The Echo of a Distant Time

Monday, July 27, 2026

Sunshine, cherries, and smiles

photo: source unknown

Please be advised that The Echo of a Distant Time and Broken Dolls and Fallen Angels have a new home on Reddit. Visit reddit.com/r/DollsFallen and join today.

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

Sunday, July 26, 2026

Diane Webber: pretty in pastel

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Saturday, July 25, 2026

Saturday night at the diner

A retro-inspired colour photograph shows a dark-haired woman posing atop the polished rear section of a bright red classic American car inside a 1950s-style diner. She wears a strapless red dress cinched with a matching belt, white thigh-high stockings decorated with a colourful cherry pattern, and glossy red Mary Jane heels. Looking downward with a relaxed, playful expression, she rests one hand on the car while the other sits upon her hip, one leg extended across the vehicle's surface. The diner's interior features chrome-framed tables, red chairs, framed vintage music and film posters—including one featuring Elvis Presley—and black-and-white decorative trim, creating a nostalgic rock-and-roll atmosphere. Soft indoor lighting and the vivid red-and-white colour palette reinforce the image's cheerful mid-century aesthetic.

photo: source unknown

The irresistible charm and the enduring appeal of mid-century Americana. Whether or not the 1950s ever truly resembled the romanticised world we imagine today is almost beside the point. Chrome, polished paintwork, bright summer dresses, and playful confidence have continued to evoke an ideal of youthful optimism; alas, one that is forever lost to our timeline, and therein lies its abiding allure.

Follow x.com/DollsFallen for nostalgia and more piquant fare. Always in good taste, but 18+ ONLY.

JOIN TODAY: Broken Dolls and Fallen Angels group on Facebook (18+ ONLY) - https://www.facebook.com/groups/886318992990373

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

Greta Granstedt: when every smile sold a dream

Swedish-American actress and model Greta Granstedt, 13 July 1907 to 7 October 1987. Never a headliner during Hollywood's Golden Age, yet possessed of a smile that still reaches across the decades. {photo: circa 1931–33, possibly by Eugene Robert Richee for Paramount Pictures}

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

Monday, July 20, 2026

Remembering Jennifer Finch, 5 August 1966 to 18 July 2026

A dynamic concert photograph captures Jennifer Finch performing live with infectious energy, singing into a microphone while playing a black electric bass guitar. She wears a sleeveless black satin top, layered silver necklaces and colourful red-and-blue wristbands, her hair blown dramatically by stage fans as she smiles mid-performance. Warm red stage lighting bathes the background, creating a vivid contrast with her dark clothing and instrument. The close composition emphasises her animated expression, confident stage presence and vigorous musicianship, while the blurred backdrop and microphone stand reinforce the immediacy and excitement of a live rock performance before an unseen audience.

Getty Images

Rest in Peace, Jennifer Finch: L7 bassist dies at fifty-nine. {Billboard 19 July}

https://www.billboard.com/music/rock/jennifer-finch-l7-bassist-dies-1236297297/

L7 were a breath of fresh air in the early 1990s, one of a wave of intelligent hard rock bands who — however briefly — found a degree of success after years of gutter-trash hair metal dominating the airwaves. ‘Pretend We’re Dead’, their signature ‘hit’ song (not a commercial chart hit, but it received a reasonable amount of MTV exposure and airplay on rock stations such as WAAF here in Massachusetts), is far darker, heavier, and more lethal than anything any of the pretty boy cock rockers ever produced. They were a band that embraced the label of ‘punk rock’, but, really, the style of music they, and similar bands such as Babes in Toyland or even Hole, produced was in no way identical to the stereotypical three-chord tripe made by dudes with mohawks and safety pins sticking out of their noses. Informed by those punk rockers, certainly, but equally so by ‘60s garage rock and psychedelia, and delivered with a pointedly metallic sheen that owed an obvious debt to Black Sabbath.

I do not remember exactly, but I believe I may have owned the record that produced ‘Pretend We’re Dead’ (Bricks Are Heavy) and perhaps one or two other L7 discs at some point. At one time, I had upwards of 1,200 CDs in my collection. It was ridiculous. I cannot honestly proclaim I kept much track of the women of L7 in the decades since — along with scores of other bands and artists from those halcyon days — but Godspeed to a woman who was part of a much-needed revolution in rock music, back when such things still mattered.

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

Friday, July 17, 2026

Remembering the great vaudevillian James Cagney, born 17 July 1899

A black-and-white publicity still from the 1931 Warner Bros. crime film The Public Enemy, featuring James Cagney and Jean Harlow. Cagney sits in the foreground wearing a tuxedo and bow tie, his expression stern and determined as he loosely grips a revolver resting across his lap. Behind him, Harlow stands elegantly in a satin evening gown with a flowing shoulder drape, holding a long cigarette holder while gazing coolly towards the camera. One hand rests lightly upon Cagney's shoulder, reinforcing their dramatic partnership. A small table with an ashtray, cigarettes, and an ice bucket completes the sophisticated Art Deco setting, emphasising Hollywood's glamorous yet dangerous vision of the Prohibition-era underworld.

Warner Brothers

“I still think of myself essentially as a vaudevillian, as a song and dance man. The vaudevillians I knew by and large were marvelous people. Ninety percent of them had no schooling, but they had a vivid something or other about them that absolutely riveted an audience's attention. Those vaudevillians knew something that ultimately I came to understand and believe - that audiences are the ones who determine material. They buy the tickets.” — the Hollywood god James Cagney, reflecting on his ‘schooling’ in the world of entertainment. (source: https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000010/quotes/)

Seen here with the goddess Jean Harlow in a promotional shot for The Public Enemy (1931, WB).

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

Wednesday, July 15, 2026

Facebook: apparently this violates something

A candid indoor photograph shows a woman posing on a bed in a bedroom. She is kneeling on white bedding and looking directly towards the camera with an intense expression. She wears black lace lingerie with matching garter straps and sheer thigh-high stockings. Her shoulder-length light brown hair falls partly across one side of her face. The room is softly lit by a floor lamp, with a window covered by blinds, framed wall decorations, and everyday household items visible in the background. The informal setting and direct camera engagement create the atmosphere of a personal glamour photograph taken in a private residence.

photo: source unknown

No firm decisions have been made, but I am about this close to shutting down the Broken Dolls and Fallen Angels Facebook group. Too much hassle.

Facebook, in its infinite wisdom, is presently not allowing yours truly to post in groups, not even in the one I created and operate, and offers scant details as to why. The sort of posts I see in all sorts of other groups and pages are somehow being removed from Broken Dolls and Fallen Angels. I am infuriated; traffic in the group hath been steady, and I am still moderating… for now. Thank you to those who are posting, but consider this notice that this group is an endangered species.

I have sought to make Broken Dolls and Fallen Angels one of the top groups of its kind on Facebook — and The Echo of a Distant Time, as it stands, is not too far from 10K followers — but if it never happens, it will not be for lack of effort on my part, or because I did anything wrong. It shall be because Facebook/Meta is a garbage company where customer support is non-existent and ever-shifting guidelines are enforced capriciously and unfairly.

So, kiss my ass, Facebook… and I highly encourage any and all reading this to begin to gradually wean themselves off this bloody platform. For I want off this infernal thing, but most of my readers are here and not on the other sites, and I would like to take as many as possible of them with me once I finally do shut this Facebook thing — not just the group, but everything — down for good. Am currently aiming for on or around 1 July 2027… an operation such as this must be wound down carefully. And if I do remain beyond that point, it will be very grudgingly and only because it remains the primary driver of all of my overall web traffic.

Make no mistake, I am beyond fed up and I strongly desire at this point for Facebook to go the way of Myspace. Not even Elon’s playground gives me a quarter of the troubles Zuckerberg’s does. F**k you and your harassment over NOTHING!

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

England’s World Cup dream comes to an end

Argentina 2, England 1. {ESPN 15 July}

https://www.espn.com/soccer/match/_/gameId/760515

Another dream in life dies, I shall never see my ancestral homeland win a World Cup. #ENGLAND fell to Argentina in the World Cup semi-final, 2-1. Argentina will face Spain in the World Cup final on Sunday. Massive respect to Lionel Messi, but I cannot possibly root for the Argentinians now.

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

Monday, July 13, 2026

Ally Sheedy: the quiet rebellion

Actress and writer Ally Sheedy poses in a contemplative studio portrait against a dark backdrop. Dressed in an oversized black sweater that slips from one shoulder, she sits with her knees drawn close to her body, creating an informal and introspective composition. Her dark hair is loosely styled, framing a serious, direct gaze towards the camera. White athletic socks and light-coloured trainers provide a casual contrast to the otherwise minimalist image. Soft, subdued lighting emphasises her facial features while allowing the dark clothing and background to merge into a moody, understated aesthetic. The portrait conveys vulnerability, intelligence, and quiet self-possession, qualities often associated with Sheedy’s most memorable screen performances during the 1980s and beyond.

Universal Pictures

Actress and writer Ally Sheedy in a promotional photograph for what is, arguably, her most celebrated role: the enigmatic Allison Reynolds in the 1985 coming-of-age classic The Breakfast Club. Born on 13 July 1963 in New York City, Sheedy brought remarkable depth to a character who might otherwise have remained a stereotype. In a film built around teenage archetypes, Allison emerged as the most complex figure of all — a young woman whose silence concealed intelligence, vulnerability, and a profound sense of alienation. One who hath always favoured emotional depth over glamour, Sheedy hath spent decades building a career spanning film, television, theatre, and writing, and today serves as a professor at the City College of New York.

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

Tuesday, July 7, 2026

Waiting for a reply

A glamour portrait shows Shay Laren standing beside a tiled bathroom counter bathed in bright morning sunlight streaming through a large window behind her. She wears pale pink lingerie consisting of a bra and matching shorts trimmed with delicate lace. Turning partially towards the camera, she rests both hands upon the countertop while gazing directly at the viewer with a composed, slightly inquisitive expression. Her long auburn hair falls in soft waves across her shoulders, illuminated by strong backlighting that creates a warm, radiant halo effect. Seashells arranged along the windowsill and a softly lit interior contribute to the intimate domestic setting. The image emphasises natural light, gentle pastel tones, and a relaxed, fashion-oriented glamour aesthetic.

model Gabbriette Bechtel in Vogue

Modern loneliness does not always look lonely.

It may wear fashionable clothes. It may possess beauty, youth, money, popularity, or thousands of followers. It may appear in magazines and accumulate admirers by the score.

Yet it remains loneliness all the same.

The great irony of our age is that we have never been more connected, and never found it so difficult to truly reach one another.

A century ago, a young woman waiting to hear from someone might have stood at a window, listened for footsteps, or watched the postman's approach. Today she stares at a glowing screen.

The technology has changed.

The feeling has not.

The anticipation.

The uncertainty.

The silent hope that a particular name will appear.

Perhaps that is why photographs such as this resonate. Beneath the fashion, beneath the glamour, beneath the carefully composed aesthetic, there exists something recognisably human.

A moment of waiting.

And if there is one thing every generation understands, it is that.

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

The things we remember

photo: Penthouse Pet Shay Laren

Most of life is not composed of great events.

History books concern themselves with wars, elections, scandals, disasters, and triumphs. Yet when people grow older and look back upon their lives, they rarely find themselves dwelling upon such things. Instead, they remember fragments.

The way sunlight fell through a kitchen window on a summer morning.

A certain song playing from another room.

The scent of coffee. The sound of laughter. A glance over a shoulder.

Moments that seemed utterly ordinary at the time.

Perhaps that is why old photographs possess such power. They remind us that every era, no matter how distant, was once someone's present. Every faded image captures a moment that appeared no more remarkable than today does to us.

And yet, somehow, those are the things that endure.

Not the headlines.

Not the controversies.

Not the noise.

Only the light, and the memory of how it felt to stand within it.

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

Waiting for the exit

photo: source unknown

Facebook, in its infinite wisdom, is presently not allowing yours truly to post in groups, not even in the one I created and operate, and will not tell me why. I am infuriated; however, traffic in the group hath been steady, and I am still moderating. Thank you to those who are posting.

I do want to make Broken Dolls and Fallen Angels one of the top groups of its kind on Facebook — and The Echo of a Distant Time, as it stands, is not too far from 10K followers — but if it never happens, it will not be for lack of effort on my part, or because I did anything wrong. It shall be because Facebook/Meta is a garbage company where customer support is non-existent and ever-shifting guidelines are enforced capriciously and unfairly.

So, kiss my ass, Facebook… and I highly encourage any and all reading this to begin to gradually wean themselves off that bloody platform. For I want off the infernal thing, but most of my readers are there and not on the other sites, and I would like to take as many as possible of them with me once I finally do shut this Facebook thing down for good. Aiming for, let us say, 1 July 2027… an operation such as this must be wound down carefully. And if I do remain beyond that point, it will be very grudgingly and only because it shall remain the primary driver of all of my overall web traffic.

Make no mistake, I am beyond fed up and I strongly desire at this point for Facebook to go the way of Myspace. Not even Elon’s playground gives me a quarter of the troubles Zuckerberg’s does.

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

Virginia Rappe: the star she might have become

lack-and-white studio portrait of a young woman with dark, wavy bobbed hair, smiling and looking to the side. She wears a strapless, satin evening gown with a floral corsage at the waist, a dark ribbon belt, and a long fringed, patterned shawl draped over one shoulder and arm. She stands against a plain dark backdrop, one hand resting on her hip. The photograph bears a label reading 'RAPPE' and a negative number in the upper corners.

George Grantham Bain

Model and silent film actress Virginia Rappe: born 7 July 1891 and died under horrible circumstances, officially as a result of a ruptured bladder, 9 September 1921, four days after a Labor Day party in San Francisco, held in the hotel suite of one of the silver screen’s most famous and beloved actors of the day, Roscoe ‘Fatty’ Arbuckle. Arbuckle was tried three times on charges of rape and manslaughter in connection with Rappe's death, but was unanimously acquitted by a jury at the third trial. Though Arbuckle’s public reputation was salvaged, his career was hampered to a great extent by the scandal, and he himself would die relatively young (though, realistically, not especially young for a man of his size and habits), of a heart attack, aged 46.

As for Virginia Rappe, unfortunately she was not a particularly prolific model and actress, only beginning in earnest when she moved to Los Angeles in 1917, then already 26 years old. Most of the films on her thin résumé are considered lost, leaving the question of what might have been very much unanswered. We simply do not know what kind of actress she was, or what she might have become. Regardless, she was a human being, and it is unfortunate that she is remembered chiefly for a scandal which, in the end, may not have been much of a scandal at all.

After all, the jury in Arbuckle's third and final trial went so far as to issue him a formal apology.

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

Sunday, July 5, 2026

A masterclass in controlled exasperation: Glenda Farrell

Actress Glenda Farrell, seen in 1934’s Hi, Nellie (WB). The expression of a woman who has been patient for a very long time and has simply — finished. No dramatics, no Crawford-style theatrics. Just a clean, elegant, utterly final withdrawal of the will to perform contentment. Yours truly doth relate.

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

Watching the world depart: broken dolls, broken platform (looking at thee, Facebook)

A striking black-and-white photograph by André de Dienes depicts a nude woman reclining at the edge of a calm shoreline. Seen from behind and photographed from a low angle, she lies partially in the shallow water with her body stretched diagonally across the foreground. Gentle waves ripple around her as sunlight glints upon the smooth surface of the sea. In the distance, a large ocean liner sits on the horizon, accompanied by several small sailboats that emphasise the vast scale of the open water. The minimalist composition contrasts the organic curves of the figure with the expansive geometry of sea and sky, creating a mood of solitude, freedom, and quiet contemplation. Soft tonal gradations, reflective water, and the immense negative space contribute to the photograph’s dreamlike and lyrical quality, characteristic of de Dienes’s celebrated mid-century glamour photography.

photo: model Mickey Jines by André de Dienes

#KissMyAss Suppose I am going to have to do this on a daily basis now, as Facebook will not stop playing games with my page — The Echo of a Distant Time — and group — Broken Dolls and Fallen Angels (18+ ONLY, https://www.facebook.com/groups/886318992990373) when I have not done a damn thing wrong or broken any actual rule (as if algorithms should be enforcing anything above human beings).

Facebook, in its infinite wisdom, is presently not allowing yours truly to post in groups, not even in the one I created and operate, and will not tell me why. I am infuriated; however, traffic in the group hath been steady, and I am still moderating. Thank you to those who are posting.

I do want to make Broken Dolls and Fallen Angels one of the top groups of its kind on Facebook — and The Echo of a Distant Time, as is, is not too far from 10K followers — but if it never happens, it will not be for lack of effort on my part, or because I did anything wrong. It shall be because Facebook/Meta is a garbage company where customer support is nonexistent and ever-shifting guidelines are enforced capriciously and unfairly.

So, kiss my ass, Facebook… and I highly encourage any and all reading this to begin to gradually wean themselves off this bloody platform. For I want off it, but most of my readers are here and not on the other sites, and I would like to take as many as possible of them with me once I finally do shut this Facebook thing down for good. Aiming for, let us say, one year from now… an operation such as this needs to be wound down carefully. And if I do remain beyond that point, it will be very grudgingly and only because it shall remain the primary driver of all of my overall web traffic.

Make no mistake, I am beyond fed-up and I strongly desire at this point for Facebook to go the way of Myspace. Not even Elon’s playground gives me a quarter of the troubles Zuckerberg’s does.

(see linktr.ee/arthurnewhook for my full list of socials… then follow me in those places)

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

Saturday, July 4, 2026

Drawn like a moth to flame: a prayer to Aphrodite

A contemporary glamour photograph depicts two blonde women posed indoors in a brightly lit modern setting. One woman stands beside a light-coloured partition, wearing a cropped maroon top with white trim and a short white pleated skirt. Her long straight hair falls past her shoulders as she looks toward the camera. The second woman kneels beside her, partially obscured, with wavy platinum-blonde hair and visible tattoo work on one arm. The standing woman lifts the hem of her skirt while the kneeling woman leans toward her upper thigh. Soft neutral tones, shallow depth of field, and smooth lighting emphasise the polished commercial-photography aesthetic. The composition centres on an overtly erotic interaction between the two subjects, presented in a stylised and provocative fashion typical of adult glamour imagery.

photo: source unknown

JOIN TODAY: Broken Dolls and Fallen Angels group on Facebook (18+ ONLY) - https://www.facebook.com/groups/886318992990373

I do want to make Broken Dolls and Fallen Angels one of the top groups of its kind on Facebook, but if that never happens, it will not be for lack of effort on my part, nor because of any of our group members. It shall be because Facebook/Meta is a garbage company where customer support is nonexistent and ever-shifting guidelines are enforced arbitrarily and unfairly.

To put it more succinctly: Facebook, thou mayst kiss my arse.

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

A postcard from lost America: the country we naïvely thought would last forever

When America was great: Playmate of the Month for May 1963 Sharon Cintron. Photographed by Mario Casilli, and what an enviable profession that must have been. Were it possible to go back to another time and start all over in life, free of the ailments and baggage that hath plagued me from day one in this timeline, perhaps I would be a photographer in mid-20th-century America. Another ‘what should have been’ in a long line of them.

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

Friday, July 3, 2026

Remembering Susan Peters, 3 July 1921 to 23 October 1952

Colourised portrait of Susan Peters in the early 1940s. Dressed in a light blue short-sleeved blouse and a dark skirt, she stands beside a bicycle on a seaside promenade lined with palm trees. Leaning lightly against a stone railing, she gazes thoughtfully towards the bright horizon, her face illuminated by soft sunlight. Her dark hair is styled in loose curls and tied with a ribbon, while the bicycle rests between her and the walkway stretching into the distance. The composition conveys youthful elegance, optimism, and quiet contemplation. The sunlit setting, pastel colours, and relaxed pose create an atmosphere of carefree serenity, reflecting the wholesome screen image that helped make Peters one of Hollywood’s most promising young actresses of the early 1940s.

Steven Rea, c. 1943; colourised

Hollywood hath had its share of tragedy through the decades — lives cut short in various manners, from Carole Lombard to Marilyn Monroe to Sharon Tate, and many more in between and beyond. One of the very saddest tales is that of Susan Peters. One of the most promising young actresses of the early 1940s — first at Warner Bros. and later, more successfully, at MGM — she already had an Academy Award nomination under her belt (for 1942's Random Harvest) when a duck-hunting accident on New Year's Day 1945 left her permanently confined to a wheelchair.

Amazingly, she made a courageous comeback as the wheelchair-bound villainess Leah St. Aubyn in 1948’s The Sign of the Ram (Columbia Pictures), a film that I am fairly certain I have seen at some point in the distant recesses of my memory, and may even have enjoyed, in spite of the fact it did not receive good reviews and was a box office flop. More critically successful was her turn as Laura Wingfield in a production of Tennessee Williams’ The Glass Menagerie, and she also appeared as Elizabeth Barrett Browning in a production of The Barretts of Wimpole Street. In 1951, she starred in a live daily half-hour drama (not an uncommon practice in the early days of television) named Miss Susan for NBC, but this ended after about nine months as her health declined.

By 1952, abandoned by both her former husband and a fiancé, and suffering profoundly from clinical depression and the effects of her paralysis, Susan Peters appeared to lose the will to live (apparently telling a doctor as much) and largely stopped eating and drinking. Compounded by the effects of her paralysis, she developed pneumonia and a chronic kidney infection, which ultimately killed her, only thirty-one years old.

The universe is indifferent, and why such tragedy befalls innocent people and creatures I shall never understand. It certainly damages my faith in God whenever I hear a story such as this one, or witness needless cruelty and suffering in the world. Yet I do pray, and hope not in vain, that Susan Peters ultimately found the peace and happiness that so cruelly eluded her in life.

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

Thursday, July 2, 2026

Remembering Lee Remick, 14 December 1935 to 2 July 1991

Publicity still of Lee Remick in Days of Wine and Roses (1962). Wearing a satin slip with lace trim, Remick stands indoors holding a drinking glass while resting one arm against her head. Her eyes are downcast and her expression conveys exhaustion, melancholy, and emotional strain. Strong light streams through slatted windows behind her, casting dramatic highlights and shadows across the black-and-white composition. The glass in her hand and her withdrawn posture underscore the film’s central themes of alcoholism, dependency, and personal decline. The intimate framing and stark lighting create a powerful portrait of vulnerability, reflecting the tragic emotional journey of her character, Kirsten Arnesen.

Warner Bros.

A lauded star of stage and screen, at some point the esteemed Lee Remick got frustrated with Hollywood, and was rather blunt about it:

“I make movies for grownups. When Hollywood starts making them again, I'll start acting in them again.”

(source: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/lee_remick_211415)

Sadly, the world lost one of its great thespians on this day in 1991, another life cut short by cancer. Seen here in Days of Wine and Roses (1962); though amid the extraordinary heatwave afflicting the eastern half of the former United States, one could be forgiven for thinking this photograph was taken only moments ago. But I digress.

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

Wednesday, July 1, 2026

Mary Pickford: dreams of Sunnybrook Farm

Publicity still of Mary Pickford in Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm (1917). Seated on a patterned Victorian sofa, Pickford portrays the youthful Rebecca in a frilled dress, dark stockings, and a small hat. Her long curled hair falls over her shoulders as she gazes forward with a plaintive, wide-eyed expression. She holds a closed parasol upright beside her while a travelling bag rests on the floor nearby, suggesting a recent arrival or impending journey. The black-and-white image emphasises the innocence and vulnerability associated with Pickford’s celebrated “little girl” screen persona. Ornate furnishings and period costume reinforce the film’s rural late-nineteenth-century setting and sentimental tone.

Canada Day: Toronto-born Mary Pickford, seen in Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm (1917, Aircraft Pictures).

At the time of this photo still, she was the richest and most famous actress in the world, described by a contemporary writer as ‘the best known woman who has ever lived, the woman who was known to more people and loved by more people than any other woman that has been in all history’.

Virtually forgotten today, partially due to having become a recluse later in life and partially due to the simple passage of time, which is sinful given that she was more than a mere actress, but a pioneer in the young film industry, co-founding United Artists in 1919 alongside (future husband) Douglas Fairbanks, Charlie Chaplin, and D.W. Griffith. All household names of the time themselves, though — best I can tell — only Charlie Chaplin might be recognised by a majority of folks today, and even then maybe only a majority of older people, as very few younger ones would know or care.

I sometimes wonder whether that contributed, among many other factors, to Miss Pickford's depression in later life: knowing that even the most beloved public figures are eventually forgotten by the audiences that once adored them.

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

Norma Shearer: dreams between dictation

Publicity still of Norma Shearer from His Secretary (1925). Seated at an office desk beside a large typewriter, the young actress rests her head gently against her clasped hands and gazes thoughtfully to one side. Her dark hair is neatly styled and swept back, complementing a fitted long-sleeved dress typical of the mid-1920s. A vase of flowers stands beside the typewriter, while a wire paper tray filled with documents occupies the foreground. The softly lit black-and-white composition conveys a mood of quiet reflection, contrasting the practical surroundings of clerical work with an air of romance and daydreaming. The image exemplifies the polished elegance and expressive subtlety that characterised Shearer’s early silent-film screen persona.

On this Canada Day, it is only fitting that we honour Montréal-born screen goddess Norma Shearer. Forever my favourite Canadian siren, and forever the face of The Echo of a Distant Time and Broken Dolls and Fallen Angels. Seen here in a promotional still from the pre-talkie His Secretary (1925). Even at this young stage, she was on a clear trajectory to becoming the Queen of MGM.

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

Margot Kidder: notes from Metropolis

Studio portrait of actress Margot Kidder seated upon a white stool against a plain pale backdrop. She wears a light blue blouse with gathered sleeves, a cream-coloured skirt, and dark heeled sandals. Holding a notepad and pen loosely in her hands, she appears poised between observation and reflection, as though preparing to interview a subject or record a thought. Her dark hair falls to her shoulders with soft bangs framing her face. The minimalist composition, gentle lighting, and restrained palette draw attention to her calm expression and direct gaze. The photograph emphasises intelligence, composure, and quiet confidence, presenting Kidder in a natural, unpretentious manner rather than through the glamour typically associated with Hollywood publicity portraits of the era.

Columbia Pictures

Wishing one and all a very happy Canada Day. Celebrating with Yellowknife native Margot Kidder, known to the world as the definitive Lois Lane, seen here in a promotional still for the first Superman film from 1978.

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

🪐💔 #QueSeraSera 𓅨 🕈

Tuesday, June 30, 2026

Natalie Wood, a beautiful lady and talented actress in an absolutely wretched film: Penelope (1966, MGM)

A lobby card from the 1966 comedy Penelope, starring Natalie Wood and Ian Bannen. The image sheweth Penelope leaning across a bed toward her distracted husband, who seemeth more taken with paperwork and finances than with his wife. The caption maketh the point explicit: she attempteth to lure him from Wall Street reports. Quintessential mid-1960s studio comedy advertising—pastel pink and green décor, playful poses, bright Technicolor, light romantic farce. The marketing selleth a battle ’twixt domestic boredom and corporate obsession. Wood’s comic appeal and glamour are front and centre; Bannen’s wary expression hinteth at the exasperated husband. A breezy, sophisticated sex comedy of the era—though many have found the film less delightful than its publicity.

MGM lobby card

Penelope: Not merely a bad film with an absurd plot, but one that actively insults the audience's intelligence. I swear I wrote an entire article some years ago about my hatred of this movie, but alas, I cannot find it now.

The plot, in a nutshell: a pampered housewife robs a bank because she is bored and her husband — the manager of the very bank she hath robbed, played by Scottish actor Ian Bannen, who was also far too talented for this dreck — does not pay her sufficient attention. In the end, everybody more or less lets her get away with it because she is just so darn cute, I suppose.

Natalie Wood as Penelope Elcott in Penelope (1966). Wearing a pink-and-white striped babydoll nightdress with matching slippers, she walketh confidently through an elegant interior, holding a cigarette. Her dark bouffant hair and makeup reflect mid-1960s fashion; the soft pastel costume contrasteth with grand stone walls and heavy wooden doors. The image exemplifieth the film’s playful, whimsical style—Penelope as a glamorous yet mischievous socialite whose innocence masketh her scheme to rob a bank. Warm lighting, vivid Technicolor hues, and Wood’s poised expression emphasise star quality and the light-hearted tone MGM sought to project.

MGM

The college flashback sequence featuring Jonathan Winters as a lecherous professor who refuses to keep his hands to himself is particularly galling, even by the standards of 1966. It is not amusing in the slightest, despite the filmmakers' obvious belief that it should be. It is merely obnoxious and unpleasant. Peter Falk appears as a detective (still a few years away from Columbo) and somehow manages to look embarrassed to be there, which, frankly, he should have been.

Still, with a reported wardrobe budget of $250,000, Penelope did at least provide Natalie Wood with an abundance of glamorous costumes and enough pin-up material to satisfy her admirers. The star herself reportedly disliked the film, saying: “I broke out in hives and suffered anguish that was very real pain every day we shot.”

Natalie Wood was just twenty-eight years old when Penelope was released in November 1966, yet it is difficult to escape the conclusion that much of her finest work was already behind her. When one surveys her filmography, her strongest performances are concentrated between the mid-1950s and the early 1960s. Whether Hollywood ceased offering her the best material, whether she selected some unfortunate projects, fate simply had other plans.

A delightful publicity still from Penelope, featuring Natalie Wood at the height of her 1960s glamour. She is shewn seated on a bed in a frilled pastel nightdress, reading a small book entitled How to Rob a Bank. The joke is plain: an outwardly innocent, doll-like wife secretly contemplateth criminal enterprise. The oversized blue ribbon, elaborate eyeliner, and softly lit bedroom reinforce her image of youthful charm. The still communicateth the entire premise in one frame—laughter at the contrast ’twixt appearance and intention. Wood’s expressive eyes and natural presence lend undeniable appeal. The image promiseth a whimsical caper driven by personality and charm, precisely what the studio hoped audiences would see.

MGM

Natalie did not make another film until 1969 (another wretched sex farce whose only value is the star frolicking around in skimpy outfits), and was not very active at all in the 1970s. Had she not been tragically lost in 1981, perhaps there would have been a triumphant second act. I do believe that had she lived, and if she had chosen better roles and been in a better headspace, she was talented enough as an actress that she could have continued working into old age, as with Katharine Hepburn, Bette Davis, Meryl Streep, Helen Mirren, and so forth. Had she been really focused, she possessed sufficient talent that a distinguished late-career renaissance would hardly have been beyond the realm of possibility.

Whatever the answers as to what exactly went wrong with Natalie Wood’s career after the mid-1960s, or with the lady herself, Penelope remains one of the clearest examples of a gifted actress being let down by material utterly unworthy of her talents.

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Monday, June 29, 2026

Lana Turner on what makes an individual a ‘success’, and yours truly on what does not

photo: Eric Carpenter, c. 1943

“A successful man is one who makes more money than a wife can spend. A successful woman is one who can find such a man.” — the screen goddess Lana Turner, 8 February 1921 to 29 June 1995.

Though delivered with a measure of worldly cynicism, there is a kernel of truth in the observation. Men are most often judged by what they can provide, and the loudest self-appointed gurus of modern masculinity (the ‘manosphere’) seem to understand only half of that equation. They obsess over testosterone, dominance, berating women, and projecting their twisted ideas of strength, whilst paying comparatively little attention to cultivating their minds, developing useful skills, or improving their financial prospects in life. Earning power is more important than virility — muscles and all of that are icing on the cake; if the cake is rich enough then it does not need any icing.

Yours truly hath made a million mistakes through the years. In my younger days, I spent far too much time worrying about the wrong things. Not because I was trying to become some sort of he-man figure — though I have the voice of a much more imposing man, my pale and skinny arse was still never destined for that role; mind you, this was also long before the current moral panic over the loss of masculinity and the ugliness it hath inspired — but because I was forever trying to fit in with groups and individuals whose approval I believed I needed. Even in my late thirties when I was involved in the twelve-step cult, I was all too often a ‘people pleaser’. It was ingrained in me by numerous parties, during my formative years, that simply being myself was never going to suffice. None of those people are anywhere to be found today, when I am too exhausted and fed-up to be anything but myself.

Looking back, I can see how much time and energy I wasted pursuing acceptance from people who neither deserved it nor appreciated it. I cared too much about belonging and not nearly enough about building a life for myself. Had I chosen different priorities, surrounded myself with different people, and possessed a little more confidence in my own judgement, many things would have turned out differently. Perhaps I would be able to leave this dying country if I had, somehow, made more money in my prime years. Instead, I shall die here, with all the other fools.

On the other hand, even if I had become a rich man, I do not know that there are any Lana Turners to be had in this world now.

But I digress.

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Remembering the silver-screen goddess Katharine Hepburn, 12 May 1907 to 29 June 2003

A black-and-white studio portrait of Katharine Hepburn reclining in a relaxed pose, photographed with understated elegance. She resteth against soft furnishings, one arm bent behind her head, gazing at the camera with calm, thoughtful expression. Her wavy hair is styled in natural mid-century fashion, framing a face lit by dramatic high-contrast lighting. She weareth a textured light garment with broad sleeves, the fabric catching light and creating subtle tonal variation. Deep shadows and bright highlights lend a cinematic quality, drawing attention to her eyes and features. The background remaineth softly out of focus. Poise, intelligence, self-assurance, quiet glamour—the independent screen persona of Hollywood’s Golden Age.

Ernest Bachrach/John Kobal Foundation/Getty Images

The question of who was the most talented actress of Hollywood's Golden Age is, of course, an entirely subjective one. Art does not lend itself particularly well to league tables, scorecards, or definitive rankings. Objectively, however, Katharine Hepburn is at or near the top of just about anybody's list. Indeed, in 1999, the American Film Institute named her the greatest female screen legend in American cinema.

Independent, fiercely intelligent, headstrong, and utterly unwilling to conform to expectations, she was a pioneer in more ways than one. Four Academy Awards for Best Actress attests to this. In an industry built upon image, compromise, and conformity, she stubbornly insisted upon being Katharine Hepburn. I harbour a deep respect for people who live life on their own terms and refuse to allow society to dictate who they must be. Such individuals make the rest of you uncomfortable. They challenge conventions. They are difficult, argumentative, impatient, and occasionally maddening (takes one to know one, folks). Katharine Hepburn was all of those things at various times, and so too was the great love of her life, Mr Spencer Tracy. Neither would have won many prizes for meek obedience.

History is not shaped by the obedient. Without individuals of strong character, personality, and will, no progress would ever be made in this world, and civilisation would stagnate altogether (to some extent, I see this happening in real time). At the very least, it would be a duller and less interesting world. We ought to give eternal thanks that people such as Katharine Hepburn — and Spencer Tracy, Sidney Poitier, Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Greta Garbo, James Cagney, James Stewart, Norma Shearer, and I could go on and on — once graced this unworthy world with their presence.

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Sunday, June 28, 2026

Strictly unprofessional

A black-and-white vintage glamour photograph of two women posed upon a neatly made bed in a modest mid-century bedroom. Both wear stylised nurse costumes: white caps, short dresses, stockings, high heels. One sitteth upright near the head, legs folded, looking at the camera with a playful, mischievous expression and a finger to her lips. The second reclineth across the mattress facing away, a provocative pin-up pose. Behind are curtained windows, a radiator, and simple furnishings. Strong flash illumination createth sharp contrasts and bright highlights. A staged novelty or burlesque-inspired glamour image—exaggerated popular-culture depictions of nurses, not any authentic medical setting.

source unknown

JOIN TODAY: Broken Dolls and Fallen Angels group on Facebook (18+ ONLY) - https://www.facebook.com/groups/886318992990373

Facebook, in its infinite wisdom, is presently not allowing yours truly to post in groups, not even the one I created and operate, and will not tell me why. I am infuriated; however, traffic in the group hath been steady, and I am still moderating. Thank you to those who are posting.

To put it more succinctly: Facebook, thou mayst kiss my arse.

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Saturday, June 27, 2026

The woman behind the veil: Debra Paget’s turn as Cleopatra

A vibrant Technicolor publicity still of actress Debra Paget seated upon an ornate throne as Cleopatra in Princess of the Nile (1954). She weareth an elaborate jewel-encrusted costume—headdress, veil, metallic jewellery, fitted gold-and-silver ensemble. Rich crimson drapery cascadeth over the throne and pool’th across the floor, contrasting with her pale costume and dark polished stone. The throne bear’th carved lion-head armrests. Paget sitteth upright with impeccable poise—composed, dignified, slightly aloof—projecting cinematic queenly glamour and authority. A ceremonial torch stand riseth beside her. Bold colours, lavish design, and theatrical set decoration exemplify the exotic historical spectacle of 1950s Hollywood adventure films.

Debra Paget as Cleopatra in Princess of the Nile (1954, 20th Century Fox). One of several notable actresses to portray Cleopatra on screen through the years, Paget brought a particularly captivating blend of glamour, poise, and exotic allure to the role. Conceived as a colourful historical adventure rather than a rigorous depiction of ancient history, the film was originally intended to feature Marilyn Monroe in the lead. Budgetary constraints, however, reportedly reduced its scale, resulting in a modest second feature, or 'B-movie'. Nevertheless, released during the height of Hollywood's fascination with Biblical epics and exotic historical spectacles, Princess of the Nile helped raise Paget's profile. Two years later she appeared as Lilia in Cecil B. DeMille's epic The Ten Commandments (1956), and in the same year starred opposite Elvis Presley in the singer's film debut, Love Me Tender.

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Poise amid the deluge

A stylised monochrome glamour photograph of a woman reclining sideways upon a wooden chair standing in shallow floodwater within an indistinct urban setting. She weareth a dark fedora, high-heeled shoes, and sheer stockings, her pose languid and theatrical—one leg extended against a wall, the other bent over the chair. Her head tilteth downward; one hand touch’th the hat brim, conveying introspection and mystery. The blurred background, reflective water, and subdued lighting create a dreamlike quality; high-contrast black-and-white evoke film noir and fashion photography. Line, silhouette, and atmosphere balance glamour with isolation and quiet melancholy.

source unknown

JOIN TODAY: Broken Dolls and Fallen Angels group on Facebook (18+ ONLY) - https://www.facebook.com/groups/886318992990373

Facebook and I are not getting along of late. Not even of late, but for years now it hath been one thing after another. Currently, I am restricted from posting in my own group, or any other groups, and Facebook (or the bots, whichever, however) cannot even fully tell me the reason. There have been several spells where I’ve been restricted, and always over either the pettiest nonsense, or, in this case, nothing at all.

Anyway, I want it known that I appreciate everyone who is continuing to post in Broken Dolls and Fallen Angels in my absence. I was going to shut it down, but we have a steady flow of posters and viewers. I am so bloody tired, however, of Facebook’s garbage. I do encourage one and all to follow me at other places. IG: brokendollsfallenangels; Reddit: r/BrokenDollFallenAngel and r/EchoOfADistantTime; X-Twitter: @DollsFallen; Bluesky: arthurnewhook.bsky.social.

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