||[Sep. 23rd, 2007|11:36 am]
Marcel Marceau has died.|
That came as a bit of a surprise, to be honest -- he didn't say anything about it.
*snorts* Oh my God, that is so wrong! Sad, too, though; we've lost a few wonderfully odd entertainers this week. :-(
Brett Somers (who, despite actually being an actress, was best known for being an off-color bitch to Charles Nelson Reilly's "am I or am I not" effeminate misanthrope on the game show "Match Game") and Alice Ghostley (the crazy witch Esmeralda on "Bewitched" and the even crazier old-lady neighbor on "Designing Women"). Both of whom--and Marcel Marceau, too--I care about a lot more than most of the major-name players, especially of my generation. It only takes looks to make it as a first-string player, but it takes talent to make it as a second-string one.
There was some debate on the radio this morning about what his last words might have been ...
On the radio?
This gets more like the set-up for a gag with every minute...
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You and The Bloke have similarly sick humour.
The Bloke said "he didn't even say he was ill".
he didn't say anything about it
Oh, that's so not right (and I wish I'd said it).
2007-09-23 03:40 pm (UTC)
They could play Clifford T ward's I'm Not Waving, I'm Drowning at the funeral, I suppose.
Did a tree fall on him in a forest?
Waah! And btw happy birthday to yooooo (and to my mother, actually) for the 27th...
Oh no! I saw him perform about six years ago when I was working in Dublin, and he was absolutely brilliant. He completely changed my mind about the entire art-form - previously I guess I'd been a little sceptical about mime, but he was a true master.
One of the performances was a study of various characters walking through a public garden, including a small, nervous man walking an enormous, enthusiastic dog, and getting dragged all over the place. About the only way I could think of describing it was to say that for those thirty seconds he wasn't just pretending to walk a dog that wasn't there, he actually was walking a real dog that for some unexplained reason just happened to be invisible.
After the show I joined about ten other people stood outside the stage door in the cold and darkness. Marceau himself didn't appear (he was 78 at the time and, despite still being very spry and energetic, was understandably in need of a rest) but after about quarter of an hour, the doorman agreed to take our programmes upstairs to get them signed.