Yes - you like passive blondes who are violently murdered. But then - don't we all?

In Vertigo I have a crush on Barbara Bel Goodfella as she wears great tortoiseshell glasses, is plain, sweet and creative, and she drives a gun metal grey Karmann Ghia.

Heavily non-Ivy, but I was properly in love with Claire Grogan's character in 'Gregory's Girl' for most of my adolescence.

Anna Karina in 'Bande a Part'. Julie Christie in 'Billy Liar'. They still entrance me.

I know what you mean RR&P about Bisset in 'Bullitt', but I still think it works. Put it this way - the notion of their mutual physical attraction is a most plausible one, and the scene in the architect's office and in the jazz club has the whiff of the glamour of mid-60s San Francisco about it.

TM

On the posh English side pre-60s California:  Joan Greenwood.

Last edited by Harpo (2010-10-05 05:20:36)

The neglected British actress Penelope Horner is worth a look.  She appeared with Richard Attenborough and Pier Angeli in 'The Angry Silence'.  A superb film.

Laura Dern.  Yum.

Francoise Dorleac, oozes late 1960's sex appeal as Anya in Ken Russell's Billion Dollar Brain.

Wasn't she also in Polanski's early British film 'Cul-De-Sac'?  Long, long time since I saw that.

Sad old guy spends all his time keeping tabs on Talk Ivy!

Never seems to be much talk about clothes over there, the most active thread is the one where they disparage what people are doing on other forums.

https://www.dressedwell.net/threads/the-sf-aaac-fnb-trainwreck-thread.476/page-171#post-286438

Never had a look at DW.Scrolled back a couple of pages. Seems to be all agreeing about disliking Nazis. Revolutionary!

They obviously know a lot about the details though. Rounded shoulders. Dropped crotch. Ivy to a T

Last edited by Spendthrift (2022-01-15 05:44:46)

I know that what you have to imagine can be more erotic than what you can actually see.

But a pin-up thread where you can't post any pictures is lacking something.

"He shuddered in his armchair and closed his eyes as if in pain. With extraordinary lucidity he revisualized the picture, and the cry of admiration wrung from him when he had entered the little room of the Cassel museum was reechoing in his mind as here, in his study, the Christ rose before him, formidable, on a rude cross of barky wood, the arm an untrimmed branch bending like a bow under the weight of the body.

This branch seemed about to spring back and mercifully hurl afar from our cruel, sinful world the suffering flesh held to earth by the enormous spike piercing the feet. Dislocated, almost ripped out of their sockets, the arms of the Christ seemed trammelled by the knotty cords of the straining muscles. The laboured tendons of the armpits seemed ready to snap. The fingers, wide apart, were contorted in an arrested gesture in which were supplication and reproach but also benediction. The trembling thighs were greasy with sweat. The ribs were like staves, or like the bars of a cage, the flesh swollen, blue, mottled with flea-bites, specked as with pin-pricks by spines broken off from the rods of the scourging and now festering beneath the skin where they had penetrated.

Purulence was at hand. The fluvial wound in the side dripped thickly, inundating the thigh with blood that was like congealing mulberry juice. Milky pus, which yet was somewhat reddish, something like the colour of grey Moselle, oozed from the chest and ran down over the abdomen and the loin cloth. The knees had been forced together and the rotulæ touched, but the lower legs were held wide apart, though the feet were placed one on top of the other. These, beginning to putrefy, were turning green beneath a river of blood. Spongy and blistered, they were horrible, the flesh tumefied, swollen over the head of the spike, and the gripping toes, with the horny blue nails, contradicted the imploring gesture of the hands, turning that benediction into a curse; and as the hands pointed heavenward, so the feet seemed to cling to earth, to that ochre ground, ferruginous like the purple soil of Thuringia.

Above this eruptive cadaver, the head, tumultuous, enormous, encircled by a disordered crown of thorns, hung down lifeless. One lacklustre eye half opened as a shudder of terror or of sorrow traversed the expiring figure. The face was furrowed, the brow seamed, the cheeks blanched; all the drooping features wept, while the mouth, unnerved, its under jaw racked by tetanic contractions, laughed atrociously.

The torture had been terrific, and the agony had frightened the mocking executioners into flight.

Against a dark blue night-sky the cross seemed to bow down, almost to touch the ground with its tip, while two figures, one on each side, kept watch over the Christ. One was the Virgin, wearing a hood the colour of mucous blood over a robe of wan blue. Her face was pale and swollen with weeping, and she stood rigid, as one who buries his fingernails deep into his palms and sobs. The other figure was that of Saint John, like a gipsy or sunburnt Swabian peasant, very tall, his beard matted and tangled, his robe of a scarlet stuff cut in wide strips like slabs of bark. His mantle was a chamois yellow; the lining, caught up at the sleeves, showed a feverish yellow as of unripe lemons. Spent with weeping, but possessed of more endurance than Mary, who was yet erect but broken and exhausted, he had joined his hands and in an access of outraged loyalty had drawn himself up before the corpse, which he contemplated with his red and smoky eyes while he choked back the cry which threatened to rend his quivering throat."