A New Gesture of Extreme Consternation

It's always nice to learn a new gesture to add to your repertoire! Just as learning a new word can help you express yourself better, so can learning a new gesture help you reveal your innermost feelings to others.

I'm particularly fascinated by "gestures of extreme consternation." Previously, my favourite gesture of this type was to be seen only in Bollywood movies, when the heroine accidentally hits the hero on the head with a kitchen utensil; instead of putting her hands to her face and saying "Oh NO!" the way our western sitcom characters would, the Bollywood female would raise her hands to shoulder-level and flap them forwards and backwards quickly, like she were putting out a shoulder pad fire.

While watching Benny Hill this week I discovered an entirely new gesture of extreme consternation, one that I think was uniquely British: when Benny Hill does something cruel to you in a restaurant, put one hand on the top of your head, stick the thumb of your other hand in your mouth, and then moan terribly while stroking your nose:


I'm not kidding. That's Louise English in the picture, doing the most exaggerated version of this gesture that I've seen so far (usually the "hand on the head" element is not included).

What is this supposed to mean? I think it means "I am so shocked and upset that I've reverted to infancy!" But it's presented in such a nonchalant way that I suspect this wasn't just part of Benny Hill's show...I think it might have happened in British screwball comedies in general. But the first time *I* saw this I sat up in my chair and said "What the HECK?!?"

Somehow I can't bring myself to watch a "Carry On" movie in order to do more research.

A Man Isn't Safe Any More

Wow, the cigarette companies sure were subtle!

A man isn't safe any more.

Not if he has Camels in his case. For the young ladies of the land, with their usual penetration, have discovered the excellence of this famous cigarette....So that nowadays, whenever a male voice is heard to say, "Have a Camel," echo answers in a soft but prompt soprano: "I'd love to."

My goodness, that picture! She's snatching a cigarette with one hand and offering herself with the other. She's emancipated AND for sale!

(The New Yorker, December 29, 1928)

Synchronicity with Phyllis Ryan

Phyllis Ryan wrote a few very funny pieces for The New Yorker, most of them of the catty "female psychology" type. In this one ("Evening of a Lady," from December 3, 1927) she describes a particular woman's thoughts about a party between 9pm and 3:30am. It's a predictably cynical, but it's still funnier than the average "guy talking to the bellhop" sort of New Yorker stuff.

When she first arrives at the party at 9:00pm, the woman has this to say:

You were discussing what, Mr. McNulty? "Ulysses?"...My God, so it's that kind of party! I've never read it. Is it good? Has it lots of plot? I adore a book with lots of plot, don't you? ... Why, certainly, I'll excuse you. There he goes. Goody, goody, it worked again. Surest way to clear my side of the room of the young intellectuals.

Yes, another moment of synchronicity. In any case, this is my favourite moment:

1 A.M.

I am not shrieking, Jerry Twombly. And if you were the really correct sort of host you'd encourage your guests to shriek and shriek and shriek. Like this.

1:00am really IS the best time at a party.

Performing "They Don't Know" at Guelph's "Drag Race" Event

As I continue to pursue the St. Bernard Internet Footprint I keep finding bizarre things about myself that I never knew existed. Here's a sneaky video clip of me performing Tracy Ullmann's "They Don't Know" at a show a few months ago in Guelph (which I think was called "The Drag Race").


When I first started doing drag shows, Miss Drew said it would be a good idea to watch videos of myself, and since this clip was filmed (and posted) without my knowledge it's an even better "critical study" for me than it would be otherwise.

My first comment is "jeez, I have rocket-powered hands," thanks partly to long-ago advice from Morgan James ("When in doubt, raise your arms!") But the frantic hands have more to do with the fact that I don't know what to do with my FEET. I'm not much into audience interaction so I prefer to stay on the stage, but I can't just stand in one spot...that worked for '40s torch singers but they actually SANG.

It's hard, in a song, to avoid International Drag Sign Language (love, you, they, etc.) so you either have to be innovative or deliberately silly.

Which leads me to another good piece of advice, this one from Rasha, who told me early on to drop any pretence of being serious and "just be silly." Since there are only a few other established drag personas available -- experimental, glamorous, sexy, jaded, impersonator, and dancey-pants -- "silly" is the only one I'm really comfortable with.

Regarding this song: I started doing it during the lead up to the same-sex marriage vote here in Canada, so I dedicated it (in my head at least) to Stephen Harper, and to all the people who know more about "hate" and "fear" than they do about "love." This clip's for you!

The Decline of Leering

Prohibition has effected many changes, but one of its most far-reaching has been to abolish the Leer. We have still most of the stimuli to leering, but the present endurance-test method of drinking allows little leisure for stepping outside to leer at passing ladies now and then. Also, it tends to make earnest young men out of our men-about-town, for drinking must be taken seriously today. And no one can leer in a solemn mood.

The most important reason for the decline of the leer is not the lack of liquor, however. It is the absence of the proper setting. Travelling salesmen, the country over, have reported that men no longer leer. The reason is that the corner saloon is gone. They have tried leering from the doorways of tearooms, but the gesture fails because it is never recognized. They have tried hotel lobbies and bus stops. Everywhere it is the same story. The old-fashioned leer is gone.

Virginius Whimple, rake salesman, 43, states that he would guarantee a genuine leer if he could only harden himself into betraying the location of a bar or a dispensing chemist. His intense loyalty to these institutions has thus far prevented his making the attempt. For my part, I am afraid that even Mr. Whimple would fail to produce a real leer, for unless an effect is produced on the ladies the leer is nothing. And how can the ladies realize that a man is leering unless it is perfectly obvious that he is leaning against the entrance to a bar? If they DO know that it is a bar, they are not--well, we need not go into that.

Men have tried to comfort themselves for their inability to leer nowadays by reminding themselves that the leer is only "a sidelong glance." It need not, technically, be a wicked glance that frightens the ladies and makes them look again. It need not be a gesture indicative of Experience and zest for adventure. It NEED not be, to satisfy the dictionary definition. But we all know that the dictionary definition is inadequate, and we must face the truth: the leer as we used to know it is gone--irrevocably.

So says Josie Turner in the July 30, 1927 edition of The New Yorker. Regarding the mention of a "dispensing chemist"...during prohibition, drug stores were notorious for stockpiling government-sanctioned "medicinal" liquor, and selling it to thirsty folks at a huge profit.

Assuming that Josie had written some real whiz-bang books in her day, I started hunting around...and discovered an obscure gem.

It turns out that her real name was Phyllis Crawford, and as Phyllis she wrote a number of children's books. But the "Josie Turner" pseudonym was the outlet for her more risque work, and it's as Josie that she published her one great book: "Elsie Dinsmore on the Loose."

The original Elsie Dinsmore books were written in the mid- to late 1800s by Martha Finley. They were sickly-sweet stories aimed at young girls, thinly disguised as lessons on how proper, God-fearing ladies should act.

You can still buy the original run of Elsie Dinsmore books, and they appear to have regained some of their relevance to a certain "barefoot and pregnant" demographic, but in the 1920s they were ripe for parody.

So Josie Turner took the bait and wrote a dead-accurate parody of Elsie, which was serialized in The New Yorker. I've been skipping the Elsie stories (understanding them depends on knowing who Elsie Dinsmore was -- which I didn't -- so on the surface her parodies look like the tiresome "burlesques" of high society that clutter up the rest of the magazine), but now I'm reading them, and they're hilarious.

Sadly "Elsie Dinsmore on the Loose" is LONG out of print, but used copies pop up now and then so I'm on a determined hunt.

* Information about Phyllis Crawford is scarce, so this blog post is based on a fair amount of "connecting the dots." Any mistakes are purely my own.

The Passing of the Flounce

Among feminine gestures that have fallen into disuse is the flounce. As late as 1908 ladies--and others--still flounced out of rooms. It was a very usual method of betraying vexation. Then the practice gradually diminished, and the word disappeared from our literature.

It is true that chorus girls have from time to time used a similar gesture, flirting the skirts upward and outward as they make their exits. This involves using the hands. The real flounce never employed the hands, however. It was done with the hips, aided by the full skirts of the period. Another difference is that while the chorus girl makes the gesture to attract, the genuine flounce was always intended to repel, or at least to rebuke. It never prompted spectators to send notes suggesting a quiet little supper later.

No, not even the chorus girl can flounce today. An approximation can be seen in an occasinal costume play with an all-star cast. But there the best exponents of the art of flouncing are not the younger actresses.

We of today are hampered by two things--the meagreness of skirts and petticoats, and the comparative absence of hips. There are hips today, but whereas they have the bulk, they have not the contour necessary to the perfect flounce. And even old-fashioned hips can do nothing without the long, full skirts of yesterday. Present-day full skirts, sometimes advocated by costume designers, tend to distribute the gathers more or less equally at the waistline, whereas the proper skirt for flouncing should concentrate the gathers at the back, where the greater part of the movement occurs.

The flounce was not one of our most genial gestures, and few have been known to deplore its passing. It is a matter for historical interest, and not for regret.

Josie Turner, The New Yorker, July 23, 1927

I'm inclined to agree with Josie. The only people I ever see flouncing are drag queens, but they do it in a different style: hands on hips and a quick strut off-stage, hoping that their dress billows after them. The "drag flounce" is not meant to repel OR attract, but to be a campy play on the way that divas "leave in a huff."

It's interesting that I can PICTURE the flounce in my head, but I've never REALLY seen anyone do it. I imagine that women in '40s period musicals did it a lot, and I bet that I can find some quality flouncing in "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" or "Kiss Me Kate."

The Bridle

Someone has brought up the question of obsolete gestures, among them the Ogle. This calls to mind the conventional response to the Ogle--the Bridle.

Not long ago I thought a gentleman ogled me, and so I responded with what I thought was a Bridgle. But instead of following at a discreet distance, as oglers are said to have done, this gentleman came up to me at once and said: "Didn't I meet you last Saturday night at a party on West End Avenue?"

Something, you can readily see, was wrong. I began to wonder if I had bridled incorrectly. In order to find my mistake, I asked my friends to bridle.

Most of them thought, as I had, that bridling was a self-conscious recognition of wicked admiration, involving, of course, pleasurable sensations.

We thought it was akin to smirking or simpering, and had something to do with edging nearer without quite losing one's niceness. We may have confused the Bridle in some way with the Sidle.

We were wrong. Webster defines the Bridle as an indignant Toss of the head, as of a bridled horse. Can you EE-magine?

Now if some kind gentleman will Ogle me or Insult me in the good old-fashioned way, I shall be glad to bridle properly. It has taken practice to acquire the gesture, I must confess, for without the old spirit to inspire me I can achieve only the outward observance. But given the proper stimulus, who knows how well I can do?

--Josie Turner (The New Yorker, May 28, 1927)

When somebody ogles me, I don't bridle...I ignore. Or I walk away a slight distance, hoping they'll follow. This is my way of saying either "you don't know what you're getting into," or "yes, I'm interested...but I'm not doing ANYTHING unless you're more obvious about it."

In nightclubs, at least, the Ogle still exists, but it has been partially replaced with the butt-grab. I think most women in clubs tend not to Bridle, they tend to slightly isolate themselves (but not so much as to be alone) and wait to see if the Ogler approaches.

The unfortunate female version of the Ogle seems to be the Lesbo Routine, which involves grinding with another girl as though the two were lesbians, but actually doing it to attract MALE attention, which I think is unsavoury on so many levels both social and political. It works...but at what cost, ladies?