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The Blue Angel
I am not a myth. -Marlene Dietrich Who else but an idol be trucked out in phrases as arch as ‘twirled-orandy’? Maybe the pedestal with a hydra- headed something or other— is it a dragoon? or a double-eyed eagle-wing? Drunk sailors, frenzied German students, the soon-to-be clowned Herr professor, all see the stage, adore the singer and miss her notes of material omnipotence: steely gaze, floppy hat brim, willowy boa & a barstool of composed splendor a beerhall serenade sung through a pan, all narrative lost to a close up: fair striations, a blond-coif, bunned coils magnified for distance harmony protracted into a compact as Von Sternberg’s aims brush-stroke her lumen and fire the flesh-points like a newborn Perugino. blue <= Tim Keane => blues |