Ladies Who Lunch
Olivia Newton- John became a star playing a virgin in the midst of the sexual revolution....
DEAR GWEN,
I was Goth before Madonna.
I was depressed before Morrissey.
Doris Day knew me before I was a virgin.
I knew Vincent Gallo, before.
I’ve been thinking a lot about God again. Maybe it’s the Sacred Heart night light, or all that Catholic imprinting, but I can’t get the voodoo out of my head. I burn more candles than St. Casper’s at Pentecost, and I long for an authentic religious experience. And not the Blessed Virgin in a carport, either. I thought I heard from Jesus once. I was in the midst of some Old Testament (Genesis 38:9) business at the time, taking a shower. A voice said, “Will you choose me?” I understood it clearly: It kind of ruined “the moment,” I recall. I dried off quickly, and ran to the television for comfort. I found none. I rest my hopes on nothing.
I rest my bank account on nothing, as well. I have bankrupted myself at Les Deux Cafes (1638 N. Las Palmas Avenue, Hwd. 213-465-0509). The Devil is a woman. Michele Lamy owns my soul, and has the promissory note to prove it. Fortunately, there’s always a junket going on some- where, so I put on my hip boots and went troweling for a free lunch. I struck gold on my first stop, the Four Seasons Hotel (300 S. Doheny Drive, W. Hwd. 310-273-2222), when I stumbled into the middle of the Grease 20th Anniversary road show, and directly into Olivia Newton-John.
Totally hot, Gwen.
Olivia Newton-John became a film star playing a virgin in the midst of the sexual revolution - it was probably her undoing as well. (It’s certainly been mine.) In her second film, she played an angel. There’s only one role left after that, Gwen, and it’s not usually written for a woman. But Newton-John’s career is filled with contradictions. She was born in the U.K., reared in Aussie, and made a huge success (and some enemies at the Grand Ole Opry) singing country music in America. How can someone who made one good movie, one bad movie, and one that’s just downright bizarre, be so enduring?
I was never a Grease fanatic like you were. Maybe it was a little too close to home. “Sandy” was the kind of girl I should have been dating; instead, she’s the kind the kind of girl I grew up to be white, virtuous, and pert, waiting for a knight in shining armor to sweep me off the backyard swing. Twenty years later, I’m Eve Arden. (If I’d had lower standards, I could’ve been Sally Kirkland.)
Olivia interrupts my reverie. “Excuse me, I have to go change into my bad-girl outfit,” she says with a smile. Damn it! She’s got all the good lines, too.
John Travolta makes a very public exit from the hotel in his black Danny Zucko leathers, and he is not far from a neighborhood where they will be appreciated. He’s still in Primary Colors mode it’s a Presidential stride. He’s gonna have a hard time giving that up. It’s like looking at Bill Clinton in the body of someone else. Art imitates life, and the imitation is more palpable than the original. Then Sean Connery walks by and you suddenly remember what a real man looks like, now that Sterling Hayden is dead. Clint Eastwood? Tight-ass. They say when Clark Gable walked into a room, you could hear his balls clanking. Connery’s must swing like Foucault’s pendulum.
I thought I saw Anjelica Huston and that handbag-husband of hers in the lobby. I long to see her play another bad girl in a tight dress there must be something by Horace McCoy that she could do justice to. She sure looks awful in Gallo’s Buffalo 66, and I suppose that’s to her credit. You can’t look too good in Buffalo.
The charms of an unlined face are very overrated.
Verdict on Olivia Newton-John: Not as soft as her image (thank God) and not as bad as she’d like to be. I was impressed. She’s got a new album, Back With A Heart (MCA Nashville). I may even buy a copy (if you tell anyone, I’ll kill you) to tide me over until the Xanadu revival.
As for Mr. Gallo, he fills me with emotions that probably only Ed Wood could understand. He’s not unlike Savonarola, or Oscar Wilde’s description of John the Baptist. Unfortunately, at my age, that makes me Herodias, and not Salome. “Ah, Jokanaan! Lift up thine eyelids.” Trouble loves me.
By Grant Tume. Photo: Larry Hammerness