release with Laurel and Hardy, but this is one of those immaculate confections equally entertaining to baby boomers, kiddos, and people REALLY messed up on Plumcake’s Famous Double-Chocolate Booze Balls.

Before Beverly Hills Cop, before Coming to America, and WAY before Donkey and the fat suits (is that a genre now? Young black actor dressed as fat old woman? If so, I do not love it) Eddie Murphy was Billy Ray Valentine in Trading Places.

(okay, and how cute was Dan Aykroyd?! Totally cute, right?)

Ably assisted by Dan Aykroyd as Every Boy My Grandparents Ever Wanted Me To Marry and Jamie Lee Curtis –in a milkmaid costume! this is not for the kiddies but one of the funniest, wryest films of the 80’s, Christmas or not.

Clickyclick to buy or download.