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photo by Timothy White |
Plumes, fishnets, and legs aloft—an enduring alchemy of allure that never loses its lustre. She is radiant with delight, that mischievous glint in her eyes proclaiming not mere performance but the joy of a woman entirely alive within her own skin. A creature of fearless artistry and fierce conviction, Susan Sarandon—born 4 October 1946 in New York City—has long stood among cinema’s most versatile and incandescent figures. Never content simply to inhabit a role, she animates each with a formidable intellect and a pulse of raw humanity that renders pretence impossible.
I shall not rehearse her filmography, nor claim to have seen or enjoyed all her work. In one of her more notorious roles, as the sultry oracle of The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975), she manages to be the best thing in a film I consider an exercise in unmitigated kitsch—a riot of camp exuberance inexplicably adored by a certain subset of viewers. To put it bluntly, I cannot stand the f**king film. To each their own; yet such quibbles matter little. Susan Sarandon hath commanded the screen with an authority few of her contemporaries could ever match: not merely a performer, but a force of nature, an energy that refuses containment. —Arthur Newhook, 4 October 2025.
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