It is difficult, I surmise, to shrug off all the cultural detritus that informs — or, more precisely, deforms — our ability to reconcile the differences between what we look like and what some self-proclaimed arbiter says we should look like.
After reading this analysis, I remembered something I’d once read, and headed into the stacks in the next room to retrieve Madison S. Lacy’s Leg Art, his book of 20th-century girlie pix, completed by publicist Don Morgan after Lacy’s death in 1978. One Major Babe largely overlooked by the book was Myrna Loy, typecast as an ethnic femme fatale in the age of silents, and at the time never once suspected of having sparkling comedic timing. (The Thin Man took care of that.)
The one perfunctory publicity shot of Loy in the book is described as “rare,” because, said Lacy, “Myrna’s limbs were somewhat heavy.”
Is that a fact?
It’s enough to make Nora Charles vow: “Must scold, must nag, mustn’t be too pretty in the mornings.”