Lately I’ve been researching arcane words for a project, and to my amusement, I have discovered that there seems to be no end to the number of old-fashioned terms that describe rascally-yet-appealing men of ill-repute. Some of my favorites include “rapscallion,” “knave,” “scoundrel,” “scamp,” and “scapegrace.” In honor of this genre, I offer up a short slideshow of some of my favorite rogues:
In order of appearance: Rhett Butler (played by Clark Gable) of 1939 film Gone with the Wind; Royal Tenenbaum (played by Gene Hackman) of 2001 film The Royal Tenenbaums; Baron Bror Blixen (played by Klaus Maria Brandauer) in 1985 film Out of Africa; Max Bialystock (played by Zero Mostel) in 1968 film The Producers; and Marceau the gamekeeper (played by Julien Carette) and Marquis Robert de la Cheyniest (played by Marcel Dalio) in 1939 film Rules of the Game.
I love “Downton Abbey” as much as any nostalgist, and I’ve watched Gosford Park about 742 times. But nothing - nothing - beats Rules of the Game, the great forerunner in the genre. I insist that all “Downton” fans Netflix this film immediately:
It’s incredible how relevant 1927 film Metropolis still feels today. Talk about manning the machine and feeding the beast: It’s as though director Fritz Lang prophesied the Internet age.
I shall never be able to listen to Ms. Holiday again without snickering:
On the top of my holiday gift wish list for next year: an exact replica of the now-extinct Hoot Hoot Owl roadside pagoda ice cream stand:
I had forgotten that style icon and Let’s Bring Back muse Isabella Blow made a cameo in Wes Anderson’s 2004 film The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. When I re-watched it over the holidays, seeing her there on the screen was a wonderful treat, and I found myself culling old photographs of her:
Blow ended her life in 2007 by swallowing weed killer - a horrific yet poetic death. It’s amazing how someone can be so joyous and yet so dark - something that was often said of her protege Alexander McQueen following his 2010 suicide. So many of my muses end badly.
What follows is a celebration of one of cinema’s most romantic New Years Eve kisses, courtesy of Baroness Blixen (played by Meryl Streep) and Denys Finch Hatton (played by Robert Redford) in iconic film Out of Africa:
“Perhaps the world’s second-worst crime is boredom; the first is being a bore.”
Behold Myrna Loy and William Powell enjoying their decadent Christmas presents in The Thin Man (1934) ... how I admire their terribly sophisticated approach to the holidays.
I love the cover of this reissue of Truman Capote’s iconic novella Breakfast at Tiffany’s - which evokes a couple of my favorite shots in stylish 1958 film Auntie Mame:
The holiday season always seems like a good time to revisit the wisdom of sassy grande dame Elsie de Wolfe, who, sixty years after her death, remains one of America’s most influential interior designers.
Her ingenuity went far beyond color-coordinating fabrics: de Wolfe pioneered the wall light switch, invented the bed rest with arms and an armchair that transforms into a chaise longue, introduced drawers to vanity tables, and laid down the first parquet floors. She popularized chintz and pillows embroidered with sayings.
She also hugely influenced how Americans entertained. Many credit de Wolfe with inventing the concept of the cocktail party; at her own such fêtes, she served “Pink Lady” cocktails (1/3 gin, 1/3 grapefruit juice, 1/3 Cointreau). Through columns in the Ladies’ Home Journal and her own book, The House in Good Taste (1914), she advised women that “plates should be hot, hot, hot; glasses cold, cold, cold; and table decorations low, low, low” - excellent advice to remember as we set our holiday tables this season.
Even under extreme circumstances, ole’ Elsie found inventive ways to entertain. For example, during World War II, de Wolfe—on a strict wartime budget—gave a celebrated dinner at the Automat, in which she covered the restaurant’s tables with her own linens, china, and silver. Guests, of course, picked their own entrées.
De Wolfe also popularized the “Take one thing off” rule,” meaning that she always used to make herself take one item off before she left the house: a bracelet, a necklace, whatever; it could have been a headband with a huge tulle bow in her case. Practice this sage approach as you dress for holiday parties this year—unless, of course, you are only wearing one thing to begin with.
Learn more about Elsie de Wolfe in Ms. Blume’s book Let’s Bring Back and her upcoming book about vintage cocktails.
“Patronised By Royalty, Nobility, and Clergy,” no less:
Readers of my book Let’s Bring Back likely already know that I’m cuckoo about absurd old flea circuses, which regularly enthralled crowds until the 1930s. At these sideshows, fleas performed (or appeared to perform) all sorts of circus acts; visitors peered down at these tiny performers through magnifying lenses. One of the most famous Victorian flea circus performances was the “Extraordinary Exhibition of the Industrious Fleas” by L. Bertolotto (sometimes described as the “Andrew Lloyd Webber of Flea-biz”). It featured fleas that danced, played instruments, and pulled tiny chariots.
The wife of one famous flea circus artist allegedly made him wear a flea collar to bed.
Just came across this madcap photograph of Salvador Dali and Andy Warhol:
I wrote about the friendship between these iconic artists in my latest book, It Happened Here. In the 1950s and ‘60s, Dali took residence in suite 1610 in New York City’s St. Regis hotel each winter. There he and Warhol drank together at the King Cole Bar and presided over outlandish parties in Dali’s rooms. At one riotous fete, Dali reportedly tied Warhol to a board, spun him around, and spattered him with paint - very Jackson Pollock-esque.
Today I put the finishing touches on the manuscript for my upcoming book about vintage cocktails, and had the pleasure of spending some time with epic imbiber Humphrey Bogart. Poor Bogey apparently made some bad decisions toward the end of his life, as evidenced by his alleged last words:
“I should never have switched from Scotch to Martinis.”
“Deadlines beat lying on a bed of nails—but not by much.”
These days, I get to spend quite a bit of time with the great American poetess, Edna St. Vincent Millay. Not in the literal sense (she died in 1950), but figuratively, as I am working on a project about her. I just re-read her fine biography, Savage Beauty—which has become one of my favorite books.
The following passage particularly amused and inspired me: one evening, Millay was about to give a reading of her work when she was drawn into conversation with a visiting Frenchwoman. In describing her impressions of America, this madame pointed out that she had never before eaten “such bad food.”
This did not go over well with Millay. But instead of reacting with trite patriotic indignation, Millay instead launched into a glorious, spontaneous “gastronomic prose poem” in defense of her country’s cuisine:
“In your travels, chere madame, did you ever taste the lobsters that come from the waters off the coast of my home state, Maine? Broiled or boiled and served with melted, fresh country butter, they are unforgettable. Did you have fish chowder made of haddock, Maine potatoes, onions, salt pork and rich milk?
“Were you ever introduced to Boston baked beans? I mean the kind baked in an old-fashioned crock. We cook them slowly and for long hours in the oven and serve them sometimes with such brown bread as can be found in no other part of the world.
“Did you ever have Cherrystones or Little Necks; and did you ever, by chance, taste a Provincetown clam pie made of the deep-sea Quahogs and a liberality of olive oil and garlic? Were oyster-crabs and whitebait ever set crisp before you? Did you taste soft-shell crabs, lightly sauteed, or drink the juice of the soft-shell crab? Were you ever a happy member of an old-fashioned clam-bake on a secluded New England beach?
“There’s the shad roe and the shad itself, both broiled; sweet corn and sweet potatoes; pumpkin pie and deep-dish blueberry pie; diamond-back terrapin done as the Baltimoreans do it in a rich Madeira stew, or as the Philadephians do it with egg-yolks, cream, and ‘sweet butter in a lordly dish.’
“There’s the Creole Jambalaya of New Orleans made with savory rice and shrimps almost as big as your French ecrevisses. We also have our native blueberries. And there are our cranberries and beach-plums which I used to gather on Cape Cod. We make delicious preserves from them. Oh, there are many other products and dishes native to states and regions of my country. If you have never tasted them, ma chere, you cannot in all fairness judge American cuisine ...”
The Frenchwoman was later heard telling a friend that she thought Millay’s defense of America’s specialites gastronomiques had been tres bien faite.
An iconic scene from 1957 film Funny Face, in which dictatorial fashion magazine editor Maggie Prescott wages an international campaign to make the color pink all the rage:
Yet the best moment occurs when the scene is over. The campaign has succeeded wildly, but one of Prescott’s colleagues notices that the editor is still sporting a blue-gray skirt suit. “I haven’t seen a woman in two weeks in anything but pink,” he tells her. “What about you?” Looking appalled, Maggie replies: “Me? I wouldn’t be caught dead.”
I will be the first to agree that Audrey Hepburn symbolizes aesthetic perfection in 1961 film Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Those Givenchy ensembles will epitomize style and elegance until the sun and moon cease to rise.
However, I recently screened the film again and realized that it boasts another character who deserves to take her place in the pantheon of ‘60s fashion legends: Patricia Neal in her role as “2-E,” the older lover and patroness of George Peppard’s character, writer Paul Varjak. Some of her sophisticated ensembles are to die for. My favorite: her outfit with the red turban; black, high-collared cape; black elbow gloves; and gold bracelet.
This past Halloween, my husband and I dressed up as Mexican artists Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. I’ve always adored Kahlo’s vivid paintings, but she is fast becoming one of my favorite fashion icons as well. To prepare our costumes, we carefully referenced Self Portrait in a Velvet Dress—an amazing book that documents Kahlo’s elaborate wardrobe. Upon her 1954 death, Kahlo’s personal dressing room at Casa Azul was sealed up for a period of fifty years, as per Rivera’s instructions. The room’s contents have only recently been revealed to the public, and the book showcases many of the restored ensembles, along with photographs and artworks in which they appeared:
