Showing posts with label sex kitten. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex kitten. Show all posts

Saturday, 21 October 2023

Reflections on ... the hates and loves of Ann-Margret in 1964

 


In 1964, then-23-year-old starlet Ann-Margret bared her soul to 16 Magazine about her “hates and loves” (or, as they put it at the time: “Here they are - the deep-down, intimate secrets of your favourite new star!”). I think Ann-Margret speaks for all of us here! (Please don’t tell me some publicity agent or anonymous hack cobbled this together – the disillusionment would be overwhelming). Pull up a chair – this is one LONG mutha of list. 

She hates for anyone to yell at her. She cried the first time a bandleader loudly chewed her out for being late to a rehearsal.

She hates dresses with lots of ruffles and frills. They make her feel like "... a Christmas tree!"

She hates vegetables - especially cooked spinach.

She hates to cook or anything to do with the kitchen.

She hates people who say nasty things about other people whom they don't even know.

She hates the fact that no matter how she rushes, she has a tendency to be late.

She hates to see too much make-up on a woman.

She hates to see an animal hurt.

She hates people who "...kid around with someone's emotions".

She hates gossip of any sort.

She hates rain.

She hates herself when she fluffs a song or dance, even during a rehearsal.

She hates people who think that show business is all whipped cream and glamour. Ann-Margret says: "It's one of the toughest professions in the world".

She hates it when people call her a star. "Right now, I am just a very fortunate girl", she earnestly maintains. "A star is someone who sustains, like Bette Davis".

She hates for people to try and pry into her personal life.

She hates the thought of sitting still for more than five minutes at a time.

She hates to have to straighten up her room.

She hates reports that she dates just for publicity.

She hates for people to tell her how to run her life.

She hates grey days and grey colours.

She hates people who complain and feel sorry for themselves.

She hates it when there is a mechanical failure in her car or motor scooter.

She hates to be told she ought to act such-and-such a way, because "... it's the thing to do".

She hates herself for being so painfully shy when it comes to meeting new people.

She hates jealousy of any kind.

She hates aggressive girls who brag that they can twist a man round their little finger.

She hates to get up early in the morning.

She hates prejudice in any form.

She hates to diet.

 


She loves going to football and basketball games.

She loves to ride her motor scooter through the Hollywood hills.

She loves a steak.

She loves to wear dark glasses.

She loves animals of all sorts.

She loves chocolate malts for breakfast.

She loves a windy night.

She loves big, shaggy sweaters.

She loves performing for a live audience.

She loves saving things. She has a huge chest, hand-carved by an uncle in Sweden, in which she stores all her mementos.

She loves sad movies - even though they make her cry.

She loves the colour black.

She loves to sleep under lots of blankets.

She loves pizza with ginger ale.

She loves browsing through family photo albums.

She loves Cantonese food.

She loves talking on the phone. She has two "Princess" models in her bedroom.

She loves water-skiing.

She loves collecting stuffed animals - the pride of her collection is a huge lavender poodle Eddie Fisher gave her in New York. She took it back to California on the plane - strapped in the seat next to her.

She loves flowers and greenery of any sort.

She loves baked potatoes with sour cream, chives and butter.

She loves to travel - especially back to Sweden for a visit with relatives.

She loves the name Skuby. So far, it's the "handle" for her Yorkshire terrier (also a gift from Eddie Fisher).

She loves her red motor scooter and her red compact convertible car.

She loves window-shopping.

She loves the excitement of Las Vegas.

She loves watching parades.

She loves laughing and seeing others laugh.

She loves working with Elvis Presley.

She loves weddings. Last year she was maid of honour at the nuptials of Sharon Louver of Summit, N.J., and Joanie Stremmel, of Wilmette, Ill., both of whom had been her best friends since the sixth grade. She caught Janie's bouquet!

She loves dancing - especially the Twist.

She loves the new house she bought for herself and her parents in fashionable Benedict Canyon.

She loves the beach - day or night.

She loves Marlon Brando's acting.

She loves little children.

She loves Capri pants.

She loves candlelight dinners.

She loves watching TV.

She loves Sammy Davis, Jr. and Elvis Presley records.

She loves modern furniture.

She loves being alone for a certain part of every day.

She loves her good luck charms - a miniature red horse, ivory Buddha, smooth beach pebble and tiny hula doll named "Jungle Julie".

She loves writing in her diary.

She loves playing a jukebox.

She loves holding deep philosophical conversations.

She loves suede jackets.

She loves riding a bicycle.

She loves to write letters and receive them. Write to her at 8966 Sunset Boulevard, Hollywood, California.


Saturday, 13 May 2023

Reflections on ... Born to Be Wild (2023) by Ann-Margret

 

/ Portrait of Ann-Margret by Chantal Anderson for The New York Times, March 2023 /

82-year-old veteran sex kitten Ann-Margret dropped Born to Be Wild, her first new album in over a decade, last month (her previous one - God is Love: The Gospel Sessions 2 – came out in 2011). My notes! 

This is being referred to as Ann-Margret’s “first classic-rock album”, but her early sixties RCA recordings brim with delights like the girl group-style “I Just Don’t Understand”, her sultry cover of Elvis’ “Heartbreak Hotel” and her interpretations of R&B songs like “Roll with Me, Henry” and “Jim Dandy”. Ann-Margret has always rocked!   

On the wailing title track (a cover of the 1968 Steppenwolf song), A-M is backed by The Fuzztones – and it’s genuinely ferocious! (This isn’t her first foray into garage punk: “It’s a Nice World to Visit (But Not to Live In)” - her 1969 collaboration with Lee Hazlewood - still slaps hard). 

The musical backing is grittier, brasher and more rockabilly than you might expect. (On “Volare” A-M is accompanied by Lee Rocker and Slim Jim Phantom of The Stray Cats). “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” belongs on every festive Spotify playlist! Her efforts at doo wop (“Earth Angel” and “Why Do Fools Fall in Love?”) and “Son of a Preacher Man” are credible. (The latter won’t make you forget Dusty, but it compares favorably with Bobbie Gentry and Nancy Sinatra’s versions). 

Best of all: “Somebody's in My Orchard” is slinky cocktail jazz loungecore with “blue” lyrics (“Somebody digs my fig trees / Someone loves their juice / That someone with that sweet juice / Ain't nothing but bad news ….”). 

/ Portrait of Ann-Margret by Chantal Anderson for The New York Times, March 2023 /

Less happily: duets with Pat Boone and Cliff Richard represent bad kitsch rather than fun kitsch. There’s frequently a whiff of Branson, Missouri and karaoke. Can’t help but wish A-M would find hipper collaborators and material. Not a fan of his but consider how Jack White produced late-period Loretta Lynn and Wanda Jackson albums. Not that A-M ever worried about “credibility” – her priority is to entertain. 

Finally: with the recent deaths of her contemporaries like Stella Stevens and Raquel Welch, the time to love and appreciate Ann-Margret is now! Next, we need comeback albums from Joey Heatherton and Connie Stevens!

Further reading: 

I reminisce about seeing Ann-Margret's ultra-camp Las Vegas revue in 2005.

Ann-Margret's cookie recipe.


 


Friday, 9 September 2022

Reflections on ... The Gypsy Rose Lee Show

Oldshowbiz is the essential Tumblr account of comedian turned author and astute show business historian Kliph Nesteroff devoted to “Showbiz Imagery and Forgotten History.” He regularly exhumes a treasure trove of mid-twentieth century kitsch curiosities and obscurities – including THIS delectable high camp bonanza. 

Turns out brassy burlesque legend Gypsy Rose Lee hosted her own talk show in the sixties (The Gypsy Rose Lee Show, 754 episodes, aired 1965–1968). As the ads exclaimed, “Gypsy is Fresh! Delightful! Mad-cap! Cheery! Glittering! Irrepressible! Provocative! INCOMPARABLE!” The summary for this 1965 installment: “Singer-actress Eartha Kitt talks of men and love and singer-actress Lainie Kazan sings a tongue-in-cheek love song “Peel Me a Grape””.  Thrill as these three camp icons let their hair (wiglets?) down and dish some “girl talk” over coffee (although my boyfriend Pal suggests their coffee cups appear empty. There’s also a bottle of champagne on the table but it goes untouched). The episode captures intense, fiercely glamorous Kitt around the same time she portrayed Catwoman on TV’s Batman series, while Kazan purrs a sex kitten anthem with lyrics like “Peel me a grape / Crush me some ice / Skin me a peach / Save the fuzz for my pillow … Pop me a cork, French me a fry / Crack me a nut, bring a bowl full of bon-bons …” It culminates in the three women joining forces to belt-out Lee’s signature tune “Let Me Entertain You.” If you weren’t gay already, you will be after watching this!

Saturday, 20 March 2021

Reflections on ... Nancy & Lee in Las Vegas (1973)


This unexpectedly downbeat hour-long cinema verité-style Swedish film (made in 1973 but shelved until 1975) documents pop duo Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood’s residency at The Riviera Hotel. It instantly entranced me with its opening travelogue footage of early seventies Las Vegas in all its garish splendor. Filmed from a car window, we pass Vegas Vic the iconic neon cowboy followed by tantalizing peeks at the old-school mid-century casinos (mostly now long demolished): The Golden Nugget. The Sands. Caesars Palace. The Mint. Judging by one billboard, Sinatra’s friend and former leading man Elvis Presley is also in town, starring at the Las Vegas Hilton. But the tone is surprisingly wistful and suffused with melancholy from the start. One of the first things you hear is Sinatra’s voice complaining, “I wanna go home. I wanna go home to LA.” 

Nancy & Lee in Las Vegas is ultimately a contemplation on the cruel whims of show business, capturing Sinatra and Hazlewood on a downturn. With their heady hit-making days of the mid-sixties (heralded by the tough, sassy “These Boots are Made for Walkin’” in 1965) behind them, they are now considered passé and obligated to hustle as a nostalgia act. (Sinatra has recalled perceptively and without bitterness in the past about how in the late sixties, youth culture tastes shifted towards a preference for “serious” rock bands, making go-go booted girl singers in general and Sinatra’s brand of kitschy pop instantly obsolete. Alongside the disparate likes of Bobbie Gentry, Serge Gainsbourg and Yma Sumac, Hazlewood and Sinatra were among the acts rehabilitated in the nineties “loungecore” movement when their back catalogue was reissued on CD. They’ve been a hip reference point ever since). 

Their names may be displayed in lights and they’re headlining at the glittering high-end Riviera, but the film doesn’t make a Las Vegas residency appear glamorous. Nor is it particularly lucrative. Choreographer Hugh Lambert (Sinatra’s handsome and supportive husband, who is producing and directing her Riviera revue) confides that - initially at least - mounting the whole enterprise is so expensive it’s a money-losing venture for them. (The implication is that performing in Vegas will put Sinatra back on the map). Even Sinatra’s two bodyguards admit they are being paid peanuts for this gig. 

The focus shuttles between performance footage and backstage scenes of the musicians and entourage relaxing pre-and post-show in Sinatra’s ritzy green-and-white dressing room. They kvetch over cigarettes and beer about the indifferent audiences who talk over the songs, hostile reviews and The Riviera’s jaded and uninspired house band.  Sinatra’s between song patter onstage is surprisingly negative. She delivers a diatribe about how when she first began recording in the early sixties, people sniped that her surname bestowed her with an unfair advantage and guaranteed success. But all of her pre-“Boots” singles flopped, she snaps, so clearly it was the songs that mattered, not her family connections. Then she recalls how collaborating with songwriter and producer Lee Hazlewood changed her fortunes, resulting in a string of hits - except then he “abandoned” her to relocate to Sweden. Following that introduction, Hazlewood joins her for some duets. For connoisseurs of Lee and Nancy’s sublime “country exotica” oeuvre, these performances, including “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’”, “Did You Ever?” “Summer Wine”, “Jackson” and “Arkansas Coal” (so hushed and dramatic it’s almost performance art) offer the documentary’s highlights.   

“Psychedelic cowboy” Hazlewood gets a solo spot during the set (presumably while Sinatra changes costumes). Clad in double denim leisure wear, Hazlewood somehow looks even more seedy sans his trademark retro porn star ‘tache. His strange charisma is nicely captured as he croons a finger snappin’ rendition of the jazz standard “She’s Funny That Way.” At the end he ad libs “She’s kinda squirrelly that way. She’s kinda goofy that way. She’s kinda Nancy that way …” Sinatra herself is diminutive and doll-like. Backstage, she seems exhausted. Onstage, she’s luminous. At one point, we watch Sinatra seated before her dressing room mirror dreamily teasing and then meticulously smoothing her mane of golden hair. Nancy Sinatra was never more beautiful.

/ This candid shot of Sinatra chilling with "gal pals" Liza Minnelli and Goldie Hawn was clearly taken in the same Riviera dressing room /

Watch Nancy & Lee in Las Vegas here.

Thursday, 10 January 2019

Reflections on ... Friday Foster (1975)


Recently watched: Friday Foster (1975). Tagline: “Her name is Friday, but you can love her any day of the week!” An irresistibly trashy and lurid late entry in the seventies Blaxploitation genre, Friday Foster is no masterpiece, but it's vivid and wildly entertaining. 

In the action-packed but incomprehensible plot, glamorous, gutsy, fun-loving, fearless and intrepid ex-fashion model-turned-photojournalist titular heroine Friday Foster (Pam Grier) gets caught up in a complicated and impossible-to-follow narrative about an assassination attempt against the world’s wealthiest African-American magnate Blake Tarr. From there: something something … her fashion model best friend Cloris gets murdered … something something … the action keeps shuttling between Los Angeles and Washington … something something … an assassin who knows Friday know too much keeps trying to kill her … something something … Friday has an obligatory nude shower scene … something something  … Friday steals a hearse from Cloris’ funeral to evade her killer … something something … car chases and shoot-outs ensue … something something … a genuinely tense and suspenseful chase scene in an abandoned warehouse … something something … private detectives and political conspiracy theories … something something … political intrigue, murder and a conspiracy theory called “Black Widow” ... something something … helicopters!



But frankly, who cares when it’s this much fun? Friday Foster is never remotely boring, and I’d rather watch the buxom, stylish Pam Grier outwitting villains than tired old honky James Bond. On the plus side: the blistering funk soundtrack is sensational. (Of course, it instantly evokes not just Blaxploitation but the golden age of retro porn! On the addictive theme tune, the female chorus coos “Hey Friday watcha doin’? / Watcha doin’? Friday / Friday / Get it on! Do it!”). There are copious gratuitous glimpses of naked female boobage. All the male characters sport safari-style leisure wear with huge collars and flared trousers. The seventies cars, costumes and earth-toned décor are kitsch heaven. The low-life milieu of pimps and hookers is well-represented. Huge snifters of cognac signify the height of aspiration, sophistication and conspicuous consumption. Blake Tarr seduces Friday in a hot tub! I love that all the central characters are defiantly black and that everything is saturated in a Black Power message.


/ The height of sophistication: big fishbowl snifters of cognac /


/ Ladies and gentlemen ... Ms Eartha Kitt as "the magnificent Madame Rena!" / 

(An aside: Jim Backus (Gilligan's Island / Mr Magoo / Rebel without a Cause), Scatman Crothers and Ted Lange (Isaac from Love Boat) round out the truly bizarre cast!). 

(Another aside: Grier’s wardrobe is fiercely chic throughout. Check out the scarf emblazoned with “YVES ST LAURENT” in block letters to ensure you don’t miss she's wearing the high-end luxury label).



Leading lady majestic, statuesque and frequently-naked Grier was the supreme goddess / female superstar of Blaxploitation (her closest rival: Tamara Dobson in the Cleopatra Jones movies). As utterly magnetic as Grier is, for me she is comprehensively upstaged by scarily-intense veteran sex kitten extraordinaire Eartha Kitt in a fleeting “guest star” appearance as bitchy fashion designer Madame Rena. (The poolside fashion show segment is like an ultra-low rent version of Diana Ross’ Mahogany (1975)). By this time, temperamental chanteuse Kitt was 48-years old, long past her 1950s heyday and widely regarded as washed-up. In Friday Foster the diva is onscreen for maybe ten minutes and yet she wrings maximum dramatic impact from every second! Wearing a ratty wiglet, durable pro Kitt approaches the role as if she’s still playing Catwoman on TV’s Batman series and is gloriously campy and almost drag queen-like. SPOILER ALERT: wait until you see Kitt’s death scene!



/ Madame Rena on the topic of her arch rival, Ford Malotte /



Reflecting the prejudices of the time, Friday Foster is casually, outrageously homophobic. (The gay characters are treated as a freaky, titillating joke. As the kids today would say, Friday Foster is "problematic"). Madame Rena rages against her haute couture competitor Ford Malotte: “This plastic faggot couldn’t design a handkerchief, let alone a dress!” Eventually we catch up with Malotte himself – a stereotypical acid-tongued queen – surrounded by his entourage in a sleazy homosexual dive bar in Washington. (Positioned as unsympathetic, Malotte turns out to be a queer sexist who suggests Friday, "Go home. Get laid. Have a baby."). Yeah, the depiction is pretty hateful and cliched, but it’s also a fascinating snapshot of social history. And damn, that dank red-lit gay bar setting looks inviting!




/ Kudos to effervescent Todd Brandt of the essential Stirred, Straight Up with a Twist blog for pointing out to me that Ms Eartha’s enraged “teeth-gritting telephone scene” beautifully echoes Diana Ross’ telephone tantrum in Mahogany! And that “the sketch of what appears to be a 1950s Edith Head gown (pictured behind Kitt is) completely unlike any of the sleazy Qiana halter numbers from Madame Rena’s show!” /

Further reading:

Check out my reflections on Eartha Kitt's underrated, long-forgotten 1970 album Sentimental Eartha here.



Thursday, 26 April 2018

Holy Religious Artefacts from Jayne Mansfield’s Pink Palace


/ Jayne Mansfield luxuriating in the boudoir of her Pink Palace /

The Pink Palace – the legendarily kitsch, lurid and nouveau riche Mediterranean-style mansion on 10100 Sunset Boulevard belonging to Hollywood’s platinum blonde sex-kitten-gone-berserk par excellence Jayne Mansfield (1933 – 1967) from 1957 until her death – was razed in November 2002. In my dreams, the Pink Palace would have been preserved exactly as Jayne left it and open to the public as a museum, like Elvis’ Graceland. (I’m sorry, but in low-brow trash culture terms Mansfield is every bit Presley’s equal!). Incredibly, though – five decades after Mansfield’s tragic premature death in a car crash en route to New Orleans – treasures from her long-demolished Pink Palace occasionally re-surface in the present day! For me, these are sacred holy relics!



Now this is what I call “art”! When I saw this listed online as part of Engelbert Humperdinck’s auction in autumn 2017, I felt like setting up an urgent crowdfunding page just so I could bid on this spectacular genuine vintage bust as seen in The Wild, Wild World of Jayne Mansfield (1968)! (The online auction happened in April 2017, but I didn’t find out about it until later). The bust used to be prominently displayed in the Pink Palace.  Humperdinck (who, of course, bought the Pink Palace following Jayne’s death) must have kept it in storage for decades before auctioning it off. Weird: why wouldn’t one of Jayne’s five children have this gorgeous object? Imagine how great this would look on my mantelpiece (if I had a mantelpiece). Read the full details here – and note the status “Lot closed – unsold”. Where is it now? Some hip entrepreneur should make a mould of this bust and sell replicas commercially, like those plaster-of-Paris Elvis Presley busts that were ubiquitous in the seventies and eighties. (I had one when I was a university student! Eventually it got smashed – I don’t like to talk about it!).




/ Glimpses of the bust in situ at the Pink Palace. Mansfield seems to have kept it the bedroom / 

Then came this announcement from the Burlesque Hall of Fame's Facebook page on Valentine’s Day 2018: 
“A special Valentine’s Day reveal: Jayne Mansfield’s heart-shaped settee, refurbished for our upcoming Exotic World exhibit! 
We acquired this piece in the 1990s, shortly before Mansfield’s iconic mansion, the Pink Palace, was razed. The heart shape and colour was a theme of the mansion, which also featured a heart-shaped pool and bathtub.” 
The historical significance of this cannot be overstated! Seeing this put me in a state of religious awe - a genuine artifact from Jayne Mansfield’s Pink Palace! Jayne, Mickey and her Chihuahuas once frolicked and cavorted on this pink settee! (When I visited the Burlesque Hall of Fame last April when I was in town for Viva Las Vegas Rockabilly Weekender 2017,  this was most definitely not on display then! Now I have to return to pay homage!).




Let’s hope further riches are exhumed!  Maybe we could re-assemble the Pink Palace piece-by-piece!


/ Bath time at the Pink Palace /

Wednesday, 1 March 2017

Reflections on ... Sentimental Eartha (1970)



A few days ago, I scored the obscure oddity Sentimental Eartha (1970), widely regarded as sultry atomic-era chanteuse Eartha Kitt’s strangest album. In her case that’s really saying something: Eartha Kitt (1927 - 2008) was a strange woman who made strange records. The CD version released on an independent label in the nineties is long out of print and now ultra-pricey. On Amazon it routinely goes for between £75 - £400.  Miraculously, I nabbed a used copy for only about £3 from Germany!

By 1970 Kitt was still in-demand on the glitzy cabaret circuit but the hits had well and truly dried up. Sentimental Eartha showcases the slinky feline temptress’conscious effort to update and reinvent her image and sound “with it” by embracing modern rock trends. Many of the other post-war pop and jazz divas of Kitt’s vintage were also experimenting with a more contemporary “groovy” direction. Around this time, Peggy Lee re-interpreted songs by the likes of Aretha Franklin, Otis Redding and Sly & The Family Stone. On Julie London’s unintended camp classic Yummy, Yummy, Yummy (1969) she applied her breathless sex kitten coo to “Louie Louie” and “Light My Fire” by The Doors as if they were Cole Porter standards. A few years later saw Miracles (1972), on which Peruvian high priestess of exotica Yma Sumac explored trippy fuzzed-out acid rock. 

Sentimental Eartha bombed upon release and is pretty much forgotten today. It deserved a kinder fate. As her biographer John L Williams would later assert, “The innocuous title gives little indication that this would turn out to be far and away Eartha’s most experimental album and one of her best.”

Sentimental Eartha’s cover features Kitt lounging in a woodland setting amidst autumn leaves clad in an animal-print maxi-dress, floppy black hat and the long straight wiglet familiar from her stint as Catwoman on TV's Batman. On the psychedelia-tinged music within, Kitt gamely tries on the unfamiliar roles of hippie maiden, soul sister and earth mother by tackling Herman’s Hermits “My Sentimental Friend” and three songs by singer-songwriter Donovan: “Wear Your Love Like Heaven”, “Catch the Wind” and best of all, “Hurdy-Gurdy Man”, on which Kitt cackles like a witch and suggests a sorceress casting a spell.



On some of the more delicate songs Kitt seems to deliberately and audibly mute some of her signature purring mannerisms. On others (like the ultra-dramatic opener “It Is Love”), she roars in full feline attack. And when “The Way You Are” ends with campy ad-libbed comedy Spanglish, it could only be Miss Eartha Kitt.

In his 2013 biography America’s Mistress: The Life and Times of Eartha Kitt, John L Williams interviewed the producer of Sentimental Eartha, Denny Diante.  (The album was recorded in Los Angeles for a British label). The producer recalled Kitt as enthusiastic: “She was thrilled to death; she couldn’t thank me enough for pushing the more contemporary stuff. She was very contemporary herself, very progressive in her thinking.”

Kitt promoted her new material with a German TV special. It was obviously produced on a shoestring budget. Check out that frugal set (decorated with office furniture? Hotel lobby furniture? What’s the deal with the coat stand? And why during “Sentimental Friend” does it repeatedly cut away to photos of spaghetti western actor Franco Nero?). But durable pro Eartha belts out the songs with style, sex appeal and conviction. And while the band may look square in their tuxedos, they’re tight, dramatic and swing hard. 

Thankfully there are plentiful clips from Kitt's 1970 TV special on YouTube. I've tried to assemble them all here:



/ Above: "Hurdy Gurdy Man" and "Catch the Wind" /





/ Above: "It Is Love", "My Sentimental Friend" and "The Way You Are". The dramatic spoken intros are something else! Kitt also seems to be doing some intense Method Acting with her performances. Check out her smouldering eye contact during "The Way You Are" and the way she moodily smokes and sips champagne  /



/ Above: "Genesis". Eartha at full-throttle tigress assault mode. Like Nina Simone, the volatile Kitt was the mistress of abrupt mood swings /



/ "Once We Loved": fierce! /



/ "Wear Your Love Like Heaven": Eartha Goes Psychedelic, Baby  /



/ "I remember what you said about me. You said I was a very beautiful brown Helen of Troy ..." An epic performance of that world-weary anthem "When the World Was Young" - which also featured in the Marlene Dietrich songbook /



/ One of the few nods to the old days: "C'est Si Bon", one of Kitt's first and biggest hits in the fifties /

As Williams argues, the TV special’s high-point is Kitt’s impassioned performance of the ballad “Paint Me Black Angels” (a Mexican song she’d already recorded in the fifties as “Angelitos Negros” with its original Spanish lyrics). Kitt delivers it in extreme close-up with a stark simplicity and a few tears rolling down her face. What a mesmerising presence she was!



Nonetheless, Sentimental Eartha bombed in the UK and was never even released in the US.  Kitt never pursued modern rock music again. It was a doomed but noble effort. As with Peggy Lee and Julie London, Kitt’s experimentations baffled her existing mature fans and failed to engage with a new younger audience.

Tuesday, 16 February 2016

Reflections on ... Kitten with a Whip (1964)


From the Lobotomy Room Goes to the Movie's Facebook events page for my 27 January 2016 screening of Kitten with a Whip:

Hey! Did you know about Fontaine’s FREE weekly film club? As winter draws in, how better to break the monotony on a Wednesday night than watch a FREE film, drink cocktails and eat canapés in the plush and intimate environs of Fontaine’s basement Bamboo Lounge? As host and DJ of the regular monthly Mondo Trasho punkabilly club night Lobotomy Room (last Friday of every month downstairs in the Bamboo Lounge!), I – Graham Russell - will occasionally crash the proceedings and screen a rancid film of my choice!

The featured presentation this month will be the ultra-lurid 1964 juvenile delinquent exploitation psychodrama Kitten with a Whip (1964) – starring quintessential atomic-era sex kitten-gone-berserk Ann-Margret. This sleazy little black and white B-movie urgently poses the question: why do the sweetest kittens have the sharpest claws? Fresh from cavorting with Elvis in Viva Las Vegas, red-headed vixen Ann-Margret plays a vicious teenage sociopath escaped from her high-security juvenile detention centre – who then takes hostage and torments straight-laced local politician John Forsythe in his palatial suburban dream house. (Yes – a cardigan-wearing and still dark-haired John Forsythe as in Dynasty’s silver fox Blake Carrington). From there, Ann-Margret’s gang of thug friends turn up – and things just get wilder!

Don’t miss this rare opportunity to catch this should-be cult classick and genuine curiosity: Kitten with a Whip is not available on DVD in this country and never crops up on TV. It’s got it all: a genuinely feral wild child performance from Ann-Margret at the height of her bad girl beauty, dramatic shadowy film noir photography, a finger-snapping Henry Mancini-style cool jazz score and cringe-worthy faux beatnik hepcat dialogue galore. (Samples: “Ooh! Everything’s so creamy! Kill me quick, I never had it so good!” “How come you think you’re such a smoky something when you’re so nothing painted blue?” “Now cool it, you creep, and co-exist!” “Hands off, buster! Don’t you ever bruise me ... God knows what I might do to you if you ever bruise me.”).

Perhaps the highest compliment of all? Kitten with a Whip is a sentimental favourite of John Waters’. (In 2011 he introduced a screening of it at Anthology Film Archives in New York). He’s described it as “almost like a Russ Meyer movie, an early one, only without as much tits” and reminisced, “Divine and I saw this movie together, definitely. Several times, actually. And he loved it, too. It was very much a big influence on us. And in 1964, I was a senior in high school, so on LSD, so angry, so insane, and so it came at one of the most insane periods of my life as far as being a disturbed teenager. I mean, we wanted to be Ann-Margret! Divine was my Kitten with a Whip, in a weird way.”

As usual: arrive circa 8 pm to order your drinks and grab the best seats. The film starts at 8:30 pm prompt!


/ John Forsythe and Ann-Margret in Kitten with a Whip (1964). Virtually all photos via  /

Happily, this was my most successful Lobotomy Room Goes to the Movies film night so far (well, it was only the third to date!). The basement Bamboo Lounge was full and the hip audience totally got the trashy magic of Kitten with a Whip. They were also drinking Fontaine’s potent cocktails – which probably contributed to their enjoyment. As they arrived and filed downstairs, I was already blasting Ann-Margret’s irresistible cocktail lounge 1960s tunes and had my grainy black and white vintage homo porn projected on the big screen just to add to the sleazy Lobotomy Room ambiance.


/ "She reached for evil with both hands ..." Believe it or not, Kitten with a Whip is a literary adaptation! It began life as a 1959 pulp novel by Wade Miller /

Kitten with a Whip is crying out to be discovered and embraced by a new generation. In an ideal world, it would be cherished as a cult film with rapt audiences repeating its endlessly quotable dialogue. Sure it is kitsch as hell (mainly due to its sensational tone and bludgeoning lack of subtlety), but it’s also a wildly entertaining, tightly-constructed, suspenseful little B-movie. It also anticipates both the “yuppie-in-peril” genre of the eighties (think After Hours, Something Wild [the Jonathon Demme film, not the 1961 Carroll Baker film!], even Desperately Seeking Susan) and the “home invasion” horror genre.

Even its occasional incompetence is fun. As Slant magazine points out (in a bit I have to admit I’ve missed despite repeated viewings!): “Toward the end, there's a lot of driving around in front of rear projection, and at one point, as Jody is at the wheel, there's no dashboard in front of her, as if somebody just forgot to put it there, and this signals the film's almost avant-garde ineptitude.”


/ "Luscious - and only seventeen ... she's all out for kicks ... and every inch of her spells excitement!" Original ad campaign for Kitten with a Whip in 1964. Seen today, that lecherous barely-legal / jail-bait angle looks pretty sordid! /

Mainly, though, I treasure Kitten with a Whip as an ideal vehicle for Ann-Margret, who I revere as a berserk mid-century sex kitten second only to Jayne Mansfield. After several musicals in a row [State Fair (1962), Bye Bye Birdie (1963) and Viva Las Vegas (1964)] which emphasised her considerable singing and dancing talents, Kitten with a Whip represented an opportunity to showcase the red-hot young Swedish-American starlet as a “serious” dramatic actress. And boy did she embrace it over-zealously! In fact you could say Ann-Margret sinks her claws into the role. The film is like a mouse she subjects to a full feline attack! 


Ann-Margret’s frenzied full-throttle performance as Jody is one long continuous mood-swing, temper tantrum or “glamour fit”. She is so genuinely feral using female animal comparisons feel obligatory: she evokes not just “kitten”, but “tigress”, “minx”, “vixen” or “lynx.” Ann-Margret’s cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof portrayal was savaged by critics at the time (the film’s commercial and critical failure threatened to torpedo her initially promising career) and then later more kindly reappraised as campy and so-bad-it’s-good – but in fact (in the tradition of similarly histrionic actresses like Elizabeth Taylor or Karen Black), she collapses hidebound conventional distinctions between “good” and “bad” acting. If Ann-Margret’s performance in Kitten is “bad”, it is fiercely, awesomely bad – and never dull for one second. (For me, her overripe, bravura acting contrasts beautifully with John Forsythe’s wooden, straight-laced approach). As Slant magazine’s Dan Callahan argued, watching her in Kitten “I was reminded of the novelist Manuel Puig, who was a mentor to my friend Bruce Benderson, and a famous routine he had about Ann-Margret. Whenever A-M came up, Puig would ruminate, very seriously, in his Argentine accent: “Ann-Margret! Sometimes you think she is a good actress, and sometimes you think she cannot act at all. Sometimes you think she is a good girl, and sometimes you think she is a total slut! Ann-Margret!” he would cry, and take a momentous pause. “She is anything but reassuring.””


Like Marianne Faithfull with Girl on a Motorcycle or Patti Duke with The Valley of The Dolls, Ann-Margret was apparently mortified by Kitten with a Whip, considering it one of the nadirs of her acting career. By the time I saw the then-64 year old durable show business veteran perform her sparkly cabaret revue at the now-demolished Stardust Casino in Las Vegas in 2005 (the show was a kitsch hallucinatory fever dream!), her attitude had seemingly softened. Reflecting on how as a young starlet her looks saw her typecast in bad girl roles, Ann-Margret joked,"I call it my Kitten with a Whip phase. Sometimes I still feel like that little kitten. It's just getting a little harder to crack the whip. But I still manage."



/ "Don’t you ever bruise me ... God knows what I might do to you if you ever bruise me.” /

Additional reading:

From the Shock Cinema website:

“On the heels of her show-stopping numbers with Elvis in Viva Las Vegas, Ann-Margret decided to take the low road with this no-budget, b&w melodrama: a surprisingly sleazy juvenile delinquent flick, with a killer performance from everyone's favourite sex kitten. John Forsythe stars as a suave, fat cat politician, whose palatial house is 'borrowed' by a bleach blonde cutie named Jody (Ann-M), dressed in nothing but a nightgown. Not unlike Goldilocks, Forsythe discovers Jody napping in his bed, and the guy is mildly intrigued by this disheveled dish with the crazy curves. And (since his wife is conveniently away) Forsythe's sympathy goes out to the teen when she tells him she a runaway from an abusive home. But he quickly learns that Jody's not your ordinary jailbait. She's on the run from the cops, after breaking out of a detention home, setting fire to the place and stabbing a guard. And pretty soon the tables are turned, with Ann-M playing mind games on the increasingly nervous dweeb and threatening Forsythe with rape charges. A few thrill-crazy (though unbelievably clean cut) hoods join the party and provide a smidgen of bloodshed, but Ann (as well as the viewer) quickly gets bored with their cretinous hijinx, and she eventually dumps the punks and takes Forsythe on a Mexican joy ride... Lemme tell you, this flick is without a doubt the finest showcase of Ann-Margret's talents. She's a tough, no-nonsense bitch, using sex 'n' a smile to get what she wants, and this harder edge makes her more alluring than ever. When she snarls and brandishes the broken end of a whiskey bottle -- well, I think I'm in love. Plus, Forsythe is such a cardboard clod, overflowing with morality, that you can't help but enjoy watching her make him squirm. Douglas Heyes' direction is cheap but energetic, complete with an endless supply of hip dialogue and a no-compromise finale that had me cheering. Kitten is a much-loved, vicious li'l B-movie with Ann-Margret proving once and for all that she's a slut goddess extraordinaire." 


Excerpts from John Waters discussing Kitten with a Whip in Interview magazine in 2011:

“[Ann-Margret] never looked greater. She is fucking gorgeous in this movie. When I was young, I had movie posters in my house everywhere. Now, in only one place where I live do I have a movie poster, and it's Kitten with a Whip.”

On Kitten’s reputation as a terrible “bad movie we love”/ "so bad it's good"-type film:

“I think it's not one bit terrible. It reminds me of a film noir. It's almost like a Russ Meyer movie, an early one, only without as much tits. There was a whole bunch of movies from that period that started with people in turmoil, like with someone breaking into a house. You know what I mean? Like Lady in a Cage, or Penthouse—all these movies about juvenile delinquents taking over. And I think it was a period when a lot of movie stars tried to make these arty ones. Carroll Baker made a movie called Something Wild. There was a movie that I really love called A Cold Wind in August ... They were these early-'60s art films that were American, but yet were made with movie stars that wanted to be cutting-edge and prove they could act rather than be sex kittens.

“Look, it's a great film, and you know I'm screening this film not as a camp movie, but as an undiscovered art movie that people should see for real ... Kitten never became a midnight movie. It might be too arty to be a midnight movie, although I can imagine people standing up and shouting out some of that dialogue. It's just an art film that fell through the cracks, and has a title that is notorious, basically. And that poster is notorious. It's a movie that takes itself fairly seriously.”


/ "She's all out for kicks! And every inch of her spells excitement!" /

Waters nails perhaps one key to Kitten’s failure at the time: it’s made in ’64, but feels like a 1950s film. [You could easily imagine it made in the mid-fifties with Mamie Van Doren as Jody, with only minimal changes].

“It's fun to watch Ann-Margret be a juvenile delinquent, all juvenile delinquent movies are fun, but this is a juvenile delinquent movie too late. Because those movies were in the 50s. This is a 50s movie made too late. When the neighbours show up, it's very Douglas Sirk. That's very Magnificent Obsession.”


Read the essential Dreams Are What Le Cinema is For blog's analysis of Kitten with a Whip here.

Think of Kitten with a Whip as being sandwiched between two other essential Ann-Margret films ...



/ Above: Viva Las Vegas (1964) /


/ Above: Tommy (1975) /

The next Lobotomy Room Goes to The Movies film club is Wednesday 24 February 2016. Details below:

Hey! Did you know about Fontaine’s FREE weekly film club? How better to break the monotony on a bleak wintry Wednesday night than watch a FREE film, drink cocktails and eat canapés in the plush and intimate environs of Fontaine’s basement Bamboo Lounge? As host and DJ of the regular monthly Mondo Trasho punkabilly club night Lobotomy Room (last Friday of every month downstairs in the Bamboo Lounge!), I – Graham Russell - will occasionally crash the proceedings and screen a rancid film of my choice!
Considering Valentine’s Day falls this month, February’s selection is a love story. But bear in mind this is, after all, Lobotomy Room Goes to the Movies – so the love story is a twisted, high camp tale of amour fou. In Morocco (1930) – directed by visionary maestro of kinky exotica Josef Von Sternberg – dissolute nightclub chanteuse and woman of mystery Amy Jolly (German screen diva Marlene Dietrich in her sensational Hollywood debut) finds herself adrift in North Africa and caught in a love triangle, torn between a handsome amoral Foreign Légionnaire (lanky young Gary Cooper at the height of his beauty) and a wealthy playboy (Adolphe Menjou. Perversely, Menjou is meant to represent Von Sternberg himself – who in his complex off-screen relationship with the bisexual Dietrich stoically stood by and watched her seduce legions of men and women both). Depending on your sensibility, Morocco culminates in an ending which you’ll either find irresistibly romantic or totally absurd. Either way, the film is a blast!
Morocco represents the first glimpse American audiences got of Marlene Dietrich (she and Von Sternberg had already triumphed with the German filmThe Blue Angel (1930) but it wasn’t released in the US until afterwards. They ultimately made seven movies together – each one a wild, decadent masterpiece!). It’s a chance to see the origins of the Dietrich myth. Morocco is the film in which she first famously donned a man’s top hat and tails, a daringly butch look which would become her signature. Morocco is also significant in terms of queer cinema history for the notorious musical number in which Dietrich – in male drag – nonchalantly kisses a female audience member on the lips. All these decades later, the scene still feels taboo and transgressive.
Note! The management of Fontaine’s says: drag up as Marlene Dietrich on the night, get a free drink!
Film starts at 8:30 pm prompt! Show up circa 8 pm to order drinks, food and grab the best seating! I’ll be blasting Marlene Dietrich tunes LOUD as you arrive.



/ Above: Marlene Dietrich in femme mode as Amy Jolly in Morocco (1930) /

The next Lobotomy Room club night is Friday 26 February. Details here /