Monday, September 14, 2026

Death on Riviera Roads Ties Isadora Duncan and Grace Kelly

 

                                                    Movie icon Grace Kelly became Princes Grace of Monaco. 

On September 14, 1982 the former Grace Kelly, Princes of Monaco, died of injuries sustained in an automobile crash in the Principality.  That was 55 years to the day that dancer Isadora Duncan died in a bizarre open car accident not far away on the Riviera in Nice.  They were nearly the same age at death—the Princes was 53, Duncan 50.  Both were cultural icons.

Aside from being American performing artists of striking personal beauty living in Europe, however, the two could hardly have been more different.

Princess Grace was raised in Philadelphia high society, into which her wealthy Irish Catholic family managed to crash.  She had a fabulously successful, if brief, movie career in which she was tagged as an “ice princess” for her cool blonde beauty.  She remained a devoted Catholic and consented to marry into one of the oldest royal families in Europe despite hardly having met the groom, Prince Rainier.

 

Princess Grace's wrecked Land Rover at the bottom of a mountain hairpin turn. 

Duncan, on the other hand, was a wild bohemian and rejected every constraint of conventionality the Princess embraced.  She publicly took lovers of both sexes.  It must be noted, however, that despite Grace Kelly’s aloof reputation in Hollywood, she apparently took most of her leading men as lovers.  But she was chaste and discrete compared to the dancer. 

Of the two, however, Isadora Duncan was by far the more interesting.

 

Isadora Duncan in one of her Greek inspired dance costumes. 

On September 14, 1927 Isadora Duncan, the American-born mother of modern dance and an avant-garde icon died in Nice, France when her signature long flowing scarf became entangled in spokes of a wheel of the open automobile in which she was riding.  She broke her neck and died instantly.  She was only 50 years old.  Her legions of admirers thought her end fitting and symbolic.

Duncan was born on May 26, 1877 in San Francisco, the youngest of four children.  Her father, Joseph Charles Duncan, was a successful mining engineer turned banker and a local patron of the arts and her mother came from an influential California political family.  Despite the promising beginning, Joseph Duncan was disgraced in a banking scandal shortly after Isadora’s birth and her mother divorced him and relocated the family to Oakland where the family lived in dire, if genteel, poverty.  

 

Isadora--already a wild child. 

Isadora was wild and rebellious and dropped out of school.  She and her sisters were consumed with dance and they helped support the family by giving lessons in their home.  By the age of 18 in 1895 she found herself in Augustin Dalys prestigious New York City theatrical troop as a dancer.  Daly fostered the careers of many stage notables including Sarah Orne Jewett, John Drew, Jr., Maurice Barrymore, Fanny Davenport, Maude Adams, and Tyrone Power, Sr. and was noted for his unorthodox settings of Shakespearian cannon such as casting a woman as Oberon in A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Despite the seemingly ideal situation for a young dancer, Duncan became disillusioned by the restrictions of conventional theatrical performance and went to London in 1899 in search of artistic purity.  Within a year she was in Paris, then the undisputed cultural capital of Europe and brimming with energy and innovation.  She tried immersing herself in the thriving bohemian life of the Montparnasse but found the poverty of the artist life depressing.  But she was young, extremely attractive, and entirely unconventional in her sexual life.  It was not too hard for her to find lovers and supporters who helped her move in 1909 to a large and comfortable apartment at 5 rue Danton where she also maintained a second floor dance studio.

 

Although they were never dance partners, Isadora was paired with Russian ballet super star Vaslav Nijinsky in a bas relief adorning a new Paris theater in 1913.

It was there that she and her adoring pupils began to discard the conventions of classical ballet, which she described as “ugly and against nature.”  Despite her contemptuous aversion to “commercial exhibition” in the pursuit of “pure art” the private recitals she put on with her students made her famous almost overnight.  Within a couple of years artists and sculptors were using her and her flowing movements as a model.  She was immortalized in a bas relief over the entrance to the new Théâtre des Champs-Élysées in 1913 and painted as one of the Muses in an interior mural.

Duncan danced barefoot and her performances were loosely choreographed to allow her to capture the moment of the music.  She said that she used images from Grecian pottery she found in museums as an inspiration for both her on-stage look and the fluidity of her lines.

 

Isadora's grace and fluidity of line and motion were captured in this photograph. 

Despite her distaste for public performances, economic circumstances often made it essential that she tour, although she was often careless of dates and commitments.  She appeared across Europe, and Latin America, and returned to America for a controversial tour in 1916.

By that time, Duncan’s private life was attracting as much attention as her dance.  She was always open about her devotion to the idea of Free Love and was openly bi-sexual.  She had two children out of wedlock—Deirdre, born in 1906 and fathered by theater designer Gordon Craig, and Patrick, born May 1, 1910 by Paris Singer, a son of sewing machine magnate Isaac Singer.  The children and their nanny were killed in a freak accident in April of 1913 when the car in which they were riding rolled into the Seine when the chauffer got out to re-start the engine with a hand crank.  

 

Twenty years older than Isadora the great Italian actress Eleonara Duce offered her solace--and perhaps a love affair--when the dancer was grieving the death of her children.  

Devastated, Duncan spent months on the island of Corfu with her siblings recovering from an apparent break down.  Soon after she spent weeks at a seaside resort with another avant-garde icon, actress Eleonora Duse, nearly 20 years her senior and with whom she may—or may not—have had a lesbian relationship.

Duncan remained a committed teacher.  In cooperation with her sisters she founded a famous school in Grunewald, Germany, where the Isadorables, her most celebrated troupe of pupils, were formed.  They started training with her and her sister Elizabeth Duncan as children in 1909, but Duncan later adopted the six girls in New York in 1916. Thereafter they performed using her last name.  With Duncan frequently absent, however, Elizabeth took the troop in a direction from which Isadora disagreed and, worse, allowed them to perform in commercial venues.  Eventually this caused a rift with Elizabeth and with her brother, who arranged independent performances by the girls in the United States.  Five of the girls remained in the US and performed together as the Isadorables for some years rising to considerable fame despite their original mentor’s disdain.

 

Isadora with her students, adopted daughters, and performance troupe, the Isadorables. 

Duncan was an outspoken political radical as well as an artistic one.  In 1922 she went to the Soviet Union to establish a new, revolutionary school in the homeland of the classical ballet.  She was aided by the most loyal of the former Isadorbables, Irma Duncan.  While in Russia she met, fell in love with, and actually married poet Sergei Yesenin, eighteen years her junior despite her knowing only six or seven words of Russian and he no English at all.  Duncan soon became disillusioned when the elaborate promises of support for her school by the State failed to materialize.  By 1923 she was back in Paris with Yesenin in tow and Irma left in charge of the Moscow academy.

 

Isadora with her abusive and alcoholic husband, the Russian poet Sergei Yesenin. 

Duncan resumed touring to support herself.  But Yesenin went into frequent alcoholic rages and destroyed the contents of several hotel rooms, although he was never known to harm Isadora herself.  The public scandal overshadowed her performances.  Within a year Yesenin went back to Russia, where he continued his dissolute ways, took another wife without divorcing Duncan, and died of drink in 1925 at the age of 30.

In 1925, her reputation as a performer damaged by her own drinking and sexual escapades, Duncan made a final tour of the United States.  In Boston, of all places, she came to the stage swathed only in a red banner.  She exposed her breasts and proclaimed. “This is red, and so am I.”  In Hollywood she became one of the many lovers of playwright Mercedes de Acosta, who reprinted passionate love letters in her scandalous autobiography Here Lies the Heart, published in 1960.

Duncan’s final years were plagued with financial woes as her erratic behavior and advancing age cut into her performance opportunities and her public drunkenness alienated many friends.  She split her time between Paris and the Riviera, often leaving un-paid hotel bills in her wake.  Friends, including F. Scott Fitzgerald who she met in Paris, tried to encourage her to finish the autobiography which she had been working on for some years in the hope that the income might bring her some stability.  The book, My Life was published in 1927.

 

An illustrated newspaper account of Isadora's death had all of the celebrity gossip of a breathless Access Hollywood Report. 

Unfortunately, Duncan did not live to earn an income from the book.  On September 14, 1927 she climbed into an open Amilcar roadster with handsome French-Italian mechanic Benoît Falchetto at the wheel.  Her friend Mary Desti later told the press that Duncan’s final words were “Good bye, friends, I’m off to glory!”  Much later she would admit that she censored Duncan’s actual words which were, “I’m off to love!” apparently for a night with Falchetto.  As they sped away, Duncan’s scarf became enmeshed in the rear wheel.  She was nearly decapitated by the force and yanked from the car.  She died instantly.

Duncan’s creative legacy lives on in almost all modern dance.  The last and most famous of the Isadorables, Maria-Theresa Duncan preserved much of Isadora’s most famous choreography which is still performed by troops around the world.  In 1977 Maria-Theresa co-founded the Isadora Duncan International Institute which continues to preserve her legacy.

 

Vanessa Redgrave as Isadora. 

In 1968 her life was celebrated in a dazzling wide screen color epic, Isadora starring Vanessa Redgrave for which she won the Best Actress award at the Cannes Film Festival.  Both Duncan’s and Redgrave’s personal radicalism prevented similar honors from the Motion Picture Academy.  In fact, the whole production was so “drenched in Red” in the words of one critic that the cast included a rare screen appearance of Ronnie Gilbert of The Weavers in a small role.  Despite being a hit and stirring a revival of Art Nouveau and modern dance that influenced the wider culture through the‘70s, the film almost vanished and has seldom been seen since.

The story of Duncan’s life and death has inspired writers and artists to this day.  Carl Sandburg in his poem Isadora Duncan wrote:

The wind? I am the wind.

The sea and the moon? I am the sea and the moon.

Tears, pain, love, bird-flights? I am all of them.

I dance what I am.

Sin, prayer, flight, the light that never was on land or sea?

I dance what I am.

 

Sunday, September 13, 2026

Boys Found Great Art and Holy Places Deep in a French Cavern

 

Horses in the Lascaux Cave complex.

On September 12, 1940 four teenage boys chasing their dog Robot into a partially obscured cave mouth came upon something extraordinary.  Marcel Ravidat, Jacques Marsal, Georges Agnel, and Simon Coencas stumbled upon a vast trove of paintings on the walls of the cave complex near the village of Montignac, in the Department of Dordogne, France.


The dog Robot who sniffed out the hidden entrance to Lascaux, with two of the human-co-discoverers

The Lascaux Cave complex was eventually found to include several rooms or galleries including those designated as the Great Hall of the Bulls, the Lateral Passage, the Shaft of the Dead Man, the Chamber of Engravings, the Painted Gallery, and the Chamber of Felines Together they contain more than 2,000 figurative pieces, mostly of animals, and abstract patterns of dots and geometric figures. 

The most commonly represented animals are horses, 364 images, and stags, 90 images.  Among the most impressive are aurochs or bulls, one of which is depicted in a painting 17 feet long.  Other animals shown include bison, bear, rhinoceros, cave cats, and a bird.  The animals were executed in color with, often with great skill.  They were presented in profile, but with heads turned so that features like two horns could be seen.  Many appear to be in motion.  There is only one depiction of a human, the so-called “dead man” who appears to be lying prone on his back.  This figure is rendered with considerably less skill than the animal images that surround it making scientists wonder if it was a standard stylization—or even graffiti from a Stone Age vandal.


A map of the cave complex and its galleries.

The paintings were made over an extended period of time, some images overlapping and obscuring earlier ones.  The earliest images have been carbon dated to about 17,000 BCE and images continued to be added over the next 2,000 years.  The artists were the modern humans who supplanted Neanderthals in Europe about 40,000 years ago.  The earliest images are already so well developed that scientists assume some form of painting—perhaps on perishable hides or bark—had been developed over a long period predating the work in the cave.  At any rate, the sophistication of the images completely revolutionized how scientists viewed Paleolithic humans and their culture.

Lascaux and similar discoveries in caves around southwestern France and northern Spain were apparently never used as habitations but were visited over millennia for ceremonial purposes.  Many caves are oriented so that a setting sun on or near the Winter Solstice would illuminate an inner wall.  This has led some scientists to conclude that dot patters, or even major points on some of the animal paintings, may depict the stars in the night sky as they would have been seen thousands of years ago.  Some have said that they have matched patterns to specific constellations or portions of the sky.

Others believe that the paintings are meant to summon game and that chambers where images have been painted over may represent rooms that the artists believed were successful.  Yet the most common food source for these people, as identified from fire pits in inhabited caves in the same area, was reindeer which are entirely missing from the walls.


No wonder some suspect stone age graffiti.  The Dead Man, the only human image in the cave complex.

After World War II as images of the cave paintings circulated, Lascaux became a tourist attraction with thousands of visitors a year.  By 1955 carbon dioxide produced by 1,200 visitors per day had visibly damaged the paintings. In 1963 the cave complex was closed to the public.  The paintings were restored to their original state and monitored daily.

In 1979, Lascaux and other prehistoric sites in the Vézère Valley became UNESCO World Heritage Sites.   Lascaux II, with reproductions of paintings in two of the main rooms, opened to the public in 1983 just a few hundred yards from the cave entrance.


Les lions de la Grotte Chauvet--the Lions of the Cave of the Cats.

Despite the precautions, and possibly even because of air conditioning installed in the cave for climate control, damaging black mold was found invading the site in January 2008 and the cave was closed for three months even to scientists and preservationists.  I was re-opened only on a very restrictive basis.  The mold has not yet been eliminated and attempts to remove it in some spots left a black smudge obscuring a few images.  The integrity of the whole complex and it priceless contents remain in jeopardy.

Saturday, September 12, 2026

Rosh Hashanah—Sounding the Shofar for New Year 5789

Tonight is the first evening of Rosh Hashanah which begins at sundown.  For Jews it is Yom Teruah, the Day of Shouting (or Blasting) which marks the first of the High Holy Days as well as the start of the New Year.  It falls on the first day of Tishrei, the seventh month of the ecclesiastical year that began with Passover in the Spring and represents the first of the civil year.  This year it ushers in 5780 on the Hebrew calendar.

It is a joyous celebration filled with the hope of a brand-new year and is celebrated at synagogue services highlighted by the blowing of the shofar, a hollowed-out ram’s horn, as proscribed in Leviticus to “raise a noise” on Yom Teruah.   It is also it is also a symbolic wake-up call, stirring Jews to mend their ways and repent and begins a period of preparing for Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.  Poems called piyyutim are added to the regular services and a special prayer book, the mahzor, is used on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  A number of additions are made to the regular service, most notably an extended repetition of the Amidah, the central prayer of the Jewish liturgy. The Shofar is blown during Mussaf at several intervals a total of 100 times.  

 

This 1904 Austrian greeting card depicts the traditional blowing of the shofar during a Rosh Hashanah service.   

A Rosh Hashanah seder is offered by many communities but reflecting the years of exile and repression when many Jews could not openly worship at the Temple in Jerusalem or in Rabbinic synagogues, there are also rituals for the home and family including ritual foods especially apples dipped in honey to symbolize a sweet new year.  Depending on customs and traditions, other foods are also included.  Among the Ashkenazi Jews who make up most of American Judaism the ritual plate may also include dates, pomegranates, black-eyed peas, pumpkin-filled pastries called rodanchas, leek fritters called keftedes de prasa; beets and a whole fish with its head intact. It is also common to eat stuffed vegetables called legumbres yaprakes.  Wine accompanies the blessing.

 

                              Items that might be found on a Rosh Hashanah plate.

Details and customs vary depending on the origins of communities in Europe, the Mediterranean, or the Mid-East.  And also between Orthodox, Conservative, and Reform congregations.  Many entirely secular Jews still observe some of the traditions culturally.

To my many Jewish friends L’shanah Tovah no matter how you keep the day.

 

 

 

Chevalier--The Fabulous Frenchman in the Boater Hat

                  

Maurice Chevalier, despite the aristocratic connotations of his last name, made in inauspicious bow in Paris on September 12, 1888, the son of a house painter, considered a low trade, and a Franco-Belgian beauty.  He grew up nearly a street urchin with little formal schooling.

By 1901, at the age of 13 he was singing for tips in a café which eventually led to small parts in theatrical productions.  But through his teens he supported himself mostly with a parade of jobs—carpenter’s apprentice, electrician, printer, and doll painter.

In the first a series of relationships with important women, the handsome young man attracted the attention of Fréhel, a leading star of the Paris stage in 1909.  Like him she had come from the Paris streets to fame as a music hall performer.  Their relationship was tempestuous, due in no small part to her serious alcoholism, but during their brief affair she used her influence to get Chevalier a star shot as a singer and mimic at l’Alcazar in Marseille.

                                                    Chevalier as a World War I French Poilu --wounded, held as a prisoner of war, and decorated.

Sensational notices in the south brought him back to Paris where he was soon staring in the Folies Bergère.   In 1911 he abruptly cut off his relationship with Fréhel, causing her to attempt suicide.  He took up with his dance partner and a major star of the Folies, 36-year-old Mistinguett.  They had a very public love affair, and she advanced his career—and as we shall see, may have saved his life.

After success on the stage and as a recording artist—and less success in a few silent films, Chevalier was called into national service shortly before World War I broke out in 1914.  Stationed at the front from the beginning of serious hostilities, he was severely wounded in the back by shrapnel and was captured by the Germans and held as a prisoner of war.  While in detention he undertook the study of English from British POWs and became quite fluent.

In 1916 Mistinguett prevailed upon her admirer—and probable lover—King Alfonso XIII of Spain, to intercede with his cousin Kaiser Wilhelm II to release Chevalier.  And in good time, too, because conditions in the camps deteriorated badly as the war dragged on and many died there.

Back in Paris, Mistinguett secured him a spot in her current show at the prestigious Casino de Paris in 1917.  By this time, he had perfected his wry but suave stage persona with a straw boater hat tilted rakishly over one eye.  His star turn at the casino attracted big audiences not only among Parisians, but among the huge numbers of British and American troops flooding the city.  Although he sang in French, he was able to banter charmingly in English, which opened up new possibilities.

He was booked in London where he had huge success at the Palace Theatre.  While in England, he was exposed for the first time to American jazz, just introduced there by the Original Dixieland Jass Band, which deeply influenced his own singing style, something that deepened as Black musicians began performing in Paris soon after.

Back in Paris, Chevalier impressed visiting American screen idol Douglas Fairbanks in 1920 who tried to sign him for Four Stars Pictures to work opposite his wife, Mary Pickford.  But Chevalier, who’s French films had not been successful, did not believe he was suitable for silent film.

In 1920 he appeared—and nearly stole the show—as the second lead in the operetta Dédé.  When the show was picked up for Broadway, Chevalier was able to make his American debut in 1922, which he followed up with successful appearances in revues.  He was creating many of his memorable song and dance performances, including such signature hits as Valentine.

The advent of talking pictures in 1928 proved to be Chevalier’s breakthrough in film.  Paramount Pictures, eager to catch up with first-out-of-the-gate Warner Bros., looked for established musical stars.  The handsome Frenchman fit the bill perfectly.  Arriving in Hollywood with a new wife, dancer Yvonne Vallée, he went to work.

                                            Sheet music for Chevalier's signature song Louise from his first American sound film Innocents of Paris.

Paramount released its first musical, Innocents of Paris starring Chevalier in 1929.  Like most early musicals, encumbered by a camera that had to be kept in a sealed room because of its own noise, the film was somewhat flat and static.  But Chevalier was sensational in his performance of the instant classic Louise.

In 1929 he appeared for the first time with Jeanette McDonald in The Love Parade despite the fact that the insecure star was convinced he could not portray a member of a royal court.  In fact, the hit saved the studio which was on the brink of collapse after the Stock Market Crash and earned Chevalier an Academy Award nomination for Best Actor.


                        Chevalier in Love Parade.  He was insecure playing an officer and aristocrat instead of his usual happy-go-lucky working class Parisian.

By the following year he was the biggest star on the Paramount lot, and some say the highest paid actor in films.  The Big Pond that year teamed him with Claudette Colbert in a light romantic comedy which featured hit songs, Livin in the Sunlight, Lovin in the Moonlight and A New Kind of Love, often called the Nightingale Song.  Chevalier received another Oscar nomination for the part.  He was also part of an all-star revue film, Paramount on Parade.

These films, and ones to follow, were simultaneously shot in French for release in Europe

An illustration of just how iconic Chevalier  became in a short time, was a scene in the Marx Brothers classic Monkey Business in 1931.  Harpo, Chico, and Groucho, stowaways on an ocean liner, each try to sneak past immigration with Chevaliers’ stolen passport, each trying to prove he is the star by performing a famous snatch of A New Kind of Love—“If the nightingales could sing like you….”

Despite his success, his humble and impoverished origins caused some quirky behavior.  He was notoriously cheap, refusing to pay a dime a day parking fee on the Paramount lot.  When offered the customary cigarette, a polite custom of the time, he would take two or three and stuff them in his pocket.  He was also a poor tipper on his rounds of nightclubs with young dancers and actresses.  Despite his marriage, he was notoriously on the prowl.  Chevalier was very insecure about his humble origins and lack of a good education.  He relied on fellow French stars Charles Boyer and Adolph Menjou, both well-bred men of sophisticated tastes, for tips on art, literature, and culture.

Musicals had briefly gone out of fashion in 1931 when the studio re-united Chevalier with Colbert and with Miriam Hopkins in The Smiling Lieutenant.  It was his third hit film for director Ernst Lubitsch and Paramount’s biggest grossing picture of the year.


Before Nelson Eddy, Chevalier was Jeanette MacDonald's first leading man despite his casual, almost talkative style singing contrasting with her operatic voice.

He was then reteamed with rising star McDonald in three more huge hit musicals, One Hour With You, Love Me Tonight, and the Franz Lehár operetta The Merry Widow.  In the second of those films, songwriters Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart for the first time integrated the music to advance the plot.

Despite these successes, Chevalier got into a salary dispute with Paramount bosses and bolted the studio for rival MGM in 1935.  But MGM did not seem interested him for American releases.  Instead, he was sent back to France to make films in French for the European market.  In 1936 working again with McDonald he made La veuve joyeuse with Lubitsch directing. 

They loaned him to Columbia Pictures for Folies Bergère de Paris with Merle Oberon and Ann Sothern, produced in English and French Versions—the French version including the famous topless dancers of the revue.

Chevalier’s star power in Hollywood was fading, but still strong in Europe.  In ’37 he starred in a British release, The Beloved Vagabond.  He continued to make films in France for the rest of the decade, some of which were in limited release in the US in English versions, but none were successful.  The same year he married in Paris for a second time to another dancer, Nita Raya.

None the less, Chevalier remained a major star and returned with great success to the Paris stage.


Chevalier with a French officer held in a German POW camp in 1940--the same camp where he was a prisoner.  His social connections with German officers in Paris facilitated the visit and fueled rumors that he was a collaborator.  He left the camp with 15 men paroled personally to him.

His career, however, ominously collided with the outbreak of World War II, resulting in an almost fatal blow to his American reputation.  Chevalier stayed in Paris during the German occupation starring again at the Casino de Paris in the revue Bonjour Paris Just as American and British troops were a big part of his audience in 1917, Germans crowded his performances in 1940 and ’41.  He was invited—virtually ordered—to appear in Berlin, but he constantly declined.  He did get permission to entertain at the very same prisoner of war camp where he had once been held and, turning on his noted charm, managed to leave with 10 POWs released into his custody.

Despite this, Chevalier never used his popularity with German officers in Paris, who he saw socially, to mine for intelligence information like Collette and other famous figures or to become active in the Resistance like Josephine Baker He tried to remain neutral.  But that became more and more difficult and in 1942 he left Paris and performing for a period as a near recluse near Cannes.

After liberation, he joined in street celebrations in Paris, and also participated in some Communist street rallies.  He was charged with collaboration in 1944, which was widely publicized in the US.  Not widely publicized was that he was cleared of all charges.

With his ability to tour in the US and Britain damaged not only by the lingering suspicions of collaboration, but by McCarthy Era anti-communist hysteria, Chevalier spent several years working on his autobiography in hopes to clear his name.

Splitting from Ray in 1946, he also cultivated an interest in painting and the arts, always trying to climb out of his origins in the Paris gutter.

Just when the first ever official Friars Club Roast was held in his honor making it seem like he might regain ground in America, his appearance at the Stockholm Appeal concert, a Communist organized protest to nuclear arms in 1949 resulted in his visa to visit the US being revoked.

Despite continuing to tour elsewhere, Chevalier was considering retirement and bought a comfortable estate in Paris.  He began a long-time relationship with Janie Michels, a young divorcee with three children. 

With McCarthyism fading, his visa was restored in 1954 and the next year Chevalier launched a successful US tour, working in the most elegant nightclubs.  Revived interest in his career convinced screenwriter/director Billy Wilder to cast him as Audrey Hepburn’s father, a small but meaty dramatic role, in Love in the Afternoon.  The 1957 film was his first American production in 20 years.


The highlight of Chevalier's revived film career was in GiGi where he played an older Boulevardier.  He opened the film with this number, Thank Heaven for Little Girls.

It was followed by a hugely successful second film career as an elderly man, notably in Gigi, 1958 with Leslie Caron.  The Motion Picture Academy presented him with an Honorary Oscar in recognition of his whole film career as a result.

Chevalier also appeared in Can-Can with Frank Sinatra, the romantic drama Fanny with Caron and his old Hollywood friend Charles Boyer, Panic Button with Jayne Mansfield and three other U.S films.  In between he toured tirelessly in the US, Latin America, and Europe.

But he was slowing down.  After a farewell American tour in 1969, he retired.  Disney songwriters Richard M. and Robert B. Sherman lured him into the studio one more time to record the theme for The Aristocats, his final contribution to the film industry.

Chevalier died in Paris on January 1, 1972 at the age of 83.

 

Friday, September 11, 2026

On It's 25th Anniversary an Old Horror Still Haunts with Murfin Rant and Verse.

   

Note—Twenty-five years is both a long time and the blink of an eye.  For an emerging generation the 9/11/2001 attacks are just old stories or, worse yet, history.  For many of us it is a central trauma in our lives.  It may also be the last time almost all Americans loved each other.  Today we are warring camps.  Reposting a regular 9/11 blog post.  Some of the references seem dated but the song remains the same.

There is no escaping it.  A scab is pulled off a barely healed wound.  Opportunists and con men scramble to once again jump to wrong conclusions, scapegoat strawmen, and bend the occasion to serve their ambitions and blood lust.

I dread it every year.  But it will not leave me or, I suspect, any of us alone.

But as horrible as those images etched indelibly in my mind are, is it wrong to say that I miss the days just after?  Remember?  For a little while Americans loved each other, found comfort in each other’s arms.  Divisions melted.  We were united by grief, and yes, even some righteous anger.  Even the world mourned for us.  Some of us even dared hope that the sense of oneness, community, and solidarity could change us.  Maybe even last.

Of course, it didn’t.  Weeks went by and we went charging off in different directions—drumming up wars on people who had nothing to do with the attack, cooking up wild conspiracy theories that confirmed our own personal demons and loathing’s, scapegoating the convenient and the weak, attacking the patriotism of anyone who did not wear a flag pin 24 hours a day.

And now, multiple wars later, a Depression, the election of a Black President then his replacement with a malignant narcissist and common charlatan, the ascent of a kind of political madness, the rise of entitled oligarchy, immigration panic, and the rise of fascist White nationalism Americans hate each other.  Really hate.  Can’t stand to talk with each other, be in the same room, breathe the same air.  Rage is the order of the day.  White men strut through malls and fast food emporiums with military style weapons slung over their shoulder daring anyone to look cross eyed at them and in their heart of hearts hoping that someone will challenge them.  Looking for any spark to set off a Civil War.

Black kids who look like they could be trouble are pumped full of holes with monotonous regularity.  Half-starved immigrant children are torn from their parents, caged, and brutalized. In some churches, mosques, and temples hate thy neighbor is the daily message.  We are sliced and diced apart every which way—by race, language, religion, politics, age, gender, and who we choose to love.

 

24 years later America is shattered and Americans despise each other. 

The once revered first responder heroes of 9/11 have been transformed into greedy union thugs by politicians.  Police departments have been transformed from serving and protecting into little armies to quash the slightest suggestion of unrest or dissent.

Women and their health have become more than ever political plaything, and the objects of Great Lie campaigns worthy of anything by Goebbels.   Transgender humans have become prey of righteous hunters.

And guns still don’t kill people—the increasing mounds of bodies are felled by some kind of mysterious magic.

So much for my rant.

Looking back, I have grappled with 9/11 in my poetry often over the years.  How that verse evolved speaks of what has happened to us. 

The first one was written for a one-year anniversary program and was included in my collection We Build Temples in the Heart in 2004.

 

Photos of the dead and missing in New York posted on a makeshift memorial wall. 

The Dead of 9/11 Leave a Message on George W’s Voice Mail

 

The Dead cry out—

 

It is not lonely here!

            They come by the scores

                        and by the thousands

                        every day,

                        as they have always come,

                        each arrival here

                        a wrenching loss below.

            They come as they have always come,

                        each death the completion of a journey,

                        the closing of a hoop of life.

            And we welcome each of them.

 

But we are not lonely here.

            We do not wander silent corridors

                        our footsteps echoing,

                        yearning for a voice.

            We are not lonely

                        for we are the Dead

                        and we are everywhere

                        united in that last breath

                        and in eternity.

 

But You—

 

You make haste to fill the unfillable,

            to send us more,

            many more,

            out of their own time

            as we were out of ours,

            yanked here in violence and hatred.

 

Let them be.

They will come in their own time.

 

We who know death

            do not cry out for revenge.

 

We are not lonely here.

 

—Patrick Murfin

 

 

In 2007 came one of those serendipitous coming together of calendar occasions.

 

 

 

                                                "If I wore stars on a pointed hat." 

 

September 12, 2007

The Day After 9/11—Ramadan and Rosh Hashanah

 

Wheels turning within wheels—

     an astrolabe,

          Tycho’s observatory,

               gears in some fantastic machine,

                    electrons—atoms—molecules,

                        moons—planets—stars—galaxies—universes.

 

Today, just today—

     Point A on Wheel X, spinning urgently,

     comes to kiss Point B on Wheel Y,

     rotating on its own good time,

     for just a nano-second

     having just brushed by

     Point C on cog Z.

 

These precise events will come again,

    I suppose—

     you do the math if you wish.

 

But if I wore stars on a pointed hat,

    I might conclude that there was something

    beyond mere physics at work here.

 

Call it an omen, if you wish,

     or the flat hand of something Greater

     slapping us upside our

     merely mortal heads

     and scolding us—

               “Spin as you will,

                you spin not alone.”

 

—Patrick Murfin

  

 

On the tenth anniversary I was moved by reading that the dust from the Twin Towers was still orbiting the stratosphere and slowly, year by year, falling to Earth.

 

 

 

The cloud of ash envelops Manhattan. 

 

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

September 9, 2011, Crystal Lake, Illinois

 

The ash and dust, they say,

rose as high as the skirts

of the ionosphere.

Prevailing winds pushed it

            across oceans and around the world.

 

Most has sifted by now to the earth.

Some orbits still,

motes descending

            now and again.

 

My study is a cluttered mess.

Dust lays on any unattended

horizontal surface,

makes webs in corners,

balls in computer wire rats nests,

devils under bookshelves.

 

That speck, that one there,

            the one by the stapler,

            just might be what’s left

            of the Dominican cleaner

            who left her children

            with their Abuela

            and went to work

            in the sky

            only to be vaporized.

 

Hola, señora.

It is an honor to meet you.

 

—Patrick Murfin

 

 

Thirteen years ago, I recalled that 9/11 was etched in the memories of Chileans as the date of their own national catastrophe—the 1973 coup détat that overthrew the democratically elected government of Salvador Allende and ushered in a brutal dictatorship.  The United States government was more than just complicit in that.

 

 

 

La Moneda, the Presidential Palace in Santiago, under attack during the U.S. sponsored Chilean coup on 9/11 1973.  In the wake of the coup thousands were killed or disappeared 

 

Two Anniversaries

September 11, 2013

 

I’ll ante my 3,000 vaporized on a crystal morning.

You’ll see me your 3,000 homeless ghosts.

I’ll give you my crumbling Towers and billowing ash.

You will call with the bombed rubble of La Moneda .

 

I’ll throw in a stack of terrorists with beards and turbans.

You’ll count out freckled faces, crew cuts, and black fedoras.

 

Let’s show our cards and see who loses.

 

—Patrick Murfin