A Moment of Gesticulating Silence
Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to the legendary, leotarded Parisian pantomime Marcel Marceau, who walled himself inside a bloody coffin for the last time on this day September 22, 2007. He was 84. Born in early 1920's Strasbourg without vocal chords, it would seem, Marceau was said — though not by him — to have been inspired in his youth by the famously non-speaking cane-twirler Charlie Chaplin, and indeed patterned his pasty-faced persona after the Hitler-moustachioed “Little Tramp Stamp." During World War II, Marceau used his fledgling gesticulating skillsets to entertain and encourage frightened Jewish children, not unlike award-winning Eye-talian™ curiosity Roberto Bellini did in that uncomfortably unfunny “Life is Beautiful” Nazi tale. As for Marceau, never before had a vocally-challenged performance showboater made such a beautiful — if annoying — gestured noise as he. Of all the storied, face-painted oddities in history — and honestly, I can’t think of another, other than the late, moonwalking child-stalking Michael Jackson, whom Marcel befriended later in life — Marceau is remembered with measures of admiration and ambivalence, along with a dim recollection on my part of him "signing" the only "words" in Mel Brooks' “Silent Movie” or possibly “Blazing — a.k.a., flatulating — Saddles” or that “High Anxiety” business that I bloody hated. Speaking of head-turning moments in history, 'tis worth noting that also on this day — September 22, 1515 — Anne of Cleves, fourth wife of hatchet happy King Henry VIII, was born. Anne was one of the lucky ones, cut loose as it were, after a mere six months of marriage, with her head and dignity intact — which is to say, the union was never consummated, as fat old queen Henry did not venture to climb aboard the matronly Ms. Cleves. Curiously enough, she was commemorated in song by English keyboard nutsack Rick Wakeman on his 1970-snore vinyl recording “The Six or Seven Wives of Henry VIII.” Thankfully, Wakeman’s online discography reveals no evidence of an excruciating prog rock send-off for the expiring Marceau-and-ceau, effectively affording him the silent treatment he so dearly embraced. RIP, Citizen Quiet Man™.
