i think finding out that wilson starred in a porno film has gotta be one of the top three horniest moments of house's life. too bad they didn't show him hyperventilating on screen.
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Alan Rickman at the Albery Theatre, London — 25 October 2001.
Photograph by Kevin Westenberg.
The photograph and the following quote were shared by @alan_rickman_ on X.
"The other greatest thing about living in London has always been the diversity of culture constantly swirling around. Having the occasional ability to dip into and contribute to that rich history of events other than just the music business was always welcomed with open arms.
I always loved this man and so when the chance came up to photograph him I wanted to get it right. Here he was starring in the Noël Coward production of Private Lives, alongside Lindsay Duncan.
As this was 2001, I was happy to hear him listening to Starsailor's debut album Love Is Here while getting ready in his dressing room. A memorable moment. Hard also to not hear Hans Gruber when we were discussing the day's events.
One of my chosen spots on the upper stair was to photograph him under this portrait of Olivier in Macbeth. A great day and I was asked to work further with Alan after he saw the results, which of course was also thrilling."
— Kevin Westenberg (2020)
Source: alan_rickman_ on X
All credit goes to the original photographers and respective sources. Shared for archival and appreciation purposes
Tallulah Bankhead broadcasting from her dressing room in the Plymouth Theater on October 21, 1948, as she introduces President Truman, who delivered a campaign address from Washington. Bankhead introduced Truman as “the human being” she prefers for president “against Thomas E. Dewey, the mechanical man.” She was starring in a revival of Noel Coward's Private Lives with Donald Cook and Barbara Baxley.
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Camille set the phone back down on the receiver and just sat for a second. She leaned over the counter, eyeing around her apartment.
The open bag of chips next to the couch, the remote still sitting there, waiting for her. She looked at the long penthouse windows, the bright lights of NYC still lighting up the sky and streets even at night. How her closet down the hall was dark, just holding whatever outfit she was going to throw on tonight.
Finally, she exhaled and walked towards the record player sitting on a wooden bookshelf in front of one of the windows.
She perched down, flipping through the different records on one of the shelves. One vinyl caught her eye, and she pulled it out, sliding the record out of the paper case and carefully dropping it onto the player by the edges.
She drops the pin down, the record crackling before starting the first song. Stevie Wonder's Songs in the Key of Life fills the apartment, his background vocals sweetly reflecting off the walls.
Camille smiles to herself, following back to the bathroom to get ready again. If she was going to go out, she at least wasn't going to make it feel miserable.
She grabbed the bunch of wipes and threw them in the trash right next to her. As she unzipped her makeup bag, she began taking out products and brushes.
The cigarette she had grabbed earlier sat sideways laying on the ashtray on the bathroom windowsill, smoke both lingering in the inside air and floating outside the window. The music from the living room drifted through the apartment, muffled.
Staring at her exhausted face, she examined the makeup left on her face from what the wipe couldn't take off: the cracked concealer at the corner of her mouth and the dark mascara that still sat on her eyelashes.
For a moment, she considered calling Evelyn and cancelling anyway. Instead, though, she reached for the blush sitting in the bag.
By the time her makeup was done, she finally looked like the alive, photo-ready version of herself. She went out of the bathroom and down the hall towards the other side of the apartment, the music growing louder as she passed by the record player.
She turned on the light, eyeing the huge walk-in closet. She felt almost ungrateful seeing all the clothes hanging in front of her.
It wasn't that she didn't like being famous; she actually loved it. In an egotistical way, she loved the attention. The billboards she'd drive by with her face on them, the magazines with her on them in carriers outside shops, the times she'd pass by theaters and see The Quiet Between in bold lettering. She felt bad about how exhausted this life made her, knowing it was probably someone else's dream. Honestly, it was her dream too.
Her eyes landed on a dark wine colored dress. It was short and body-hugging, revealing enough to still look sexy but simple enough to put on and leave. Camille slipped the fabric over her hips and looked in the mirror. She scanned from the bottom up to her face.
"Beautiful," she thought, scanning past her legs and hips.
"Perfect," up to her waist and chest.
She paused, studying her face for a moment, her expression blank, thinking of a word to describe it.
"Tired."
She slipped back into the hall, grabbed her purse, and, leaning over to slide her feet back into the heels tossed by the door. The first side of the vinyl had stopped, and she left the needle sitting on it.
Just as she was about to go sit and wait on the couch, the door knocked. Vincent was outside. She looked back down the hall to her closet, the light on this time. She saw her oversized shirt and shorts sitting on the floor, waiting for her to finally be ready for bed.
She grabbed the doorknob and swiftly walked out, locking the door behind her.
✶ ݁ ˖
The city blurred outside the car window with streaks of gold and damp rainwater on the concrete from earlier in the day. This was her 7th car ride of the day, and she was tired of driving around the city. Vincent sat in the front, driving Camille and Evelyn to the event.
Camille sat comfortably in the leather seat, her head resting back and one leg crossed over the other, her heel dangling from her foot. Beside her, Evelyn sat flipping through the planner on her lap before looking back up at Camille, smiling empathetically.
"Come on, girl! She giggled, "Relax! Let yourself have some fun!"
Camille dropped her head to the side, looking back at Evelyn. "I'm too tired to be optimistic."
"Sounds like the first drink you're ordering is a coffee." Evelyn laughed.
Camille's laughter followed before they both quieted, and her eyes continued back up to the roof of the car. Their silence paused for a second, Evelyn continuing the conversation just as Camille's eyes fluttered shut.
"You know, Quincy's gonna be there tonight."
"Quincy Jones?" Camille asked.
Evelyn nodded, her finger still following down the paper in front of her. "Mhm. I talked to him earlier. He loved the film. He's excited to see you tonight."
Camille exhaled before continuing, "That's terrifying."
"Everything is terrifying to you." Evelyn laughed.
Their silence continued while Camille sat in whatever thought was passing by.
"Who else is gonna be there?"
Evelyn brought the pen to her mouth, looking up while trying to recall. "Hmmm. I know Stevie will be there, Diana, John, and probably Daniel. I talked to his manager earlier."
"Okay... not as bad as I thought."
"I told you you'd have fun."
Camille looked back out the window at her reflection shining off the dark window. The version she was seeing looked much more put together than she felt. Outside, New York kept moving whether she was tired or not.
The car slowed next to the curb of the building. Even from inside, Camille could still hear the music faintly through the walls. Two men in black stood outside the doors beside gold and velvet railings.
An unrecognizable crowd stood outside, smoking cigarettes and laughing loudly enough to echo down the street. Valet cars moved fast in and out, flashes of cameras occasionally going off.
Vincent walked around the car, going to open their door. Camille smoothed the end of her dress, mentally preparing herself before stepping out, Evelyn following.
As her heels hit the concrete, people immediately started recognizing her. Paparazzi that were leaning on the wall shot up, bringing their cameras to their eye and yelling obscenities.
Her smile returned automatically, and she waved towards the group. She and Evelyn reached the entrance, and Evelyn talked to one of them, scanning over the guest list on a clipboard he was holding.
Camille's eyes followed behind her and around the city, waiting. Evelyn grabbed her arm, dragging her through the doors.
The second she stepped in, warm air and music hit her. Dark amber chandeliers hung above her, dimming everything around her. A table near the back laughed so hard it turned heads.
Before she could even move further, someone grabbed her arm lightly.
"Camille Beaumont in the flesh," he commented. "It's so hard to get a hold of you these days."
"Yes, I've been very busy. It's good to see you!"
His eyes scanned her body, smirking creepily before noticing something behind her and walking away.
Another woman quickly passed her, air kissing her cheek. "Honey, you look incredible."
"Thank you," Camille replied.
"How has the press tour been?"
"Honestly exhausting, but I wouldn't trade it for anything." She flashed a fake smile.
"And that's why you're the best in the business." The woman patted her back and swiftly moved.
More faces blurred after that. More conversations, more compliments, more fake laughing. She had now successfully gotten halfway into the room. It did take at least ten introductions she was going to forget in 20 minutes, though.
Some producer sat and talked to her for 15 minutes about his new album, not asking her one question about herself. Another actor kissed her cheek while telling her The Quiet Between was the most beautiful film of the year. Someone she barely recognized tapped her on the shoulder and asked if she and Daniel Hart were hooking up.
Each fake interaction blended into one, and she finally slumped on a high chair next to the bar, ordering a glass of champagne. She sat, just breathing for a second, and looking around the room, when she heard a familiar laugh behind her.
She spun in her chair and looked at the man, waving and a genuine smile brightening her face. They both stood up from their chairs, walking towards each other and finally landing in a hug.
"Look at you," Quincy laughed warmly once they pulled apart. "You're all grown up now."
"You sound like every interviewer this past month." She laughed.
"It's been that bad?"
"You have no idea."
He motioned her back to the seats in front of the bar, and she eased into the fabric chair.
"I saw the film last week," he said. "You were incredible in it."
"Thank you, Quincy, that actually means a lot." Her gaze softened.
"You looked different in it."
Camille tilted her head slightly. "Oh gosh, different good or different bad?"
"Different, like you're finally making art that means something to you."
That caught her off guard. Most people talked about her looks, the press, or some tabloid rumor. This is why she loved Quincy; he was one of the only people who saw her for more than that.
"That might be the nicest thing someone said to me tonight," she admitted, bringing the champagne flute up to her mouth.
"Well, everyone in this room is full of shit." He replied, casually.
Camille laughed hard enough that she nearly choked on the sip of her drink.
"There she is," he pointed at her dramatically. "That laugh right there–that's the girl I haven't seen in years."
"Quit it, Quincy!" She shook her head, smiling down at her glass. "You make me sound deeply troubled."
"Aren't we all?" Quincy said, leaning against the bar, his eyes scanning the room before focusing on someone behind her. He brought a hand out, ushering the person over.
"Speaking of deeply troubled people," he said softly so the other person wouldn't hear.
Camille turned slightly in her chair, following Quincy's gaze through the crowded room. A man emerged next to the bar. He wore all black, short curls falling loosely, framing his face. The closer he got, the more familiar he looked.
"Camille, this is Michael," he said, grabbing his shoulder.
"Michael Jackson," she looked at Quincy, surprised, nodding to him before reaching out a hand. "It's nice to meet you."
Michael looked back at her, confused for a second before asking, "Have we met before?"
She smiled and tilted her head. "I don't think so."
"Maybe I'm wrong." He said, taking her hand and shaking firmly.
"I hope so," Camille laughed. "Otherwise, that's a little embarrassing for me."
The awkwardness lingered for a second too long before Quincy interjected. "So, Michael's here working on a movie."
"A movie? Don't you make music?"
Michael laughed shyly, "Yeah, but Diana Ross got me the part. I'm making an album too."
Someone tapped Quincy on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear. He grabbed Michael's shoulder, standing up from his seat.
"I'll leave you guys to it." He said, leaving a hand out to invite Michael to sit down.
Michael nodded and took the chair while Camille shuffled in her chair, getting comfortable.
"What kind of album?" Camille asked, taking another sip from her drink.
"My first real solo one. I'm actually really excited about it. I'm living here alone with my sister while I work on it."
"That's exciting," she replied. "New York alone is rough, I would know."
"Yeah, that's what everyone keeps telling me."
"That's because everyone secretly hates New York. You know, it's fun until you're eating takeout on your floor at three am." Camille lightly replied.
Michael huffed a laugh. "That already happened yesterday."
Camille looked at him immediately, laughing. "See? You're adapting just fine."
The silence returned after both lightly laughed, Camille taking another sip to try and cover it up. Michael shuffled his chair closer, leaning in and speaking lower now.
"Do you actually like any of this stuff?" He asked.
Camille tilted her head, asking, "What? Parties?"
"I guess. Just all of it. Doesn't it feel so?" he paused, searching for the word. "Fake?"
She looked at him, then back to her heels resting on the metal of the chair. "You figured that out pretty fast."
"You seem tired."
It caught her off guard, her breath hitching for a moment. She looked back up to his eyes, searching.
"Is it that obvious?"
"Only a little." He smiled at her, leaning back, lightening the conversation.
"I'm sure I'm not the first person to tell you, but your movie was amazing," he added.
Camille only smiled politely at first, expecting the conversation to drift back into the routine compliments she was hearing all night, but he kept going.
"The ending bothered me, though."
Her eyes narrowed, catching her attention immediately. "Bothered you?" Her eyebrows lifted slightly.
"Not in a bad way," he added. "I just kept thinking about it after."
"Most people don't really talk about the ending."
"I know," Michael laughed softly. "They only talk about how pretty you look in it."
She stared at him for a second.
"That's usually the review, yeah."
"I liked how lonely she was," he admitted, quieter now. "Even while she was around him."
Before Camille could respond, someone tapped Michael lightly on the shoulder.
"Sorry, man, they're looking for you."
Michael looked up at him, blinking like he forgot where he was for a second.
"Oh," he glanced back toward Camille apologetically, rising from the seat. "Sorry."
"It's alright," she said, lifting her champagne glass. "You're apparently very important."
He smiled. "Don't go anywhere?" he asked, questioning.
"I'll try." Camille flashed another smirk before he got lost in the crowd again.
There are no private lives. This is what Nixon found out. ’Course he engineered it himself, with the tapes. This is a most important aspect of modern life. As a science-fiction writer, dealing with the future, I want to speak to this. That one of the biggest transformations we have seen in human life in our society is the diminution of the sphere of the private. That we must reasonably now all regard the fact that there are no secrets and nothing is private. Everything is public.
—Philip K Dick, “The Acid Truth: Interview with Arthur Byron Cover,” Vertex, Feb 1974
[Scott Horton]
