An Evening With Lynn Fontanne

She put out her hand now, still long, still pale, and gripped my arm fiercely, so that I tottered, on my elegant stilts. Still, thin is fashionable, and she smiled, ravishingly, her approval. She forbore smiling, however, at the awed throng which parted before us like the Red Sea as we made our slow, slow, slow progress across the lobby and into the theatre; all her plus-ninety-years energies were concentrated on her feet in their tiny jeweled ballet slippers.

I concentrated, too, for, though tall, I am not sturdy; I had another vision, a horrid one, of us both crashing to the floor, and her beautiful, brittle, ancient bones snapping like twigs. But we made it, finally, to our seats— lovely ones, fifth row center, arranged for by the star of the show, Carol Channing. We were seated early, to facilitate Miss Fontanne's easy progress down the aisle, and the seats filled slowly around us; I felt a kind of charged radiance emanating from our little group— emanating from the presence in our midst— she all unaware of the curious glances, the thunderstruck looks.

I sat on her left, Morgan Library on her right, and we fanned out from there. Almost immediately an usher arrived and presented Miss Fontanne with a gorgeous single long-stemmed rose, with a note. She took the note, opening it; I held the rose. She scanned the writing quickly, and folded it. Perhaps you'll recognize the sender after all. Now we're in a garden," she said. My heart swelled with the beauty of her words. I was very sensible of the honor done me this night, of my inclusion in this party, on this occasion.

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Luntians began with Sydney Greenstreet, the Grand Visier of the royal entourage, and went on down through bit players and stage managers. She had no doubt had others, in other times— but, in my time I was it I had not seen Miss Fontanne for some twenty-five years, until now, until two days earlier, when we had taken tea together, a poignant reunion. We had corresponded of late, ever since, after the publication of my first novel, she had written me The Ultimate Fan Letter.

When I arrived back on the Sunday after my weekend in the country, I found four telegrams, each sounding a bit more frantic, asking me to call Dorothy Stickney. In advertising, you know—" I explained further. She listened, then said, "Oh, well, that will be fine. We will have with us the director of the Morgan Library She did not look it, truly.

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Except in a strange, surreal way. Her hair was a shining pewter now, dressed high in an elaborate knot on top of her head, and she was all fine bone and poreless ivory skin. She wore, daringly, a brilliant red dress, slim, high to the chin; her face floated, like a beautiful exotic bird, above it; her smile was the same. She changed the subject, swiftly— the vagaries of age, or royalty, or both. We'll meet again at the theatre. I had crossed my legs; the rhinestone t-straps showed on my feet. I was being kind," she agreed. In the small silence that followed, Dorothy Stickney leaned forward to speak to me.

She had been sent the galleys by my editor "Oh— I love it! Lynns said, patting her piled hair, "I haven't had a chance to even look at it yet— though it is dedicated to us. I'm in such a whirl! My eyes met Dorothy Stickney's, a fleeting twinkle. I often didn't, but I clucked, commiserating, along with the others. My mind's eye saw a hundred courtiers tiptoeing past Majesty's chamber, and crossing halberds at the drawbridge against importunate subjects. The orchestra struck up, tuneful, loud; the curtain rose; a magnificent performance, a kind of glorious Channing circus.

We did not leave at the interval, remaining in our seats, stared at. After the curtain call, Carol Channing stepped forward, smiling. I half expected her to go into, "Well, Hello Lynnie She gave a charming little speech, explaining the occasion, and gravely, respectfully, gesturing toward Lynn.

After a long moment, Lynn rose— without any help from me, or even from the arms of her chair— and stood, tall as tall, and bowed, graciously. The applause grew deeper. She turned then, slowly, and, facing the rear, bowed to the balcony. The house went wild— for a full five minutes, Lynn bravely and happily bowing.

White-faced, with stars in his eyes, he stared at Lynn; if he had been a Turk, or if the seats had permitted, he would surely have prostrated himself at her feet. Lynn turned to me, astonished. He must have been an actor Dorothy Stickney, far younger and spryer, followed with our two personable escorts.

Filmography

It was only a step to the stage entrance, but the balmy May day had given way to a punishing chill rain— as it always seems to do on such momentous occasions— and, with our slow progress, we were drenched and shivering as we emerged onto the boards of the stage. Miss Fontanne, though, now feeling the familiar terrain under her feet, let go my arm and stepped forward, bowing to the stage doorman, smiling, and addressing him by name. We passed him by. A tremendous burst of applause greeted us; the cast assembled on the stage, glowing, worshipful, making their palms ache.

Lynn embraced the star, uttering words of extravagant praise, introducing her guests, beginning with Dorothy "—whom you know, of course—" and getting my married name right for once— "Martha auditioned for me when she was young Lynn introduced our two escorts, getting Morgan Library's right too— though it is a difficult one, Ryskamp— but calling him the curator! He chuckled softly beside me, and sent me a mischievous wink; Mr. Ryskamp, Director of the Morgan Library, turned out to be a blithe and bonny gentleman, a nice person to know. Miss Fontanne then turned to the cast, thanking them for a lovely performance, singling them out.

One young woman who played a plump demi-mondaine— padded no doubt, and very pretty, like a ripe apricot, Lynn addressed in special tones, taking her hand. We parted on the wet sidewalk; Majesty had had a long day; she kissed me goodbye. I stood, huddled, in my scanty stole, against the wind and the rain, watching the limosine, a long, black, pumpkin, pull away.

Like Cinderella— except I had my Prince. On Saturday afternoon, I called the Stickney house; Dorothy answered. Her plane leaves tonight! I couldn't put it down! And— I'm so pleased with you, Martha. So pleased with the way you've turned out I wondered, but was silent.

We spoke of the evening; I thanked her for it. Martha's Rap Stuart Hodes. Denis said, "She's ugly.

Lynn Fontanne - Wikipedia

Now every day on Celestial grass, Heaven is taking Martha's class. Ann Miller By Larry Blank. The International Arts Award was a charity gala honoring a host of famous stars including: It was the last time Ginger Rogers appeared on stage. I'd arranged it in her key so she had no vocal problems and sounded great. But she seemed preoccupied with her feather boa and insisted on doing it nine times.

At 2 AM my telephone rang waking me from a deep sleep. Y'know that feather boa? It's the wrong color.

And it's not long enough! I'm the music director. I don't know anyone else.

Lunt and Fontanne

And wasn't it you who got me into this mess in the first place? After the show Diana Rigg said to me: The stars were Mickey Rooney, 63, and Ann Miller, Annie was warm and fun to be with and made jokes about her age. I was Musical Director. Find showtimes, watch trailers, browse photos, track your Watchlist and rate your favorite movies and TV shows on your phone or tablet! Down 34, this week. She was married to Alfred Lunt.

About Lynn and Alfred

Filmography by Job Trailers and Videos. What is Emily Mortimer Watching? Best Actress Academy Award Nominees of the 's. Do you have a demo reel? Add it to your IMDbPage. How Much Have You Seen? How much of Lynn Fontanne's work have you seen? TV series that lasted 20 seasons or more Judge not, lest you also be judged. Nominated for 1 Oscar. The Guardsman The Actress. Stage Door Canteen Lynn Fontaine.

Actress Self Archive footage.