Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Poor Care.

Ugh. I watched a biography of Carole Lombard today, the same one I watched several years ago. I cried then and I cried today! I'll never get over it.

Obviously she's terribly beautiful but I don't really like the photos of CL as seductress. She was such a crazy card that who wants to stare at another aryan siren reclining in silk when you can see photos of her sitting with her ankle on her knee on the set as she asks some visiting nuns if they want her to help them get laid tonight.


I decided to stop wryly blaming Clark Gable for her death. It's an easy joke to make when you consider he was home fucking Lana Turner (ALLEGEDLY! and can you imagine? blah.)[1] while Carole was on tour selling war bonds in the first days of our involvement in WWII. Carole caught wind of that rumor and chartered the doomed flight home immediately, hopefully intending to slap his fake teeth out. He knew this and blamed himself for her death his entire life. His anguish was obvious; he flew to the crash site and had to be physically restrained from joining the search party, hindered as it was by the forest fire the wreck had created, for survivors on the lonely side of the mountain. He only would have found a gruesome nightmare. Months later, he enlisted in Carole's honor and served until 1944. Most people in his inner circle called him a shadow of the person he had been before she died.




[1] what am I, a catty gay entertainment columnist specializing in dead people of the 1930s? goddamn right, except I'm not gay (biggest regret) and not a columnist (2nd biggest regret).

1 comment:

Fashion Serial Killer said...

i never knew she died that way... dangggg