And God mixed a cocktail
Julie London has a gawky allure here that I find disarming. It's the sort of quality you don't see in today's cheap, injection-molded pop tarts, with their excessive use of melisma, exaggerated hand gestures, reliance on Auto-Tune, and general celebration of filth that makes you less burn with lust than yearn for Lysol-and a scrub brush. Mega-vulgarians like Madonna and Rihanna have much to learn from her.
She's 38 here and looks it, and that's just fine. Her smile is less sexy than goofy, revealing an excess of gums; but that's fine, too, and only makes her more appealing. Since she looks as tall as a spear-carrying Amazon here (and elsewhere), the knowledge that she was just five feet, three inches tall comes as a shock. The woman had stature.
It’s said that she was basically shy, but swore like a stevedore in the right company. It's also said that her response to indelicate direction in the recording studio was a hearty Fuck off. It’s rarely pleasant to be on the receiving end of an F-bomb, but in that setting, and from that source, it must have seemed like a benediction. If only we had it on tape.
She reminds me of one of the cooler, artsier mothers in the suburban neighborhood where I grew up: a glamourpuss when circumstances required it, but happiest in one of her husband's oversized dress shirts, which she wore untucked and smudged with modeling clay. I imagine Julie herself carpooling a bunch of kids in a big station wagon, singing along with the radio, flicking ash and cracking wise as the fidgety brats compete for her attention.
But back to the video: Get a load of that opening shot, where she looks as though she's considering an assignation. And watch the endearingly awkward way she bites her lip and shimmies after growling I love you. Then go here, if you dare, take in a few seconds of the calculated nastiness, and weep a little at how far we've fallen.
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