I*ve managed to escape the worst rigors of this exceptionally mild London winter with a brace of hedonistic trips — one to Mexico, the other to Egypt. Before leaving for our trip down the Nile, dire warnings were issued by various American friends. ‘It*s much too dangerous, you*ll get shot,* warned one New Yorker. ‘It*s filthy — you*ll get dengue fever, maybe even black tongue disease!* ‘Don*t eat anything except pasta and well-cooked meat— you*ll be really ill if you eat vegetables or salad,* lectured another. Bearing this well-meant advice in mind and armed with every medication known to modern science, we arrived in Luxor with some trepidation. Our luxurious home for the week could best be described as a modem-day version of Cleopatra*s barge — with a crew of almost 50. The friends who had chartered this behemoth are Italian, so had none of the American phobias instilled in me. They laughed when we talked of terrorists and feebly passed on the delicious-looking salads, fish and vegetables. I*d
stocked up on biscuits and dried fruit in Paris, just in case of attacks of acute hunger pangs while stumbling around some tomb or other. What an idiot! The food was superb, not one of our shipmates contracted a deadly ailment and within a couple of days it was back to the groaning buffet and to hell with the consequences. Egypt is a total delight, as are the Egyptian people. Kind and dignified in their turbans and djellabas, there is an innate elegance in their bearing — not, alas,, so
apparent in that section of the populace who choose to wear fake American sportswear. It seems sad that more of them don*t wear their traditional, stylish clothes, which all of us on the boat rapidly adopted as our own wear. We shopped in the bazaars like mad until I finally came down with caftan-fatigue syndrome. It*s quite incredible barging down the Nile: like being transported back to biblical times. Gazing at the banks of the river for mile after peaceful mile, you see no hideous modem infrastructure to bruise the eye; just mud-brick houses here and there, palm trees and a few shepherds tending their flocks. Watching the little sailing boats gliding up and
down the river reminded me of a line of dialogue — fortunately cut — from a swords-and-sandals epic I worked on many moons ago: ‘Kiss me again like you did on the felucca.* All my life the verb ‘to cleanse* has carried with it a positive meaning. For example, you go to church to pray and ask for forgiveness, and, hopefully, to be cleansed of your sins. Women use cleansing-cream on their faces to remove their make-up, because, if we didn’t, after a couple of weeks we would wake up with skin like a crocodile. But recently the word has been stood on its head, its meaning polluted, with the invention of that truly ghastly phrase ‘ethnic cleansing*. This has been allowed to become a euphemism for barbaric mass murder carried out for political purposes, making this obscene horror sound somehow acceptable. I see little difference between what the Serbs are doing in Kosovo and the Nazis* Final Solution — except in scale. Thank God Nato is at last doing the right thing, but please, let us stop referring to this ‘cleansing* business — it*s political correctness gone mad. Glamour is on a life-support machine and not expected to live — it*s
official. The cover of the Hollywood issue of Vanity Fair features 14 of the hottest new young stars in Hollywood, but what strikes me most is their mediocrity. Six of the girls — no doubt all excellent actresses — feature the same bland, expressionless look, the same hairstyle, each possessing — at least, superficially — a complete lack of individuality. Is this how audiences want their stars to be today, with blank faces and uniformly dull clothes? I somehow doubt it. A documentary last
week about the great studio MGM showed a Fifties newsreel of its stars towards the end of Hollywood*s golden era. In stark contrast to this year*s crop, everyone
appeared completely different, each with their own particular stylish ‘look*. It*s unfair to make direct comparisons, but Grace Kelly, Ava Gardner, Lana Turner and
Elizabeth Taylor all exuded such allure, each having their own individual style in abundance. As for the men, no group today could come close to the combined masculine appeal of Clark Gable, Spencer Tracy, James Stewart and Gene Kelly. It*s sad that almost every one of these icons has gone, but sadder still that in the younger
generation there are so few of their calibre. Every time I check in at an airport, I have to suppress a grin when asked those statutory questions about my luggage. Sometimes these are posed in a tone of understandably bored resignation, at other times with sparkling enthusiasm, as if the person were actually interested
in your replies. It*s as if some acting coach has put some of them through their paces — ‘Now, my dears, think of yourselves as a particularly charismatic prosecuting counsel, determined to get at the truth. Let*s try it again — big smile — eye contact — off you go.* My grin, however, is evoked by an anecdote about the late-lamented Lord Warwick. The handsome and charming ‘Brookie* was checking in for a flight to Spain, when he was asked if he had packed his suitcases himself. ‘Packed them myself?* he replied with astonishment. ‘Really, the very idea.’ Having only recently been released from the constricting embrace of my 18th-century-style corsets in The Clandestine Marriage, I now find myself being squeezed into yet another set. At the irresistible request of Mr Spielberg, I*m off to Hollywood to give my all as Fred Flintstone*s prospective mother-in-law. I was there last month having preliminary fittings for my stone-age cartoon costumes. These are the most outrageous and extravagant creations I*ve
ever worn — which is quite an admission. Consisting mainly of beautifully cut leather, brilliantly coloured, they fit like, a second skin — but only if said corset is cinched in to Scarlett O*Hara proportions. Understandably, hardly a gram of fat has been allowed to pass my lips since, as the camera tends to put pounds on anyway
— which probably explains why thin is always in~ with the Hollywood crowd.
|
