A senior House Democrat who ought to know how to read Congress and how to count members predicts flatly that Richard Nixon will be impeached—and by a margin of possibly 100 votes.
The current best seller in Greece is a 1,240-page volume published by order of the new premier as part of a campaign to “purify” public life by exposing private figures: the tax returns of all citizens whose annual incomes are above $5,000. Aristotle Onassis eluded listing because he’s officially an Argentine, as did his arch-rival Stavros Niarchos, whose assets have been parceled off to a confusion of international holding companies. So that left as the most golden Greek of them all a virtually unknown $2 million-a-year fleet owner named Nikolas Vardinoyannis, who died just after the revealing book of numbers went to press.
“I was completely bypassed by the ’60s,” Tennessee Williams, 63, mused sadly to a friend last summer. But the ’70s could be kinder. A new London revival of his A Streetcar Named Desire starring Claire Bloom has won universally admiring reviews, and in Hollywood Jon Voight is seeking to do the first film adaptation of Camino Real, his drama about Lord Byron. Lastly, Williams reports that his own long-awaited autobiography, tentatively titled Flee, Flee This Sad Hotel (a line from a poem by Anne Sexton), has finally “poured out of me. I’ve told the entire, absolute truth,” he says. “Life is a terrifying experience, but oblivion is sadder.”
Queen for a Night
It’s well known that the public appearances of the British royal family are studied and not inadvertent. Thus at last week’s annual command-performance gala, the cynosure of all ogling and gossip was neither the stars of the chosen film The Three Musketeers, Michael York and Raquel Welch (who chomped gum throughout), but rather the chosen guest in the royal box. It was Lady Jane Wellesley, and her protocol-bending presence strengthened talk that she is the chosen consort of Prince Charles, who is himself now at sea.
Why’s She Doing It?
There’s a bit of Mitzi Gaynor in every actress, or so they all kid themselves. Latest to commission a custom cabaret act is Dyan Cannon, who, despite its $100,000 cost, wound up doing a half-Gaynor landing on her face. At the world’s premiere in San Francisco, Dyan teetered distractingly between images of sultry sex siren and lullabying mother of her daughter Jennifer (by ex-husband Cary Grant). “I write lots of lyrics and lots of music,” she explains to the audience, “and lots of people don’t want to do my music and lyrics. That’s why I’m doing this.” Whereupon, as the Variety reviewer reported, “She heads for the piano to prove why nobody wants to do her music and lyrics.”
Shaggy Wolf Story
Actress Faye Dunaway, a liberated spirit (“Marriage is a hindrance to love”) who has previously adorned the arms of old razor-cut smoothies Marcello Mastroianni and Warren Beatty, has now taken up with a shaggier dude: Peter Wolf, lead singer of the blues-rocking Boston-based J. Geils Band. Between the Geils’s gigs and Faye’s films, they have been shuttling between her Manhattan digs, his cluttered Harvard Square pad and a Caribbean hideway.
Propagation of the Faith
Four ruling Islamic sovereigns have just bankrolled to the tune of $8 million a film entitled Mohammed—The Messenger of God. They are the King of Morocco, Colonel Gaddafi of Libya and the Sheiks of Kuwait and Bahrain. The huge bilingual production due to go before the cameras in Marrakesh later this month has the largest single set since the Taylor-Burton Cleopatra. There are two completely separate casts—it’s impossible to dub Arabic—with Anthony Quinn and Irene Pappas heading the English-speaking troupe. Mohammed, due to Islamic law, never appears on screen, so Quinn stars as Hanza, the prophet’s uncle. Though of Chicano origin, Quinn won the role because he is still revered in the Moslem world for his appearance in Lawrence of Arabia as the great warrior, Sheik Anda abu Tayi.
Remember the Mame
Spunky Rosalind Russell, 63—who introduced Auntie Mame to Broadway in 1956 and then played her in the 1958 film—offered a thought or two on the current movie-musical revival. “Mame was ageless, outspoken and chic,” she said. “She was the original women’s libber who never forgot she was a woman.” Still, if Roz were casting the current version, she concluded, she would not have chosen her contemporary, Lucille Bal!. “I would have picked Cher…more pizzazz!”