unwillingadventurer:

William Russell in 1964 and 1992

When I was a kid I used to think that all that happened when one got old was your hair turned white. It seems that’s the case here.  unwillingadventurer:

William Russell in 1964 and 1992

When I was a kid I used to think that all that happened when one got old was your hair turned white. It seems that’s the case here. 

unwillingadventurer:

William Russell in 1964 and 1992

When I was a kid I used to think that all that happened when one got old was your hair turned white. It seems that’s the case here. 


He’s gonna get nowhere with that kind of music. Good for the feet, nothin’ for the heart.

He’s gonna get nowhere with that kind of music. Good for the feet, nothin’ for the heart.

He’s gonna get nowhere with that kind of music. Good for the feet, nothin’ for the heart.

He’s gonna get nowhere with that kind of music. Good for the feet, nothin’ for the heart.

He’s gonna get nowhere with that kind of music. Good for the feet, nothin’ for the heart.

He’s gonna get nowhere with that kind of music. Good for the feet, nothin’ for the heart.

He’s gonna get nowhere with that kind of music. Good for the feet, nothin’ for the heart.

He’s gonna get nowhere with that kind of music. Good for the feet, nothin’ for the heart.

He’s gonna get nowhere with that kind of music. Good for the feet, nothin’ for the heart.

calmingbrits:

The phenomenal Alec Guinness.
Thank you to caveyogi for the submission. 

calmingbrits:

The phenomenal Alec Guinness.

Thank you to caveyogi for the submission. 

ronaldcolmans:

Happy 100th Birthday Alec Guinness de Cuffe (April 2, 1914 - August 5, 2000)
An actor is at his best a kind of unfrocked priest who, for an hour or two, can call on heaven and hell to mesmerize a group of innocents.
ronaldcolmans:

Happy 100th Birthday Alec Guinness de Cuffe (April 2, 1914 - August 5, 2000)
An actor is at his best a kind of unfrocked priest who, for an hour or two, can call on heaven and hell to mesmerize a group of innocents.
ronaldcolmans:

Happy 100th Birthday Alec Guinness de Cuffe (April 2, 1914 - August 5, 2000)
An actor is at his best a kind of unfrocked priest who, for an hour or two, can call on heaven and hell to mesmerize a group of innocents.
ronaldcolmans:

Happy 100th Birthday Alec Guinness de Cuffe (April 2, 1914 - August 5, 2000)
An actor is at his best a kind of unfrocked priest who, for an hour or two, can call on heaven and hell to mesmerize a group of innocents.
ronaldcolmans:

Happy 100th Birthday Alec Guinness de Cuffe (April 2, 1914 - August 5, 2000)
An actor is at his best a kind of unfrocked priest who, for an hour or two, can call on heaven and hell to mesmerize a group of innocents.
ronaldcolmans:

Happy 100th Birthday Alec Guinness de Cuffe (April 2, 1914 - August 5, 2000)
An actor is at his best a kind of unfrocked priest who, for an hour or two, can call on heaven and hell to mesmerize a group of innocents.
ronaldcolmans:

Happy 100th Birthday Alec Guinness de Cuffe (April 2, 1914 - August 5, 2000)
An actor is at his best a kind of unfrocked priest who, for an hour or two, can call on heaven and hell to mesmerize a group of innocents.
ronaldcolmans:

Happy 100th Birthday Alec Guinness de Cuffe (April 2, 1914 - August 5, 2000)
An actor is at his best a kind of unfrocked priest who, for an hour or two, can call on heaven and hell to mesmerize a group of innocents.

ronaldcolmans:

Happy 100th Birthday Alec Guinness de Cuffe (April 2, 1914 - August 5, 2000)

An actor is at his best a kind of unfrocked priest who, for an hour or two, can call on heaven and hell to mesmerize a group of innocents.

ralphsmotorbike:

Ernest Hemingway visits Alec Guinness and Noel Coward on the set of “Our Man in Havana.”

ralphsmotorbike:

Ernest Hemingway visits Alec Guinness and Noel Coward on the set of “Our Man in Havana.”

wehadfacesthen:

David Niven (and Errol Flynn) in The Charge of the Light Brigade  (Michael Curtiz, 1936) 
wehadfacesthen:

David Niven (and Errol Flynn) in The Charge of the Light Brigade  (Michael Curtiz, 1936) 

wehadfacesthen:

David Niven (and Errol Flynn) in The Charge of the Light Brigade  (Michael Curtiz, 1936) 

farleysgranger:

Happy Birthday to Fredric March (August 31, 1897 — April 14, 1975)

At the dawn of sound, Hollywood was inundated with East Coast stage actors who were carried west on the strength of their vowels. These were men of illusion, men whose tongues and teeth neither gnashed nor squabbled, men who wrapped their creative egos in cigarette ads and stark white ties, men who would disembowel themselves on Bernhardt’s grave before honking out the broad Bronx squawks of their youth—men consumed by the artifice of their profession and inflamed the inferiority of the screen. Fredric March, in my estimation, was the only one who emerged from the Vitaphone fury of 1929 with his dignity intact and the foundation of his legend laid.
He was a movie star built for the churning of the Thirties. He was trim, wicked, well-read, slick and beautiful and strong. He retained the deathless enthusiasm of the callow Midwestern college boy, circumspect in dress and self-consciously caddish in speech, who, having edged around the flu and the Front, plays at erudition with the bright boyish valor of a Sunday school savior. Art was gravely serious, as was love, and politics, and living, and—this Wisconsin upstart conveyed that devotion with a smile that, should we exhume them today, we would still find carved where the hearts of widows and shopgirls and ministers’ wives once were. In a time of upheaval and shelved ambitions, women—for it was always the women—offered loving bouquets in the pages of Photoplay, strained to catch him in candid footage, hovered over the curious elegant “F” scrawled on the autographed portraits sent courtesy Paramount Studios, far-off, mystical, vividly dreamed Hollywood, California. Why? He was honest. He was forthright. He was in on the joke. There was no one like him, they asserted, because, in the vernacular of the fan magazines, they saw the fog lights of the Hudson and the porch lights of Racine and the accessible intangible magic midnight livewire of the downtown movie marquee gleaming in his eyes—his, and his alone.
Fredric March has been forgotten. In the grand narrative of the movies, of the American screen tradition which he helped forge, he is regarded as little more than a footnote in the champagne days of Depression Hollywood. He lacks the iconic masculinity that shields the legacies of men who were once less renowned than he. It was not until twelve years after his death that the Academy paid tribute to a man whose talent and tenacity enriched the art of film acting for over four decades. When he first appeared, critics hailed him as the brightest of his generation, but by the nothing-but-now Seventies, he was about as chic as a ragged mink stole he might have draped around Norma Shearer’s shoulders at the Trocadero forty years before.
His work is hard to come by. The copyrights have been scattered and his leading ladies are reduced to crossed-out headshots in the production annals of our collective memory. Two thirds of his films have not been made available for home viewing since the heyday of the Laserdisc, and many of them—including the early pictures that made him a star—may never leave the studio vaults. He has no champions, no protectors, amongst the guardians of film history. We do not have much to justify a continued examination of his impact on our culture. But with what we do have, we can reconstruct in our imagination the creative arc of one of the most brilliant craftsmen to ever pose—as I like to think he did—beneath the baking lights of a patched-together sound stage, smoke whirling above him, illuminated in profile, stoic, sophisticated, sacred, only to snap out of the scene with a sudden grin and shout—“Oh, God damn it, I dropped the pipe! Do we have the shot? Or must we do it again?”

farleysgranger:

Happy Birthday to Fredric March (August 31, 1897 — April 14, 1975)

At the dawn of sound, Hollywood was inundated with East Coast stage actors who were carried west on the strength of their vowels. These were men of illusion, men whose tongues and teeth neither gnashed nor squabbled, men who wrapped their creative egos in cigarette ads and stark white ties, men who would disembowel themselves on Bernhardt’s grave before honking out the broad Bronx squawks of their youth—men consumed by the artifice of their profession and inflamed the inferiority of the screen. Fredric March, in my estimation, was the only one who emerged from the Vitaphone fury of 1929 with his dignity intact and the foundation of his legend laid.
He was a movie star built for the churning of the Thirties. He was trim, wicked, well-read, slick and beautiful and strong. He retained the deathless enthusiasm of the callow Midwestern college boy, circumspect in dress and self-consciously caddish in speech, who, having edged around the flu and the Front, plays at erudition with the bright boyish valor of a Sunday school savior. Art was gravely serious, as was love, and politics, and living, and—this Wisconsin upstart conveyed that devotion with a smile that, should we exhume them today, we would still find carved where the hearts of widows and shopgirls and ministers’ wives once were. In a time of upheaval and shelved ambitions, women—for it was always the women—offered loving bouquets in the pages of Photoplay, strained to catch him in candid footage, hovered over the curious elegant “F” scrawled on the autographed portraits sent courtesy Paramount Studios, far-off, mystical, vividly dreamed Hollywood, California. Why? He was honest. He was forthright. He was in on the joke. There was no one like him, they asserted, because, in the vernacular of the fan magazines, they saw the fog lights of the Hudson and the porch lights of Racine and the accessible intangible magic midnight livewire of the downtown movie marquee gleaming in his eyes—his, and his alone.
Fredric March has been forgotten. In the grand narrative of the movies, of the American screen tradition which he helped forge, he is regarded as little more than a footnote in the champagne days of Depression Hollywood. He lacks the iconic masculinity that shields the legacies of men who were once less renowned than he. It was not until twelve years after his death that the Academy paid tribute to a man whose talent and tenacity enriched the art of film acting for over four decades. When he first appeared, critics hailed him as the brightest of his generation, but by the nothing-but-now Seventies, he was about as chic as a ragged mink stole he might have draped around Norma Shearer’s shoulders at the Trocadero forty years before.
His work is hard to come by. The copyrights have been scattered and his leading ladies are reduced to crossed-out headshots in the production annals of our collective memory. Two thirds of his films have not been made available for home viewing since the heyday of the Laserdisc, and many of them—including the early pictures that made him a star—may never leave the studio vaults. He has no champions, no protectors, amongst the guardians of film history. We do not have much to justify a continued examination of his impact on our culture. But with what we do have, we can reconstruct in our imagination the creative arc of one of the most brilliant craftsmen to ever pose—as I like to think he did—beneath the baking lights of a patched-together sound stage, smoke whirling above him, illuminated in profile, stoic, sophisticated, sacred, only to snap out of the scene with a sudden grin and shout—“Oh, God damn it, I dropped the pipe! Do we have the shot? Or must we do it again?”

farleysgranger:

Happy Birthday to Fredric March (August 31, 1897 — April 14, 1975)

At the dawn of sound, Hollywood was inundated with East Coast stage actors who were carried west on the strength of their vowels. These were men of illusion, men whose tongues and teeth neither gnashed nor squabbled, men who wrapped their creative egos in cigarette ads and stark white ties, men who would disembowel themselves on Bernhardt’s grave before honking out the broad Bronx squawks of their youth—men consumed by the artifice of their profession and inflamed the inferiority of the screen. Fredric March, in my estimation, was the only one who emerged from the Vitaphone fury of 1929 with his dignity intact and the foundation of his legend laid.
He was a movie star built for the churning of the Thirties. He was trim, wicked, well-read, slick and beautiful and strong. He retained the deathless enthusiasm of the callow Midwestern college boy, circumspect in dress and self-consciously caddish in speech, who, having edged around the flu and the Front, plays at erudition with the bright boyish valor of a Sunday school savior. Art was gravely serious, as was love, and politics, and living, and—this Wisconsin upstart conveyed that devotion with a smile that, should we exhume them today, we would still find carved where the hearts of widows and shopgirls and ministers’ wives once were. In a time of upheaval and shelved ambitions, women—for it was always the women—offered loving bouquets in the pages of Photoplay, strained to catch him in candid footage, hovered over the curious elegant “F” scrawled on the autographed portraits sent courtesy Paramount Studios, far-off, mystical, vividly dreamed Hollywood, California. Why? He was honest. He was forthright. He was in on the joke. There was no one like him, they asserted, because, in the vernacular of the fan magazines, they saw the fog lights of the Hudson and the porch lights of Racine and the accessible intangible magic midnight livewire of the downtown movie marquee gleaming in his eyes—his, and his alone.
Fredric March has been forgotten. In the grand narrative of the movies, of the American screen tradition which he helped forge, he is regarded as little more than a footnote in the champagne days of Depression Hollywood. He lacks the iconic masculinity that shields the legacies of men who were once less renowned than he. It was not until twelve years after his death that the Academy paid tribute to a man whose talent and tenacity enriched the art of film acting for over four decades. When he first appeared, critics hailed him as the brightest of his generation, but by the nothing-but-now Seventies, he was about as chic as a ragged mink stole he might have draped around Norma Shearer’s shoulders at the Trocadero forty years before.
His work is hard to come by. The copyrights have been scattered and his leading ladies are reduced to crossed-out headshots in the production annals of our collective memory. Two thirds of his films have not been made available for home viewing since the heyday of the Laserdisc, and many of them—including the early pictures that made him a star—may never leave the studio vaults. He has no champions, no protectors, amongst the guardians of film history. We do not have much to justify a continued examination of his impact on our culture. But with what we do have, we can reconstruct in our imagination the creative arc of one of the most brilliant craftsmen to ever pose—as I like to think he did—beneath the baking lights of a patched-together sound stage, smoke whirling above him, illuminated in profile, stoic, sophisticated, sacred, only to snap out of the scene with a sudden grin and shout—“Oh, God damn it, I dropped the pipe! Do we have the shot? Or must we do it again?”

farleysgranger:

Happy Birthday to Fredric March (August 31, 1897 — April 14, 1975)

At the dawn of sound, Hollywood was inundated with East Coast stage actors who were carried west on the strength of their vowels. These were men of illusion, men whose tongues and teeth neither gnashed nor squabbled, men who wrapped their creative egos in cigarette ads and stark white ties, men who would disembowel themselves on Bernhardt’s grave before honking out the broad Bronx squawks of their youth—men consumed by the artifice of their profession and inflamed the inferiority of the screen. Fredric March, in my estimation, was the only one who emerged from the Vitaphone fury of 1929 with his dignity intact and the foundation of his legend laid.
He was a movie star built for the churning of the Thirties. He was trim, wicked, well-read, slick and beautiful and strong. He retained the deathless enthusiasm of the callow Midwestern college boy, circumspect in dress and self-consciously caddish in speech, who, having edged around the flu and the Front, plays at erudition with the bright boyish valor of a Sunday school savior. Art was gravely serious, as was love, and politics, and living, and—this Wisconsin upstart conveyed that devotion with a smile that, should we exhume them today, we would still find carved where the hearts of widows and shopgirls and ministers’ wives once were. In a time of upheaval and shelved ambitions, women—for it was always the women—offered loving bouquets in the pages of Photoplay, strained to catch him in candid footage, hovered over the curious elegant “F” scrawled on the autographed portraits sent courtesy Paramount Studios, far-off, mystical, vividly dreamed Hollywood, California. Why? He was honest. He was forthright. He was in on the joke. There was no one like him, they asserted, because, in the vernacular of the fan magazines, they saw the fog lights of the Hudson and the porch lights of Racine and the accessible intangible magic midnight livewire of the downtown movie marquee gleaming in his eyes—his, and his alone.
Fredric March has been forgotten. In the grand narrative of the movies, of the American screen tradition which he helped forge, he is regarded as little more than a footnote in the champagne days of Depression Hollywood. He lacks the iconic masculinity that shields the legacies of men who were once less renowned than he. It was not until twelve years after his death that the Academy paid tribute to a man whose talent and tenacity enriched the art of film acting for over four decades. When he first appeared, critics hailed him as the brightest of his generation, but by the nothing-but-now Seventies, he was about as chic as a ragged mink stole he might have draped around Norma Shearer’s shoulders at the Trocadero forty years before.
His work is hard to come by. The copyrights have been scattered and his leading ladies are reduced to crossed-out headshots in the production annals of our collective memory. Two thirds of his films have not been made available for home viewing since the heyday of the Laserdisc, and many of them—including the early pictures that made him a star—may never leave the studio vaults. He has no champions, no protectors, amongst the guardians of film history. We do not have much to justify a continued examination of his impact on our culture. But with what we do have, we can reconstruct in our imagination the creative arc of one of the most brilliant craftsmen to ever pose—as I like to think he did—beneath the baking lights of a patched-together sound stage, smoke whirling above him, illuminated in profile, stoic, sophisticated, sacred, only to snap out of the scene with a sudden grin and shout—“Oh, God damn it, I dropped the pipe! Do we have the shot? Or must we do it again?”

farleysgranger:

Happy Birthday to Fredric March (August 31, 1897 — April 14, 1975)

At the dawn of sound, Hollywood was inundated with East Coast stage actors who were carried west on the strength of their vowels. These were men of illusion, men whose tongues and teeth neither gnashed nor squabbled, men who wrapped their creative egos in cigarette ads and stark white ties, men who would disembowel themselves on Bernhardt’s grave before honking out the broad Bronx squawks of their youth—men consumed by the artifice of their profession and inflamed the inferiority of the screen. Fredric March, in my estimation, was the only one who emerged from the Vitaphone fury of 1929 with his dignity intact and the foundation of his legend laid.
He was a movie star built for the churning of the Thirties. He was trim, wicked, well-read, slick and beautiful and strong. He retained the deathless enthusiasm of the callow Midwestern college boy, circumspect in dress and self-consciously caddish in speech, who, having edged around the flu and the Front, plays at erudition with the bright boyish valor of a Sunday school savior. Art was gravely serious, as was love, and politics, and living, and—this Wisconsin upstart conveyed that devotion with a smile that, should we exhume them today, we would still find carved where the hearts of widows and shopgirls and ministers’ wives once were. In a time of upheaval and shelved ambitions, women—for it was always the women—offered loving bouquets in the pages of Photoplay, strained to catch him in candid footage, hovered over the curious elegant “F” scrawled on the autographed portraits sent courtesy Paramount Studios, far-off, mystical, vividly dreamed Hollywood, California. Why? He was honest. He was forthright. He was in on the joke. There was no one like him, they asserted, because, in the vernacular of the fan magazines, they saw the fog lights of the Hudson and the porch lights of Racine and the accessible intangible magic midnight livewire of the downtown movie marquee gleaming in his eyes—his, and his alone.
Fredric March has been forgotten. In the grand narrative of the movies, of the American screen tradition which he helped forge, he is regarded as little more than a footnote in the champagne days of Depression Hollywood. He lacks the iconic masculinity that shields the legacies of men who were once less renowned than he. It was not until twelve years after his death that the Academy paid tribute to a man whose talent and tenacity enriched the art of film acting for over four decades. When he first appeared, critics hailed him as the brightest of his generation, but by the nothing-but-now Seventies, he was about as chic as a ragged mink stole he might have draped around Norma Shearer’s shoulders at the Trocadero forty years before.
His work is hard to come by. The copyrights have been scattered and his leading ladies are reduced to crossed-out headshots in the production annals of our collective memory. Two thirds of his films have not been made available for home viewing since the heyday of the Laserdisc, and many of them—including the early pictures that made him a star—may never leave the studio vaults. He has no champions, no protectors, amongst the guardians of film history. We do not have much to justify a continued examination of his impact on our culture. But with what we do have, we can reconstruct in our imagination the creative arc of one of the most brilliant craftsmen to ever pose—as I like to think he did—beneath the baking lights of a patched-together sound stage, smoke whirling above him, illuminated in profile, stoic, sophisticated, sacred, only to snap out of the scene with a sudden grin and shout—“Oh, God damn it, I dropped the pipe! Do we have the shot? Or must we do it again?”

farleysgranger:

Happy Birthday to Fredric March (August 31, 1897 — April 14, 1975)

At the dawn of sound, Hollywood was inundated with East Coast stage actors who were carried west on the strength of their vowels. These were men of illusion, men whose tongues and teeth neither gnashed nor squabbled, men who wrapped their creative egos in cigarette ads and stark white ties, men who would disembowel themselves on Bernhardt’s grave before honking out the broad Bronx squawks of their youth—men consumed by the artifice of their profession and inflamed the inferiority of the screen. Fredric March, in my estimation, was the only one who emerged from the Vitaphone fury of 1929 with his dignity intact and the foundation of his legend laid.
He was a movie star built for the churning of the Thirties. He was trim, wicked, well-read, slick and beautiful and strong. He retained the deathless enthusiasm of the callow Midwestern college boy, circumspect in dress and self-consciously caddish in speech, who, having edged around the flu and the Front, plays at erudition with the bright boyish valor of a Sunday school savior. Art was gravely serious, as was love, and politics, and living, and—this Wisconsin upstart conveyed that devotion with a smile that, should we exhume them today, we would still find carved where the hearts of widows and shopgirls and ministers’ wives once were. In a time of upheaval and shelved ambitions, women—for it was always the women—offered loving bouquets in the pages of Photoplay, strained to catch him in candid footage, hovered over the curious elegant “F” scrawled on the autographed portraits sent courtesy Paramount Studios, far-off, mystical, vividly dreamed Hollywood, California. Why? He was honest. He was forthright. He was in on the joke. There was no one like him, they asserted, because, in the vernacular of the fan magazines, they saw the fog lights of the Hudson and the porch lights of Racine and the accessible intangible magic midnight livewire of the downtown movie marquee gleaming in his eyes—his, and his alone.
Fredric March has been forgotten. In the grand narrative of the movies, of the American screen tradition which he helped forge, he is regarded as little more than a footnote in the champagne days of Depression Hollywood. He lacks the iconic masculinity that shields the legacies of men who were once less renowned than he. It was not until twelve years after his death that the Academy paid tribute to a man whose talent and tenacity enriched the art of film acting for over four decades. When he first appeared, critics hailed him as the brightest of his generation, but by the nothing-but-now Seventies, he was about as chic as a ragged mink stole he might have draped around Norma Shearer’s shoulders at the Trocadero forty years before.
His work is hard to come by. The copyrights have been scattered and his leading ladies are reduced to crossed-out headshots in the production annals of our collective memory. Two thirds of his films have not been made available for home viewing since the heyday of the Laserdisc, and many of them—including the early pictures that made him a star—may never leave the studio vaults. He has no champions, no protectors, amongst the guardians of film history. We do not have much to justify a continued examination of his impact on our culture. But with what we do have, we can reconstruct in our imagination the creative arc of one of the most brilliant craftsmen to ever pose—as I like to think he did—beneath the baking lights of a patched-together sound stage, smoke whirling above him, illuminated in profile, stoic, sophisticated, sacred, only to snap out of the scene with a sudden grin and shout—“Oh, God damn it, I dropped the pipe! Do we have the shot? Or must we do it again?”

farleysgranger:

Happy Birthday to Fredric March (August 31, 1897 — April 14, 1975)

At the dawn of sound, Hollywood was inundated with East Coast stage actors who were carried west on the strength of their vowels. These were men of illusion, men whose tongues and teeth neither gnashed nor squabbled, men who wrapped their creative egos in cigarette ads and stark white ties, men who would disembowel themselves on Bernhardt’s grave before honking out the broad Bronx squawks of their youth—men consumed by the artifice of their profession and inflamed the inferiority of the screen. Fredric March, in my estimation, was the only one who emerged from the Vitaphone fury of 1929 with his dignity intact and the foundation of his legend laid.

He was a movie star built for the churning of the Thirties. He was trim, wicked, well-read, slick and beautiful and strong. He retained the deathless enthusiasm of the callow Midwestern college boy, circumspect in dress and self-consciously caddish in speech, who, having edged around the flu and the Front, plays at erudition with the bright boyish valor of a Sunday school savior. Art was gravely serious, as was love, and politics, and living, and—this Wisconsin upstart conveyed that devotion with a smile that, should we exhume them today, we would still find carved where the hearts of widows and shopgirls and ministers’ wives once were. In a time of upheaval and shelved ambitions, women—for it was always the women—offered loving bouquets in the pages of Photoplay, strained to catch him in candid footage, hovered over the curious elegant “F” scrawled on the autographed portraits sent courtesy Paramount Studios, far-off, mystical, vividly dreamed Hollywood, California. Why? He was honest. He was forthright. He was in on the joke. There was no one like him, they asserted, because, in the vernacular of the fan magazines, they saw the fog lights of the Hudson and the porch lights of Racine and the accessible intangible magic midnight livewire of the downtown movie marquee gleaming in his eyes—his, and his alone.

Fredric March has been forgotten. In the grand narrative of the movies, of the American screen tradition which he helped forge, he is regarded as little more than a footnote in the champagne days of Depression Hollywood. He lacks the iconic masculinity that shields the legacies of men who were once less renowned than he. It was not until twelve years after his death that the Academy paid tribute to a man whose talent and tenacity enriched the art of film acting for over four decades. When he first appeared, critics hailed him as the brightest of his generation, but by the nothing-but-now Seventies, he was about as chic as a ragged mink stole he might have draped around Norma Shearer’s shoulders at the Trocadero forty years before.

His work is hard to come by. The copyrights have been scattered and his leading ladies are reduced to crossed-out headshots in the production annals of our collective memory. Two thirds of his films have not been made available for home viewing since the heyday of the Laserdisc, and many of them—including the early pictures that made him a star—may never leave the studio vaults. He has no champions, no protectors, amongst the guardians of film history. We do not have much to justify a continued examination of his impact on our culture. But with what we do have, we can reconstruct in our imagination the creative arc of one of the most brilliant craftsmen to ever pose—as I like to think he did—beneath the baking lights of a patched-together sound stage, smoke whirling above him, illuminated in profile, stoic, sophisticated, sacred, only to snap out of the scene with a sudden grin and shout—“Oh, God damn it, I dropped the pipe! Do we have the shot? Or must we do it again?”

(via deanmartiann)

fwiend-wequests:

FOLLOWING THIS POSTING, I AM HAPPY TO PRESENT FOR YOUR ILLUMINATION, UNDERSTANDING AND ENTERTAINMENT,   A PERSONALLY CONDENSED GRAPHIC PHOTO-NOVEL OF THE STORY OF HERMANN HESSE’S UNUSUAL, CELEBRATED AND UNIVERSALLY LAUDED MASTERPIECE OF SELF-AWARENESS AND MAGICK REALISM `DER STEPPENWOLF’,  AS TOLD THROUGH PICTURES AND DIALOGUE TAKEN FROM FRED HAINES 1974 MOTION PICTURE VERSION STARRING MAX VON SYDOW, DOMINIQUE SANDA, PIERRE CLEMENTI & CARLA ROMANELLI. PLEASE NOTE THAT CERTAIN SECTIONS OF THE STORY HAVE BEEN OMITTED (BUT NOT TOO MUCH OF IT) AND THAT THE PRESENTATION OF IT HERE DOES BREAK PERIODICALLY BUT DOES RESUME AS YOU CONTINUE TO SCROLL DOWN. ENJOY!
                                                                         - Sister Wendy  
fwiend-wequests:

FOLLOWING THIS POSTING, I AM HAPPY TO PRESENT FOR YOUR ILLUMINATION, UNDERSTANDING AND ENTERTAINMENT,   A PERSONALLY CONDENSED GRAPHIC PHOTO-NOVEL OF THE STORY OF HERMANN HESSE’S UNUSUAL, CELEBRATED AND UNIVERSALLY LAUDED MASTERPIECE OF SELF-AWARENESS AND MAGICK REALISM `DER STEPPENWOLF’,  AS TOLD THROUGH PICTURES AND DIALOGUE TAKEN FROM FRED HAINES 1974 MOTION PICTURE VERSION STARRING MAX VON SYDOW, DOMINIQUE SANDA, PIERRE CLEMENTI & CARLA ROMANELLI. PLEASE NOTE THAT CERTAIN SECTIONS OF THE STORY HAVE BEEN OMITTED (BUT NOT TOO MUCH OF IT) AND THAT THE PRESENTATION OF IT HERE DOES BREAK PERIODICALLY BUT DOES RESUME AS YOU CONTINUE TO SCROLL DOWN. ENJOY!
                                                                         - Sister Wendy  
fwiend-wequests:

FOLLOWING THIS POSTING, I AM HAPPY TO PRESENT FOR YOUR ILLUMINATION, UNDERSTANDING AND ENTERTAINMENT,   A PERSONALLY CONDENSED GRAPHIC PHOTO-NOVEL OF THE STORY OF HERMANN HESSE’S UNUSUAL, CELEBRATED AND UNIVERSALLY LAUDED MASTERPIECE OF SELF-AWARENESS AND MAGICK REALISM `DER STEPPENWOLF’,  AS TOLD THROUGH PICTURES AND DIALOGUE TAKEN FROM FRED HAINES 1974 MOTION PICTURE VERSION STARRING MAX VON SYDOW, DOMINIQUE SANDA, PIERRE CLEMENTI & CARLA ROMANELLI. PLEASE NOTE THAT CERTAIN SECTIONS OF THE STORY HAVE BEEN OMITTED (BUT NOT TOO MUCH OF IT) AND THAT THE PRESENTATION OF IT HERE DOES BREAK PERIODICALLY BUT DOES RESUME AS YOU CONTINUE TO SCROLL DOWN. ENJOY!
                                                                         - Sister Wendy  
fwiend-wequests:

FOLLOWING THIS POSTING, I AM HAPPY TO PRESENT FOR YOUR ILLUMINATION, UNDERSTANDING AND ENTERTAINMENT,   A PERSONALLY CONDENSED GRAPHIC PHOTO-NOVEL OF THE STORY OF HERMANN HESSE’S UNUSUAL, CELEBRATED AND UNIVERSALLY LAUDED MASTERPIECE OF SELF-AWARENESS AND MAGICK REALISM `DER STEPPENWOLF’,  AS TOLD THROUGH PICTURES AND DIALOGUE TAKEN FROM FRED HAINES 1974 MOTION PICTURE VERSION STARRING MAX VON SYDOW, DOMINIQUE SANDA, PIERRE CLEMENTI & CARLA ROMANELLI. PLEASE NOTE THAT CERTAIN SECTIONS OF THE STORY HAVE BEEN OMITTED (BUT NOT TOO MUCH OF IT) AND THAT THE PRESENTATION OF IT HERE DOES BREAK PERIODICALLY BUT DOES RESUME AS YOU CONTINUE TO SCROLL DOWN. ENJOY!
                                                                         - Sister Wendy  
fwiend-wequests:

FOLLOWING THIS POSTING, I AM HAPPY TO PRESENT FOR YOUR ILLUMINATION, UNDERSTANDING AND ENTERTAINMENT,   A PERSONALLY CONDENSED GRAPHIC PHOTO-NOVEL OF THE STORY OF HERMANN HESSE’S UNUSUAL, CELEBRATED AND UNIVERSALLY LAUDED MASTERPIECE OF SELF-AWARENESS AND MAGICK REALISM `DER STEPPENWOLF’,  AS TOLD THROUGH PICTURES AND DIALOGUE TAKEN FROM FRED HAINES 1974 MOTION PICTURE VERSION STARRING MAX VON SYDOW, DOMINIQUE SANDA, PIERRE CLEMENTI & CARLA ROMANELLI. PLEASE NOTE THAT CERTAIN SECTIONS OF THE STORY HAVE BEEN OMITTED (BUT NOT TOO MUCH OF IT) AND THAT THE PRESENTATION OF IT HERE DOES BREAK PERIODICALLY BUT DOES RESUME AS YOU CONTINUE TO SCROLL DOWN. ENJOY!
                                                                         - Sister Wendy  
fwiend-wequests:

FOLLOWING THIS POSTING, I AM HAPPY TO PRESENT FOR YOUR ILLUMINATION, UNDERSTANDING AND ENTERTAINMENT,   A PERSONALLY CONDENSED GRAPHIC PHOTO-NOVEL OF THE STORY OF HERMANN HESSE’S UNUSUAL, CELEBRATED AND UNIVERSALLY LAUDED MASTERPIECE OF SELF-AWARENESS AND MAGICK REALISM `DER STEPPENWOLF’,  AS TOLD THROUGH PICTURES AND DIALOGUE TAKEN FROM FRED HAINES 1974 MOTION PICTURE VERSION STARRING MAX VON SYDOW, DOMINIQUE SANDA, PIERRE CLEMENTI & CARLA ROMANELLI. PLEASE NOTE THAT CERTAIN SECTIONS OF THE STORY HAVE BEEN OMITTED (BUT NOT TOO MUCH OF IT) AND THAT THE PRESENTATION OF IT HERE DOES BREAK PERIODICALLY BUT DOES RESUME AS YOU CONTINUE TO SCROLL DOWN. ENJOY!
                                                                         - Sister Wendy  
fwiend-wequests:

FOLLOWING THIS POSTING, I AM HAPPY TO PRESENT FOR YOUR ILLUMINATION, UNDERSTANDING AND ENTERTAINMENT,   A PERSONALLY CONDENSED GRAPHIC PHOTO-NOVEL OF THE STORY OF HERMANN HESSE’S UNUSUAL, CELEBRATED AND UNIVERSALLY LAUDED MASTERPIECE OF SELF-AWARENESS AND MAGICK REALISM `DER STEPPENWOLF’,  AS TOLD THROUGH PICTURES AND DIALOGUE TAKEN FROM FRED HAINES 1974 MOTION PICTURE VERSION STARRING MAX VON SYDOW, DOMINIQUE SANDA, PIERRE CLEMENTI & CARLA ROMANELLI. PLEASE NOTE THAT CERTAIN SECTIONS OF THE STORY HAVE BEEN OMITTED (BUT NOT TOO MUCH OF IT) AND THAT THE PRESENTATION OF IT HERE DOES BREAK PERIODICALLY BUT DOES RESUME AS YOU CONTINUE TO SCROLL DOWN. ENJOY!
                                                                         - Sister Wendy  
fwiend-wequests:

FOLLOWING THIS POSTING, I AM HAPPY TO PRESENT FOR YOUR ILLUMINATION, UNDERSTANDING AND ENTERTAINMENT,   A PERSONALLY CONDENSED GRAPHIC PHOTO-NOVEL OF THE STORY OF HERMANN HESSE’S UNUSUAL, CELEBRATED AND UNIVERSALLY LAUDED MASTERPIECE OF SELF-AWARENESS AND MAGICK REALISM `DER STEPPENWOLF’,  AS TOLD THROUGH PICTURES AND DIALOGUE TAKEN FROM FRED HAINES 1974 MOTION PICTURE VERSION STARRING MAX VON SYDOW, DOMINIQUE SANDA, PIERRE CLEMENTI & CARLA ROMANELLI. PLEASE NOTE THAT CERTAIN SECTIONS OF THE STORY HAVE BEEN OMITTED (BUT NOT TOO MUCH OF IT) AND THAT THE PRESENTATION OF IT HERE DOES BREAK PERIODICALLY BUT DOES RESUME AS YOU CONTINUE TO SCROLL DOWN. ENJOY!
                                                                         - Sister Wendy  
fwiend-wequests:

FOLLOWING THIS POSTING, I AM HAPPY TO PRESENT FOR YOUR ILLUMINATION, UNDERSTANDING AND ENTERTAINMENT,   A PERSONALLY CONDENSED GRAPHIC PHOTO-NOVEL OF THE STORY OF HERMANN HESSE’S UNUSUAL, CELEBRATED AND UNIVERSALLY LAUDED MASTERPIECE OF SELF-AWARENESS AND MAGICK REALISM `DER STEPPENWOLF’,  AS TOLD THROUGH PICTURES AND DIALOGUE TAKEN FROM FRED HAINES 1974 MOTION PICTURE VERSION STARRING MAX VON SYDOW, DOMINIQUE SANDA, PIERRE CLEMENTI & CARLA ROMANELLI. PLEASE NOTE THAT CERTAIN SECTIONS OF THE STORY HAVE BEEN OMITTED (BUT NOT TOO MUCH OF IT) AND THAT THE PRESENTATION OF IT HERE DOES BREAK PERIODICALLY BUT DOES RESUME AS YOU CONTINUE TO SCROLL DOWN. ENJOY!
                                                                         - Sister Wendy  
fwiend-wequests:

FOLLOWING THIS POSTING, I AM HAPPY TO PRESENT FOR YOUR ILLUMINATION, UNDERSTANDING AND ENTERTAINMENT,   A PERSONALLY CONDENSED GRAPHIC PHOTO-NOVEL OF THE STORY OF HERMANN HESSE’S UNUSUAL, CELEBRATED AND UNIVERSALLY LAUDED MASTERPIECE OF SELF-AWARENESS AND MAGICK REALISM `DER STEPPENWOLF’,  AS TOLD THROUGH PICTURES AND DIALOGUE TAKEN FROM FRED HAINES 1974 MOTION PICTURE VERSION STARRING MAX VON SYDOW, DOMINIQUE SANDA, PIERRE CLEMENTI & CARLA ROMANELLI. PLEASE NOTE THAT CERTAIN SECTIONS OF THE STORY HAVE BEEN OMITTED (BUT NOT TOO MUCH OF IT) AND THAT THE PRESENTATION OF IT HERE DOES BREAK PERIODICALLY BUT DOES RESUME AS YOU CONTINUE TO SCROLL DOWN. ENJOY!
                                                                         - Sister Wendy  

fwiend-wequests:

FOLLOWING THIS POSTING, I AM HAPPY TO PRESENT FOR YOUR ILLUMINATION, UNDERSTANDING AND ENTERTAINMENT,   A PERSONALLY CONDENSED GRAPHIC PHOTO-NOVEL OF THE STORY OF HERMANN HESSE’S UNUSUAL, CELEBRATED AND UNIVERSALLY LAUDED MASTERPIECE OF SELF-AWARENESS AND MAGICK REALISM `DER STEPPENWOLF’,  AS TOLD THROUGH PICTURES AND DIALOGUE TAKEN FROM FRED HAINES 1974 MOTION PICTURE VERSION STARRING MAX VON SYDOW, DOMINIQUE SANDA, PIERRE CLEMENTI & CARLA ROMANELLI. PLEASE NOTE THAT CERTAIN SECTIONS OF THE STORY HAVE BEEN OMITTED (BUT NOT TOO MUCH OF IT) AND THAT THE PRESENTATION OF IT HERE DOES BREAK PERIODICALLY BUT DOES RESUME AS YOU CONTINUE TO SCROLL DOWN. ENJOY!

                                                                         - Sister Wendy  

Q

Anonymous asked:

How do you feel about the death of Richard Attenbrough?

A

Upset. He’s one of those people who have been around for so long…so the idea of him not being on this Earth is kind of weird. I was introduced to him as a child when my father showed my Brighton Rock and The League of Gentlemen. Ever since then I was smiled when he turned up in a film, no matter how small his role. He certainly lived a full life. 

womenofkwmc:

Kathryn Bigelow, director of The Hurt Locker, is the only woman EVER to win a Best Director Oscar. Only women have ever been nominated. Women made up only 6% of Directors for the top movies of 2013. There were NO female nominees for directing, cinematography, film editing, writing (original screenplay), or music (original score) during last year’s Academy Awards.

(via thegreatgonzo42)

Q

Anonymous asked:

Your description makes you sound like a cunt.

A

cheers.

ravinmaven:

Gary Cooper and Lauren Bacall
Bright Leaf  1950

Two of the most attractive…amazing people that ever lived. 

electronicsquid:

Alec Guinness

(Cornell Capa. 1952)

(via ralphsmotorbike)