The Echo of a Distant Time

Saturday, October 11, 2025

She wore wit like perfume: Diane Keaton, 1946–2025

Diane Keaton sits with effortless bohemian grace upon a wooden chair, her posture caught between thought and laughter. Her auburn hair is tucked neatly beneath a soft beret, while her dress—a swirling tapestry of abstract pattern and late-sixties colour—clings to the lingering optimism of the era. Ribbed tights trace the lines of her crossed legs, and a bold ring catches the light upon her hand as though punctuating her musing. There is a sense of gentle defiance in her gaze, a play of intellect and charm that suggests she knows precisely how the world sees her—and will not let it be the last word.

Diane Keaton, circa 1974. Via Getty Images

{Reuters 11 October} ‘US actress Diane Keaton dies at 79, People reports’

Another day, another light extinguished. Diane Keaton, that singular creature of wit, vulnerability, and eccentric grace, hath been granted merciful release from this prison, aged 79. I do not claim to be an authority on her entire filmography, nor to have found unqualified pleasure in every one of her roles; yet to deny her magnetism would be to deny sunlight, and she did capture hearts with her unique blend of charming neuroticism and profound warmth. An unforgettable leading lady, indeed. —Arthur Newhook, 11 October 2025.

Friday, October 10, 2025

John Lodge, bassist and vocalist of the Moody Blues, 1943 – 2025. Another light gone out in the firmament

Getty Images

{BBC 10 October} ‘Moody Blues singer John Lodge dies, aged 82’

A fond and reverent farewell to John Lodge—not ‘just a singer in a rock and roll band’, as his own lyric once wryly insisted, but one of the true gentlemen and master craftsmen of progressive rock. A quietly noble Englishman who treated music not as commerce but as a vocation. Lodge, bassist, vocalist, songwriter, and spiritual ballast of The Moody Blues, hath departed this unworthy and ungrateful realm aged 82. Born 20 July 1943 in Erdington, Birmingham, he and Justin Hayward joined a reconfigured Moody Blues in 1966, and together they turned what had been a competent R&B outfit into something altogether grander: a vessel of symphonic splendour and celestial vision.

Their 1967 opus, Days of Future Passed, stands as the first proper flowering of what we came to call progressive rock, fusing symphonic orchestration with poetic lyricism and rock instrumentation, creating a sound that could swell the heart and paint pictures in the mind in a way no one had dared attempt before. To list one’s favourite albums is an act of futility—every decade renders one’s own past judgement embarrassing, and I am no whit exempt—yet that record shall always remain in my upper pantheon without any hesitation. It hath the stateliness of a cathedral and the soft grace of a lullaby.

Mr Lodge’s own contributions to the Moody Blues canon are numerous and indelible, and include ‘Ride My See-Saw’, ‘Isn’t Life Strange’, ‘Gemini Dream’, and that deathless confession, ‘I’m Just a Singer (In a Rock and Roll Band)’, one of the most honest anthems ever wrought upon the absurdity of the touring life. By all accounts I have ever read or heard—and especially upon this day—he was a warm and generous man of sound judgement and sober mind, untainted by the usual vanities that so oft beset his calling.

A man who did embody the spirit of that golden age when rock music strove not merely to entertain but to elevate—to wed the mind unto the heart, and art unto melody—John Lodge shall be missed. I do pray that the noble legacy of English progressive rock, which he and his peers so bravely fashioned, shall never be cast into oblivion. For in this darkening technological and Orwellian age of ours, wherein history is daily mangled and made to vanish with fearful haste, it behoveth us all the more to hold dear, and remember truly, the pure and human artistry of such men as he.

Rest in Peace, good sir.

—Arthur Newhook, 10 October 2025

{alternate text for the above image} A colour studio portrait of John Lodge, bassist and vocalist of The Moody Blues, captured in the 1970s. His expression is introspective, almost pensive, as though caught mid-thought. Soft, diffused lighting highlights the contours of his face and the gentle sheen of his skin, while his long, wavy brown hair—styled in the characteristic fashion of the era—frames his features in a halo of texture. He wears a patterned shirt, its muted psychedelic design subtly evocative of the period’s aesthetic: colourful yet understated. The photograph embodies the introspective artistry that defined Lodge’s contribution to the band’s sound—lyrical, melodic, and quietly spiritual—while the restrained composition suggests a man more attuned to reflection than spectacle. It is a portrait of a musician at once ordinary and transcendent, poised at the intersection of English reserve and rock’s romantic idealism.

Monday, October 6, 2025

The incomparable Bette Davis—granted merciful release from this ungrateful world thirty-six years ago today (6 October 1989)

Bette Davis in In This Our Life, 1942 WB

Lately I find myself wondering whether the titans of Hollywood—Bette Davis and her contemporaries—would have bothered at all, had they foreseen how fleeting their immortality would prove. Would the great jazz musicians of the mid-twentieth century, or the ballplayers, or the novelists, have poured their souls into their craft if they had known how quickly posterity’s light would fade from them? More to the point, how little the generations to come would cherish their names, or even care to learn them.

In another few decades, even the brightest constellations of the twentieth century—Monroe, Ali, Ruth, The Beatles—will glimmer only faintly, their brilliance dimmed by forgetfulness as the last who remember them pass from the world. Worse still, in an age when artificial intelligence and digital manipulation have placed the machinery of history in the hands of the least scrupulous, what remains may not merely be forgotten but rewritten—or erased altogether.

It falls, then, to those of us who love these figures to keep their memories alive, however humbly. Yet few will trouble themselves, and those who do will never be appreciated. Such is the fate of those who remember in a world that no longer values remembrance, basic decency, and human dignity. —Arthur Newhook, 6 October 2025.

{alternate text for the above image} A black-and-white studio still of Bette Davis captures her seated languidly in an upholstered armchair, exuding both vulnerability and defiance. Dressed in a soft, ruffled blouse and a flowing skirt that reveals one bare leg, she leans back with an expression of distracted contemplation, her luminous eyes lifted slightly upward as if lost in thought or irony. Her hair, styled in loose 1940s waves, frames a face poised between weariness and will. The soft contrast and domestic setting evoke the mood of post-war disillusionment—Davis embodying the archetype of the complex woman: elegant, disenchanted, and indomitable, caught between repose and rebellion.

Saturday, October 4, 2025

Susan Sarandon in a classic showgirl pose, straight out of the Ziegfeld Follies. #BOTD 1946

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.

{alternate text for the above image} A glamorous portrait by Timothy White features Susan Sarandon reclining against a stark white backdrop, her pose both theatrical and self-assured. Draped in a deep burgundy feather boa that entwines her body with artful suggestion, she wears matching fishnet tights and high-heeled sandals adorned with gold embellishments. Her legs extend elegantly upward, creating a sculptural line that contrasts with the luxuriant cascade of auburn curls framing her face. With red lips and a steady, knowing gaze directed toward the viewer, Sarandon embodies a fusion of classic Hollywood allure and modern sensual intelligence—poised between provocation and poise, playfulness and command.

Copyright 2025, Arthur Newhook. On X-TWITTER: @Sunking278 and @DollsFallen. REDDIT - https://www.reddit.com/user/SiberianKhatru278/. BLUESKY - @arthurnewhook.bsky.social. FULL LIST OF LINKS - linktr.ee/arthurnewhook. DONATIONS GRATEFULLY ACCEPTED on Cash App ($ANewhook), PayPal (paypal.me/Sunking278), and at https://tinyurl.com/ArthurNewhook.

Friday, October 3, 2025

Clad in nothing but charm: Janet Leigh in a towel scene far more blissful than the one for which she is most infamously remembered

“In order to dream, you need to have a springboard which is the facts... It gives it that touch of reality, and I think that's quite important... truth with fiction.” —Janet Leigh (6 July 1927 – 3 October 2004), glimpsed here in Jet Pilot (1957, RKO)—not as a femme fatale, but disarmingly radiant. She embodied that ineffable ‘girl-next-door’ allure—wholesome, all-American charm enlivened by intelligence and irrepressible spirit shining through her eyes. A true doll.

{alternate text for the image above} A monochromatic cinematic still captures the celebrated actress Janet Leigh in a moment of unguarded, coquettish allure. Depicted post-ablutions and clad simply in a terrycloth towel, she casts a puckish glance over her shoulder, her visage a captivating admixture of ingenuous charm and sophisticated seduction. The spartan, bucolic interior, dominated by a formidable cast-iron furnace, provides a striking counterpoint to her intrinsic glamour. The composition thus creates a delightful frisson, juxtaposing rustic simplicity with the ineffable, radiant magnetism of a Hollywood luminary.

Thursday, October 2, 2025

Meditations on the death of Rock Hudson, four decades on

Elizabeth Taylor and Rock Hudson in Giant (Warner Bros., 1956)

1985: Forty years ago to this day, silver-screen idol Rock Hudson—long paraded as the consummate ladies’ man—succumbed at the age of fifty-nine to the then barely comprehended plague of AIDS. I was a child when the news broke, yet I recall with clarity the atmosphere of stunned disbelief among adults, confronted at last with what had long been whispered yet never publicly owned: that this paragon of masculine allure had in truth been homosexual. At that time, AIDS was regarded—even by many of the sympathetic—as an affliction confined to gay men. That illusion began to fracture when a young boy in Indiana contracted the virus through a transfusion, and the cruel refusal of his school district to admit him drew fierce public censure.

The scale of fear and ignorance is captured in one stark fact: after treatment in Paris only months before his death, Hudson was compelled to hire a private jet to return to Los Angeles, for no commercial airline would accept a passenger known to be carrying the virus. Not long thereafter, Elizabeth Taylor herself quietly purchased a bronze plaque for the Hollywood Walk of Fame in his honour—an act at once discreet, loyal, and enduring, sealing her friend’s memory in a gesture of fidelity where others faltered.

{alternate text for the above image} Elizabeth Taylor and Rock Hudson in a publicity still for Giant (1956), captured in a moment of heightened intimacy that borders on theatrical rapture. Taylor, her head arched back and lips parted in anticipation, radiates sensuality and defiance, her dark hair cascading in waves against the pale shimmer of her gown. Hudson, towering and resolute, leans in with a steady, almost reverent intensity, his hand gripping her arm in a gesture that is both protective and possessive. The chiaroscuro of the black-and-white composition accentuates the drama of flesh, fabric, and expression, crystallising the film’s central themes of passion, power, and turbulent human desire within the mythic sweep of Texas.

Atom Heart Mother turns 55

PINK FLOYD – Atom Heart Mother, released 2 October 1970 in the UK. Hardly anyone’s notion of the quintessential Pink Floyd record—and I am no exception. The title suite, a twenty-three–minute tapestry of orchestral bliss, remains a triumph of ambition and atmosphere, and I do love it a great deal: luxuriant, strange, and utterly absorbing. Yet what follows on the second side largely descends into listless filler—inoffensive, faintly agreeable, but lacking any urgency. The closing piece, the thirteen-minute curio 'Alan’s Psychedelic Breakfast', is little more than an indulgent sound collage, whimsical in conception but barren in substance: not a song so much as a half-hearted conceit that soon outstays its welcome.

The grandeur of its opening suite and Hipgnosis’s now-iconic cover design make Atom Heart Mother a must own for serious music fans and anyone who appreciates English progressive rock, but in the greater sweep of Floyd’s catalogue it must be placed firmly among their lesser works, though there are worse. —Arthur Newhook, 2 October 2025.

{alternate text for the above image} The cover of Pink Floyd’s 1970 album Atom Heart Mother presents an image of striking simplicity: a Friesian cow, its brown-and-white hide stark against the verdant expanse of an open field, turns its head to gaze back at the viewer with quiet indifference. The composition, devoid of title, lettering, or overt symbolism, rejects the baroque surrealism of contemporaneous rock imagery, embracing instead a blunt pastoral directness that is almost confrontational in its banality. The horizon stretches under a pale, cloudless sky, with only the faintest silhouettes of distant trees punctuating the emptiness, creating a sense of space that is at once serene and faintly absurd. In elevating the ordinary to the monumental, the image embodies both the anti-iconography of post-psychedelic art and the band’s wry refusal to be circumscribed by expectation.

Wednesday, October 1, 2025

“The ocean isn’t the only thing that’s wet tonight…”

Cindy Margolis—once enshrined in the Guinness Book of Records as the most downloaded woman on the Internet—here immortalised in a portrait for Playboy.

{alternate text} Bathed in golden tropic light, model Cindy Margolis sits astride the bar with legs parted in playful provocation, the lace straps of her seafoam lingerie catching the glow as turquoise heels anchor her in decadent poise. A cocktail sweats on the counter below, orchids scatter their petals like whispers of temptation, and the fan hums between her thighs, sending shivers through her sun-kissed skin. Her gaze, half-mischief, half-command, fixes on you as if to ask—will you worship her here in the heat, or wait until the stars rise over the ocean?

Every pool was transfigured into a cathedral when she bent her knee beneath the sun’s benediction: Stella Stevens, born 1 October 1938

Columbia Pictures

Velvet tresses, gilded skin, and a secret to make even the sun envious. A daughter of Yazoo City, Mississippi, Stella Stevens was crowned Playboy’s Playmate of the Month in January 1960 and went on to a career in film and television that spanned more than half a century—perhaps most memorably opposite Jerry Lewis in The Nutty Professor. Yet, in the twilight of life, she fell victim to the scourge of Alzheimer’s, passing away at the age of 83 on 17 February 2023.

{alternate text} Bathed in the soft radiance of poolside daylight, Stella Stevens kneels with statuesque grace, her form poised in a bikini patterned with rich, paisley swirls that seem to shimmer against her porcelain skin. Her blonde hair, full and sculpted in voluminous waves, frames her face like spun silk, offsetting the sculptural precision of her features. The setting—a tranquil pool and blurred greenery beyond—serves as a stage for her languid poise, a tableau that captures the essence of 1960s glamour: at once sultry and self-assured, yet tinged with wistful allure.

A remarkable life: Dame Jane Goodall has died, aged 91

photo via the Jane Goodall Institute

{AP 1 October} Jane Goodall, conservationist known for chimpanzee research, dies at 91

Jane Goodall, born in London on 3 April 1934, has assured her place among England’s immortals. By decamping to the steaming tangles of Gombe and mucking in with the apes, this great lady unravelled the smug fiction that man was some sacred, tool-wielding exception. Her chimps whittled sticks, formed alliances, and wept for their dead — and with that, the neat wall between ‘us’ and ‘them’ crumbled.

But Jane Goodall was not content to scribble footnotes for zoologists; she spent the rest of her life pleading with the world not to turn every last scrap of wilderness into a strip-mine. Noble work, doomed of course, given the human talent for short-sighted vandalism.

Still, there’s something touching in her stubbornness — a luminous, bloody-minded emblem of curiosity, decency, and hope, however misplaced. She is gone now, and the planet is no less doomed for her efforts, but infinitely richer for her having tried. Rest in peace, dear lady. —Arthur Newhook, 1 October 2025.

Proffering felicitations to President Jimmy Carter—now resident in the celestial sphere—who, had he tarried upon this thankless planet another ten months, would this day have marked his 101st year

Consolidated News Photos

“I've looked on many women with lust. I've committed adultery in my heart many times. God knows I will do this and forgives me.” —May I too be spared the harshest judgement for the lusts that dwell within my own heart, though I know I am not the man Jimmy Carter was and am decidedly not in God’s favour. No matter: in solemn remembrance of former President of the United States—who departed this life not long ago (29 December 2024), and who today would have marked his 101st birthday (born 1 October 1924 in Plains, Georgia).

{alternate text} In this warmly lit photograph, former US President Jimmy Carter is captured in a moment of unguarded delight, his face illuminated by a broad, genuine smile. His greying hair, neatly brushed back, frames features that radiate both humility and quiet resolve. Dressed in a grey checked suit, a pale blue striped shirt, and a red tie patterned with subtle paisleys, he exudes a modest formality befitting the era. The blurred backdrop, punctuated by the colours of the American flag, situates him unmistakably in the milieu of public service, likely during his presidency (1977–1981). The image conveys Carter’s characteristic warmth and approachability, qualities that underpinned his political persona as a leader of principle, guided more by moral conviction than pomp. It is less the portrait of a statesman cloaked in grandeur than of a man rooted in earnestness, embodying the ideals of decency and integrity he strove to bring to American public life.

In remembrance of Tim Wakefield, upon the second anniversary of his departure from this world

MediaNews Group/Getty Images

Yours truly, a Yankee partisan marooned behind enemy lines, is none too pleased with the Boston Red Sox this morning, having seen New York fall in the first contest of the best-of-three Wild Card series. Tonight must turn the tide, or the Yankees are finished. Yet amidst my ire, let us pause to recall Tim Wakefield—one of the most distinctive pitchers of his generation and in Boston franchise history—who departed this world two years ago today, aged only 53, claimed by pancreatic cancer. A master of the knuckleball, a philanthropist, and laureate of the 2010 Roberto Clemente Award: in short, a consummate sportsman and, by every account, a thoroughly decent man.

(alternate text) Tim Wakefield is captured mid-delivery, his motion frozen at the point just before release. Clad in the team’s iconic scarlet jersey with bold “RED SOX” lettering across the chest, he projects both intensity and composure, the hallmarks of his long career. His right arm is cocked, fingers poised delicately about the baseball—an image suggestive of his signature knuckleball, a pitch as elusive as it is unorthodox. His left hand, gloved in black leather, extends outward to balance the motion, while his gaze fixes unwaveringly on the target. Behind him, the blurred stadium and faintly discernible crowd set the stage without distracting from the clarity of his form. In this image, Wakefield embodies the paradox of his craft: effort harnessed into simplicity, a calm exterior concealing the unpredictable dance of the ball soon to leave his hand. It is at once a portrait of athletic precision and a testament to a pitcher defined by singular artistry.

Copyright 2025, Arthur Newhook. On X-TWITTER: @Sunking278 and @DollsFallen. BLUESKY - @arthurnewhook.bsky.social. REDDIT - https://www.reddit.com/user/SiberianKhatru278/. FULL LIST OF LINKS - linktr.ee/arthurnewhook. DONATIONS GRATEFULLY ACCEPTED on Cash App ($ANewhook) and PayPal (paypal.me/Sunking278), and also at https://tinyurl.com/ArthurNewhook.

“The hem misbehaves, and so might I. A secret uncovered in the hush of the trees—do you only watch, or will you conspire with me?”

source unknown

The forest does not judge—only witnesses: a sylph ensnared in the woodland, baring her tenderest self to sky and bough. It is nothing wicked, but a homecoming: as though the earth itself reclaims her. Between bark and blossom she becomes, at once, woodland nymph and clandestine flame.

(alternate text) In the hush of woodland shade, she drapes herself over the fallen trunk as though surrendering to the earth’s embrace, her skirt carelessly lifted to reveal a secret meant for the forest alone. The socks at her ankles lend an almost girlish innocence, undone entirely by the flagrant boldness of her pose. Nature watches, silent and complicit, as if the trees themselves conspire to shield her wanton abandon from prying eyes. It is a tableau of vulnerability and provocation, where innocence and daring meet in one breathless moment of forbidden allure.

Actress Abby Dalton, posed as a desert-stricken heroine who at last discovers a single drop of water: proof that, at times, the very visage of survival can be the most seductive guise of all

source unknown

A gesture at once parched with longing and sated with abandon—innocent yet erotic, untamed and mischievous, as though a fleeting fragment torn from a summer without end. Abby Dalton, born Gladys Marlene Wasden on 15 August 1932 in Las Vegas, enjoyed a long and varied career as a versatile actress across both cinema and television from the 1950s onward. Yet she is now most widely remembered for embodying the tormented Julia Cumson in the 1980s American prime-time melodrama Falcon Crest.

(alternate text) In a candid black-and-white frame, a sunlit blonde tilts her head back with abandon, lips parted as she drinks from a rustic waterskin. Her bare shoulders gleam in the summer light, a pastoral vision caught between innocence and provocation. The texture of the worn leather against her fingers only sharpens the contrast between rugged wilderness and the soft vitality of her body. With eyes half-closed, she surrenders to the moment, making thirst itself into a sensual performance—an earthy hymn to freedom, youth, and daring.

When nature herself grows restive, she cloaks her unrest in the semblance of a woman’s skin

At once vulnerable and defiant: a maiden venturing bare and unarmoured into the wild, a feral hymn veiled in lace and shadow—she is of the forest, not the world. Model Courtney Smith, captured by Erik Tranberg, c. 2015.

(alternate text) A statuesque beauty stands poised in monochrome, her bare torso luminous against the dark blur of tangled woodland. Her long hair falls untamed over her shoulders, some strands caught in her fingers as if she toys with the wildness of the scene. The lace-trimmed panties cling delicately at her hips, their softness a fragile foil to the boldness of her stance. Her expression—half-defiant, half-dreamlike—conjures the aura of a woodland nymph who has stepped briefly into the mortal world, confident in her allure yet distant, as though she might vanish into shadow at any moment. The photograph hums with tension between raw natural beauty and cultivated sensual poise, an untamed goddess caught by the lens.

Tuesday, September 30, 2025

Angie Dickinson: she did not sit; she reigned upon the chair, legs sculpted like poetry in silk. Republicans need not approach

“I have never knowingly dated a Republican.” —the classic and wise screen siren Angie Dickinson. Wishing the lady a very happy 94th; born 30 September 1931 in North Dakota. Seen here in a Warner Bros. publicity portrait, circa 1964.

(alternate text) Angie Dickinson, circa 1964, sits poised on a graceful, arched-back chair, her presence commanding yet lithe. She wears a sleeveless halter dress that clings with sculptural elegance, the pale fabric heightening the contrast of her dark stockings. One leg, elongated and crossed with languid confidence, is accentuated by stiletto heels that catch the studio light. Her short, swept blonde hair frames a face alive with poise and a faint, knowing smile, while a delicate bracelet adorns her wrist, a touch of sparkle against her modern chic. The stark backdrop serves to isolate her, rendering the image both statuesque and intimate, a study in mid-century glamour poised between allure and self-assurance.

Copyright 2025, Arthur Newhook. On X-TWITTER: @DollsFallen and @Sunking278. BLUESKY - @arthurnewhook.bsky.social. REDDIT - https://www.reddit.com/user/SiberianKhatru278/. FULL LIST OF LINKS - linktr.ee/arthurnewhook. DONATIONS GRATEFULLY ACCEPTED on Cash App ($ANewhook) and PayPal (paypal.me/Sunking278), and also at https://tinyurl.com/ArthurNewhook.

Monica Bellucci: even the farmyard bends into reverence beneath her gaze

It is no exaggeration to suggest that Mother Nature shattered the mould in fashioning this one: the Italian divinity Monica Bellucci, born 30 September 1964. Photographed by Frederic Meylan, c. 1991.

Monday, September 29, 2025

“Would you pluck me, as one plucks a flower, if I leaned just a little closer?”

Golden Age actress Virginia Bruce, born 29 September 1909. {photo: Getty Images}

On the healing potency of mere dabbling

source unknown

“Activities we do inconsistently can still have huge value for our resilience and mental health. It's good for your mental health to dabble—to engage in activities without expecting consistency or improvement.” {Psychology Today 28 September}

Copyright 2025, Arthur Newhook. On X-TWITTER: @DollsFallen and @Sunking278. BLUESKY - @arthurnewhook.bsky.social. REDDIT - https://www.reddit.com/user/SiberianKhatru278/. FULL LIST OF LINKS - linktr.ee/arthurnewhook. DONATIONS GRATEFULLY ACCEPTED on Cash App ($ANewhook) and at https://tinyurl.com/ArthurNewhook.

The characteristically sultry Lizabeth Scott, captured in a more unguarded, earthbound moment.

source unknown

On a carpeted stairway where morning light breaks into shafts of silver, actress Lizabeth Scott reclines with the casual majesty of a woman who knows both glamour and ease. Bare-legged and barefoot, she stretches like a cat between steps, her head tilted with a conspiratorial smile as she cradles a telephone receiver to her ear. The black top frames her luminous skin, while the pale shorts reveal the sculptural grace of her legs, all of it captured in a chiaroscuro that makes the scene part boudoir, part film noir. She is at once confidante and siren, a secret spoken down the line poised to change the course of an afternoon.

A garden nymph rehearsing her scandal beneath the trees’ whispering applause: vintage photography by Elmer Batters.

A doll dressed for mischief, yet wearing the crown of poise. Suspended between girlish play and sovereign allure. Upon a shaded terrace where ivy trembles and late sunlight filters through the branches, a statuesque blonde reclines upon a child’s swing as though it were a throne of whimsy. Her floral frock, cinched yet loose, flutters like a captive garden about her hips, revealing the scandalous shimmer of dark stockings fastened by pale garters. A small hat tips rakishly over one brow, casting her wide eyes into pools of intrigue. She is at once ingénue and siren, a porcelain statue momentarily brought to life, poised between innocence and invitation, her heels anchored lightly upon the paving stones like punctuation marks to an unspoken poem.

Copyright 2025, Arthur Newhook. On X-TWITTER: @DollsFallen and @Sunking278. BLUESKY - @arthurnewhook.bsky.social. REDDIT - https://www.reddit.com/user/SiberianKhatru278/. FULL LIST OF LINKS - linktr.ee/arthurnewhook. DONATIONS GRATEFULLY ACCEPTED on Cash App ($ANewhook) and at https://tinyurl.com/ArthurNewhook.

The eternal divinity, Anita Ekberg

Among the most photographed women in the world during the 1950s and 1960s, and this is easily one of the most circulated and iconic images: the Swedish screen divinity Anita Ekberg (29 Sept 1931 – 11 Jan 2015), here immortalised by photographer Peter Basch.

Copyright 2025, Arthur Newhook. On X-TWITTER: @DollsFallen and @Sunking278. BLUESKY - @arthurnewhook.bsky.social. REDDIT - https://www.reddit.com/user/SiberianKhatru278/. FULL LIST OF LINKS - linktr.ee/arthurnewhook. DONATIONS GRATEFULLY ACCEPTED on Cash App ($ANewhook) and at https://tinyurl.com/ArthurNewhook.

The radiant Greer Garson, marked in remembrance with a heavenly birthday

Getty Images

Time to get this blog back up and running in earnest, as relying solely on social media for anything is foolhardy and dangerous. Especially bloody Facebook. Screw that company to all Hell.

“When you can't wait for your ship to come in, you've got to row out to it.” —the esteemed Greer Garson, with her eyes but lanterns — burning through shadow, and revealing both question and answer. She was born in Manor Park, now a borough of London, 29 September 1904.

Copyright 2025, Arthur Newhook. On X-TWITTER: @DollsFallen and @Sunking278. BLUESKY - @arthurnewhook.bsky.social. REDDIT - https://www.reddit.com/user/SiberianKhatru278/. FULL LIST OF LINKS - linktr.ee/arthurnewhook. DONATIONS GRATEFULLY ACCEPTED on Cash App ($ANewhook) and at https://tinyurl.com/ArthurNewhook.

Thursday, August 21, 2025

Remembering Jack Buck, born 24 August 1924.

photo: Jack Buck speaking at Busch Stadium, 17 September 2001

“You can't get a job without experience and you can't get experience until you have a job. Once you solve that problem you are home free.” —thus spoke the golden voice of Jack Buck, born 21 August 1924. It is likely he did not apprehend how precisely he drew back the curtain upon the authentic and paradoxical nature of a duplicitous nation and its evil people. Decades before Trump’s rise to power in the now-former United States, long before the carefully maintained façade began to crumble and the malice, together with the wilful ignorance, became so nakedly conspicuous, Buck had already distilled the dilemma into a single, resonant observation. No matter, scarcely a soul could rival him in the craft of baseball play-by-play. The world could use a voice of his timbre and integrity once more. —Arthur Newhook, 21 August 2025.

Copyright 2025, Arthur Newhook. @Sunking278 on X-TWITTER, and @FloydEtcetera on FACEBOOK. BLUESKY - @arthurnewhook.bsky.social. REDDIT - https://www.reddit.com/r/EchoOfADistantTime/new/. DONATIONS GRATEFULLY ACCEPTED at https://tinyurl.com/ArthurNewhook.

Monday, August 11, 2025

ANCESTRY, AI, AND THE THREADS THAT BIND

On a Monday afternoon, apropos of nothing, and on a self-imposed news hiatus, making no effort to engage with the current tribulations of this declining world. I am instead experimenting with the latest iteration of ChatGPT, version 5, to which I submitted my current Facebook profile photograph, asking it to deduce my ethnicity. It correctly surmised that I am of predominantly Germanic and Celtic heritage, and, once I had confirmed its conclusion and enumerated the nations from which my ancestry derives, it produced for me the accompanying map.

In truth, I have little justification for including the blue-shaded regions—France, Belgium, and the Netherlands—since my known lineage from those lands is extremely minimal and dates back to just a scant few select ancestors from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries who assimilated into German families. But I included them anyway. Could have also included Canada and the United States itself, as I have ancestors who were among the original Puritan founders of Massachusetts, Connecticut, and New York, and whose descendents were Loyalists who fled to the Maritimes after the American Revolution. ‘Canadian’ and ‘American’, however, are not really ethnicities unless one is of native blood (I am not). There is also the possibility that, through my maternal line, I may possess some measure of Eastern European ancestry. My mother was adopted as a young girl and never knew the identity of her father, though her birth mother claimed he was of Polish origin. My mother, however, has ever doubted the truth of this assertion, regarding herself as of purely English and Irish descent. A DNA test I once undertook disclosed no trace of Eastern European heritage (putting aside that Saxons, Celts, et al. all originated in areas in and around the Kievan Rus’ thousands of years ago); yet I harbour some doubt as to the accuracy of those things, despite the results aligning precisely with the findings of my own research and what I feel in my being.

The yellow-marked nations denote the principal sources of my bloodline, England above all and Germany not too far behind; yet Denmark—and, indeed, Ireland—*perhaps* ought likewise to be shaded yellow. One of my grandmothers, the aforementioned neglectful mother of my own, was born in Galway, Ireland in 1910 (raised in County Mayo), while a great-grandmother—my paternal grandmother’s mother—was born near Copenhagen in the 1890s. The Irish-born grandmother was at least half English and may have possessed Scottish ancestry as well. My paternal great-grandmother was indisputably Danish (her brother, my great-uncle Julius, visited us for a spell when I was but a very young boy, circa 1982; he was, of course, quite advanced in years and by then entirely blind.); yet, as the Danes are a Germanic people, I tend to regard my Danish heritage as an extension of my considerable German lineage, much as I see my Irish and Scottish heritage as twin branches of the same Celtic tree. Rightly or wrongly, I suppose. To be honest, I really do not feel very Irish in my soul, though maybe a tad Scottish; another story for another day.

Anyhow, whether I ought to be impressed by ChatGPT’s aptitude in this regard or faintly disquieted, I cannot say. AI shall prove both a blessing and a curse, ushering in remarkable progress yet also certain horrors—much like the Industrial Revolution itself, I suppose. Still, with such tools now at our disposal, few can claim legitimate cause for boredom, and ignorance has ever fewer excuses in an age where so much knowledge lies at our very fingertips. —Arthur Newhook, 11 August 2025.

Copyright 2025, Arthur Newhook. @Sunking278 on X-TWITTER, and at the same handle on FACEBOOK. BLUESKY - @arthurnewhook.bsky.social. REDDIT - https://www.reddit.com/r/StopTheIdiocracy/new/. DONATIONS GRATEFULLY ACCEPTED at https://tinyurl.com/ArthurNewhook.

Wednesday, June 11, 2025

Brian Wilson, 20 June 1942 to 11 June 2025

Kevin Winter/Getty Images

{BBC News 11 June} Brian Wilson, creator of iconic 1960s band The Beach Boys, dies aged 82

Fare thee well, Brian Wilson — and thank you for your extraordinary life and legacy. In my 47 years, I have spent many hours listening to the Beach Boys, devouring books and documentaries about them. Yet now, I struggle to find the words for this moment.

From 1962 to about 1973, the Beach Boys were America’s soundtrack, and Wilson was their mad genius. Imagining a world without them is like envisioning one without JS Bach, Louis Armstrong, or The Beatles: we cannot know what might have filled that void, if anything, only that music and culture would be unrecognisable.

The sun has set — not just on a transformative musician, but on a dream, a way of life, and on a nation. Brian Wilson’s idyllic songs, though escapist, captured our highest hopes. He never surfed; his mental health battles were fierce. Yet his art soared above these contradictions, much like America itself once transcended its many flaws.

In those mid-20th-century halcyon days, a reasonable degree of happiness was attainable to ordinary folks. That hope has died and is not coming back to life. And so, it feels tragically fitting that Brian Wilson — who so brilliantly and vividly soundtracked America at its idealistic best – departs as said country succumbs to the darkness of the blackest night.

Rest among the legends, good sir. —Arthur Newhook, 11 June 2025.

Friday, May 2, 2025

Kentucky Oaks day, but I am tapping out

Age has rendered my misophonia increasingly insurmountable, and I find myself incapable of enduring the sensory onslaught of contemporary horse racing coverage. The dual-screen ordeal—balancing NBC/Peacock’s maudlin human-interest vignettes with FanDuel TV’s (né TVG) ceaseless barrage of adverts and inane commentary—has become an exercise in futility, and I will not and cannot do it. That FanDuel, with its on-site personnel and equipment, remains barred from broadcasting the very races it documents, epitomises the absurdity of it all.

My enthusiasm for this ‘sport of kings’ has clearly diminished, eroded by my growing distaste for its plutocratic cadre of owners and trainers—many of whom, no doubt, support the orange s**tbag. The gambling, the saccharine artifice of NBC’s storytelling, the ethical compromises demanded of any conscientious spectator—all now weigh too heavily. I revere the horses themselves; the kinetic poetry of a stretch duel remains unparalleled. Yet after years of looking the other way, my tolerance is just about exhausted, though I dearly wish it were not so.

I came to follow horse racing in my 30s, enthralled by the brilliance of Wise Dan, California Chrome, American Pharoah, and Arrogate, among others. Now, at 47, apparently my engagement must be relegated to archival footage on Youtube—a melancholy retreat, yet an inevitable and necessary one. Another passion succumbs to the attrition of time and disillusionment.

Television, in the main, is an assault on my senses. Apart from Sky News, TCM, and not much else, I simply cannot endure it. Since the 2022 World Cup, I have been seeking refuge in European football: its uninterrupted cadence (stoppage time is a blessing), the sonorous ebb and flow of the crowd—a tonic for my frayed nerves. And as one of English and German blood, I consider it a duty to connect with my heritage in some faint, but meaningful way. The atmosphere is transcendent.

So let me be clear—this is no declaration that I will no longer follow baseball, American football, hockey, nor even the turf in spite of what I outlined above. But it does exhaust far too much of the little energy I have. I yearn for a quieter, more civilised world, and with each passing day, I grow more acutely aware that I can no longer push my limits anymore. - Arthur Newhook, 2 May 2025.

Copyright 2025, Arthur Newhook. @Sunking278 on X-Twitter, and at the same handle on FACEBOOK. BLUESKY - @arthurnewhook.bsky.social. DONATIONS GRATEFULLY ACCEPTED at https://tinyurl.com/ArthurNewhook.

Sunday, December 15, 2024

Christmas in a hellscape

Pictured: Yvonne Craig, who departed this world on 17 August 2015 and was thus mercifully spared from the current dystopian realities.

Is anyone truly in the Yuletide spirit this year? I concede that certain irrepressibly optimistic—or perhaps delusional—individuals will remain ‘holly jolly’ regardless of circumstances; we shall forever be cursed with such Pollyannas in any given debate. For many Americans, however, 25 December is often marked by profound melancholy and solitude. In light of the rotten year we have had and the absolute horrors awaiting in 2025, one might argue that we scarcely deserve a holiday. Part of me believes it would be prudent to forgo the occasion altogether for the foreseeable future, as we have proven unworthy of its respite and have forgotten the ‘reason for the season’. #JustSaying

Copyright 2024, Arthur Newhook. @Sunking278 and @FloydEtcetera on X, and at the same handles on FACEBOOK. MASTODON - @ArthurNewhook@mastodon.world, BLUESKY - @arthurnewhook.bsky.social. DONATIONS GRATEFULLY ACCEPTED at https://tinyurl.com/ArthurNewhook.

Thursday, November 28, 2024

A few thoughts on my English Puritan ancestors on this day of gratitude in Massachusetts Bay Colony

'Stepping Stones of American History', 1904. Via the Library of Congress

Heartfelt wishes of gratitude to all those celebrating Thanksgiving in the US. May everyone, everywhere, take the opportunity to count their blessings on this day. While I cannot definitively claim any Mayflower ancestry, many of my forebears were among the original English Puritan settlers of New England and New York. My primary lineage traces back to a gentleman who emigrated to Prince Edward Island, Canada, from West Yorkshire in the very early 19th century. However, extant family lines dating back as early as the 1630s reveal extensive English ancestry throughout Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, Maine, and, eventually, the Canadian Maritimes, most of whom were exiled there following the American Revolution.

I harbour mixed feelings about the Puritans and their motivations. A substantial part of me wishes that none of my ancestors—English or otherwise—had ever set foot on this land, especially in light of current circumstances. Nevertheless, it is impossible to speculate on the state of the world today had it not been for centuries of mass emigration from Europe. Would I be living in England, Germany, or elsewhere? Would I even exist?

So, in the spirit of Thanksgiving and the adage that the ‘grass is not always greener on the other side’, I am grateful to my Puritan ancestors for their role in establishing, most notably, Massachusetts, and for their positive contributions to society. They were far from perfect, yet there were many positive aspects to their faith—such as their steadfast commitment to literacy and knowledge; their appreciation of music and the arts; their charitable missions, including, at certain times and in specific circumstances, toward the Native Americans; dare I say, their fashion sense; and their deep, passionate devotion to the Lord Jesus Christ.

- Arthur Newhook, 28 November 2024

Sunday, November 17, 2024

Hell to Eternity (1960, Allied Artists)

Hell to Eternity is a profoundly moving cinematic work recounting the true story of Pfc. Guy Gabaldon (played by Jeffrey Hunter), a U.S. Marine who, having been adopted as a boy by a Japanese-American family, finds himself serving in Japan during World War II. While war films hold a particular fascination for me, they are a challenge, as my misophonia renders the cacophony of gunfire and explosions almost intolerable. Otherwise, I tend to love the genre. This film also features the enchanting Patricia Owens (below), who delivers a captivating and sultry performance in a truly magnificent scene.