At first it was uncanny. Vic Damone [who?] died a couple of days ago and st the same time, Google presents a What’s My Line on Pier Angeli. Fine and guess what was next – one on Marisa Pavan, her sister, who was not so enamoured of Big Sis, from jealousy.
Silly me goes off and explores, buoyed by these descriptions of “delicate flower” Pier, a tragic feminine rose who died early of barbiturates. Throw in names like Kirk Douglas and James Dean and there’s a field of exploration. James Dean was gone on her according to his letters and she cared nothing – she went off with yet another partner and he turned savage, saying she slept all over town, which of course she had.
In one of the articles on Pier Angeli, the delicate flower, I’d got up to her 23rd sex partner between 1952 and 1956 and then gave it away. Delicate flower? She was an utter trollop. At the same time, up came the boy girl love songs of the time, such as this:
Now let’s be honest here, boys, she’s a bit of a honey.
Only problem is it’s completely faux – her name is Jill Jackson and his is Ray Hildebrand. They’re acting, which is great for him because he then goes on to be a lay preacher.
So OK, they played on the susceptibilities of a public right into love and feelgood stories and sold millions, spawning similar acts everywhere, e.g.
They mention April’s sexy spoken voice [not her real name by the way] in many write-ups and she’s certainly a honey in pics, but the reason for the spoken voice was he kept forgetting his words, LOL, so she was prompting – the producer decided to leave it in. Love it.
However, they were faux too, being real life brother and sister. Everything and everyone is faux, sigh. Je deteste tout faux, surtout en ce qui concerne l’amour, je deteste, je deteste.
Another couple very popular in the day, though hardly on about schmaltzy love, were Inez and Charlie Foxx and at least they were up front about the brother/sister thing:
Most strangely, truly remarkably really, two genuine people of the time, in the sense of them being a real couple, despite him being a mind-controlled slave who skis into trees and she being a total tosspot as a human being, were these two:
And so across the pond.
Such a pity the man below was a total a*** in this, right up himself as the great French lover, because Jane Birkin was genuinely gone on him by all accounts and was not putting it on in the least in this number:
So bloody hard, isn’t it, to find a genuine couple, the real thing, who last past a couple of years or even months? And I greatly fear it’s almost an impossibility these days the way men to a point, but mainly women these days, act.
Still, we pretend this day that it is possible and perhaps some magic wand from guardian angels can stop bickering long enough for love to take hold. Or is that just hopeless romanticism on my part?