RIP: EVA MARIE SAINT

Oscar-winning actress Eva Marie Saint, who starred in such memorable classic films as "On the Waterfront" and "North by Northwest," died Tuesday at her home in Los Angeles. She was 102.

The delicate, fine-boned actress, one of the first breakout talents from early television, won her Academy Award as best supporting actress for "On the Waterfront" in 1955, making her the oldest living Oscar winner. She played Edie Doyle in the Marlon Brando starring film, with the New York Times writing in its review, "Amid scenes of carnage, she gives tenderness and sensitivity to genuine romance."

One of her most memorable roles was as the cool but seductive blonde spy in Alfred Hitchcock's 1959 spy thriller "North by Northwest." "Not only does she provide the requisite icy sex appeal as Eve Kendall, a shadowy secret agent, but she also proves to be much more than a standard damsel in distress," Variety wrote in an appreciation on her 97th birthday.

"Saint's character is fully capable of pulling the wool over the eyes of sinister villains and usually remains two or three steps ahead of Grant's hapless Madison Avenue executive Roger Thornhill," the appreciation continues.

Saint made her TV debut on "Camp Hoop La," then became a regular on "One Man's Family." She broadened her dramatic range in such anthology series as "Philco Playhouse," "Robert Montgomery Presents" and "Studio One." Highlights during the period included Paddy Chayevsky's "Middle of the Night" (1954) and a musical adaptation of Thornton Wilder's "Our Town" (1955) co-starring Paul Newman and Frank Sinatra (both shows brought her Emmy nominations); Sidney Howard's "Yellow Jack"; and the drama "Claudia."

In 1956 she took on the glamorous female lead in "That Certain Feeling" opposite Bob Hope, followed by the 1957 film version of "A Hatful of Rain" and "Raintree County."

After "North by Northwest," she appeared in "Exodus" and "All Fall Down." The latter, directed by John Frankenheimer and co-starring Warren Beatty, saw her give one of her best dramatic performances.

She was the numinous but scorned wife in 1965's Elizabeth Taylor-Richard Burton adultery tale "The Sandpiper" and then appeared in a better vehicle, Norman Jewison's comedy "The Russians Are Coming the Russians Are Coming," in 1966. Her performance in "Loving," co-starring with George Segal, was highly regarded and rated with her best work. Other roles include "36 Hours" and "Grand Prix." Except for another Hope comedy, "Cancel My Reservation," she spent most of the next two decades on TV and onstage.

On Broadway she acted in "The Lincoln Mask" in 1972 and then, opposite Henry Fonda, in "The First Monday in October" in 1979. In 1983 she appeared in a Chicago production of "Duet for One." Her television credits include "School for Bachelors," "A Carol for Another Christmas," "'The First Woman President," "Mrs. Epenshade," "Taxi" and miniseries "How the West Was Won." The latter two roles also brought Emmy nominations.

Saint received good critical notices for "A Christmas to Remember" with Jason Robards, "When Hell Was in Session," "The Curse of King Tut's Tomb," "The Best Little Girl in the World," "Malibu," "My Antonia" and "Jane Doe," among other roles.

The actress had a recurring role on the ABC series "Moonlighting," starring Cybill Shepherd and Bruce Willis, as Shepherd's mother.

In 1986 she returned to the big screen with a role in the Tom Hanks-Jackie Gleason vehicle "Nothing in Common." Saint appeared in many TV movies throughout the 1990s, including roles in "I'll Be Home for Christmas," "Kiss of a Killer," "After Jimmy" and "Open House," along with a cameo as Roz's mother in "Frasier." After four previous Emmy nominations, Saint finally took the statuette with a supporting actress Emmy win in 1990 for her role in the NBC miniseries "People Like Us."

Saint returned to film again in the 2000s, appearing in pics such as "I Dreamed of Africa" (2000), "Because of Winn-Dixie" and "Don't Come Knocking" (2005) and 2006's "Superman Returns," in which she played Martha Kent. In 2014 she made her final big screen appearance, in the Akiva Goldsman written and directed "Winter's Tale."

Her husband, TV director Jeffrey Hayden, died in 2016. Survivors include her two children, Darrell and Laurette, four grandchildren, Eli, Tyler, Molly, and Stella and two great grandchildren, Arlo and Finley...

RADIO'S GOLDEN AGE: THE RAILROAD HOUR - OCTOBER 4, 1948

Let's go back to radio's golden age for the great show The Railroad Hour. Starring Gordon MacRae, each episode was a full musical adaptation. This episode from October 4, 1948 featured Good News. The guests for the week included Dinah Shore and Jane Powell...

THE MYSTERIOUS ANDY KAUFMAN

Andy Kaufman didn’t want to make you laugh—he wanted to make you uncomfortable. Onstage, he wasn’t a comedian in the traditional sense. He called himself a “song and dance man,” but what he really was… was a disruptor.

On Taxi, he played Latka Gravas, the sweet, mumbling mechanic with a childlike innocence. Viewers adored him. But Kaufman resented being boxed into a sitcom character. Offscreen, he waged war on expectations. He’d walk onto a comedy stage, read The Great Gatsby out loud for half an hour, and refuse to stop. The audience thought it was a prank. It wasn’t—he was serious.

Kaufman invented personas like Tony Clifton, a chain-smoking, foul-mouthed lounge singer who heckled audiences so brutally people stormed out. The brilliance? Kaufman never admitted Clifton was him. Even his closest friends sometimes weren’t sure. He blurred the line between performance and life until there was no line at all.

His infamous wrestling act—challenging women in the ring, declaring himself the “Inter-Gender Wrestling Champion of the World”—was equal parts comedy, cruelty, and genius. Crowds booed, enraged. Kaufman thrived on that outrage. He didn’t care if people loved him. He wanted them to feel something real in the middle of a fake show.

But behind the chaos was a man with quiet contradictions. Friends described him as gentle, almost shy, someone who meditated daily, adored his family, and sometimes longed for the same acceptance he claimed to reject. He died young—just 35, from cancer—but even then, many fans refused to believe it. They thought it was one last bit, a final performance. Decades later, conspiracy theories still circulate that Andy Kaufman faked his death.

Maybe that’s the point. Andy Kaufman didn’t just change comedy—he changed the very idea of what comedy could be.

Because for him, the greatest punchline was leaving us unsure whether the joke was ever really a joke...

THE EULOGY OF AL JOLSON

Comedian George Jessel gave the eulogy for Al Jolson's funeral in October of 1950. They were lifelong friends, and Jessel's words were well said...

A BREEZE FROM San Francisco Bay and the life of the greatest minstrel that America has ever known is in the balance. A turn of a card -- a telling of a gag -- and within a few moments, a wife, a legion of friends, and a nation are broken-hearted. So it was and so, alas, it is the passing from this earthly scene of Al Jolson. And the voice that once put majesty into the American popular song must from now on come from a disc instead of the heart, from whence it came.

Oh, my friends, I know it is the purpose of the speaker at times like these to voice lofty phrases of consolation about a life full lived and a happy conclusion to a great career. But I, contemporary of Al's, find myself too shocked and torn within to say that all is well, and I dare not lie from this sacred platform to say that I, and we, must rejoice in the fact that now he is at peace. It would be far from the truth, and I would need the spiritual strength of a rabbi, a minister, and a priest combined to do so. The human flesh and the frailty of human nature seem to be the sad order of the day as far as I am concerned.

It will take a long time for the people in my business who have been wounded by this event to become reconciled that this dynamic bundle of energy with its God-given talent that called itself Al Jolson is at peace. The very humanly emotional heart of the theatrical business does not heal so easily, and the tears that must fall from the eyes of the many who miss him already cannot be halted by the spoken word. No, the word will not take the place of his song.

And not only has the entertainment world lost its king, but we cannot cry, "The King is dead -- long live the King!" For there is no one to hold his scepter. Those of us who tarry behind are but pale imitations, mere princelings. And American Jewry suffers as well and I must psychologically inform you of the great inspiration that Al was to the Jewish people in the last forty years. For in 1910 the Jewish people who emigrated from Europe to come here were a sad lot. Their humor came out of their own troubles. Men of thirty-five seemed to take on the attitude of their fathers and grandfathers, they walked with stooped shoulders. When they sang, they sang with lament in their hearts and their voices, always as if they were pleading for help from above, And the older they got, the more they prayed for the return to Jerusalem. Or yearned for the simple little villages where they spent their childhood. And the actors, even the great ones, came on the stage also playing characters like their fathers. Vaudeville and the variety and the musical-comedy stage and the legitimate theater had Ben Welch and Joe Welch, monologists with beards and shabby clothes telling humorous stories that had a tear behind them. Likewise did this happen in legitimate theater. David Warfield in The Auctioneer and many others in plays bewailing the misfortunes that had happened to the Jew. And then there came on the scene a young man, vibrantly pulsing with life and courage, who marched on the stage, head high with the authority of a Roman emperor, with a gaiety that was militant, uninhibited, and unafraid, and told the world that the Jew in America did not only have to sing in sorrow but could shout happily about Dixie, about the Night Boat to Albany, about coming to California, about a girl in Avalon. And when he cried "Mammy" it was in appreciation, not in lament. Jolson is the happiest portrait that can ever be painted about an American of the Jewish faith. Jolson was synonymous with victory at the race track, at the ball game, at anything that he participated in, he would say, "I had the winner, ha, ha, why didn't you ask me?" This was not in bravado alone: this was the quintessence of optimism. Whatever you're in, whatever game you play, feel like you are the winner.

The history of the world does not say enough about how important the song and the singer have been, from the days of old when a man first sang "Yankee Doodle" on the streets of Boston or the soldier in France who first sang "The Marseillaise." But history must record the name Jolson, who in the twilight of his life sang his heart out in a foreign land, to the wounded and to the valiant. I am proud to have basked in the sunlight of his greatness, to have been part of his time, and to have only a few days ago -- this last Sunday night -- hugged him and said, "Good night, Asa, take care of yourself." And now, my friends, I find my faith in good coming back to me. I feel strengthened in heart and mind -- and I would lay my sackcloth and ashes aside and therefore say to my fellow mourners and the little lady who bears Al's name that I am thankful to God that there was and there is an Al Jolson. And I have faith that he will never die in the hearts of people. No, no. No such blot will ever fall on the fair charter of American memories. Baruch adenoi. Praise the Lord. Good night, Al.

ON THIS DAY - SEPTEMBER 23, 1957

69 years ago...

On this day, Buddy Holly and The Crickets reached the very top of the charts with That’ll Be the Day — their first Billboard hit and their only US #1. The song’s title came from a phrase John Wayne used in the 1956 film The Searchers, and Holly’s driving rhythm and vocal style turned it into a rock ’n’ roll anthem.

The record went on to sell over a million copies in America, cementing Holly as one of the most important pioneers of early rock. Though his career was tragically cut short, his impact was undeniable. After That’ll Be the Day, Holly scored more hits with Peggy Sue, Oh, Boy!, Maybe Baby, and It Doesn’t Matter Anymore.

His innovative songwriting, use of double-tracking, and his look — horn-rimmed glasses and all — influenced generations to come, from The Beatles to Bob Dylan to modern rockers...

HOLLYWOOD URBAN LEGEND: RUSS COLUMBO

URBAN LEGEND: Did friends and family keep the news of crooner's Russ Columbo's death from his own mother until her death?

ANSWER: Yes, that urban legend is true!

Russ Columbo's family kept his death a secret from his mother, Mrs. Columbo, in a "tender deceit" to protect her. They did not inform her that he had died when he was killed in 1934, and the deception continued for ten years until her own death in 1944. The family's decision to hide the news of his death was an act of kindness, intending to spare his mother the grief of his sudden passing.To maintain the elaborate deception, people wrote fake letters from him, suggesting he was on a long tour in Europe. They played records of his old radio shows to make it seem as though his broadcasts were still ongoing. Also they persuaded friends and acquaintances to talk as if Columbo were still alive.

Giulia "Julia" Colombo died on August 30, 1944 never knowing her famous song had died a decade earlier...

CAROL BURNETT: THE ULTIMATE MISS HARRIGAN

When Annie hit theaters in 1982, audiences were already familiar with Carol Burnett as the queen of sketch comedy, thanks to The Carol Burnett Show. But nothing quite prepared them for her turn as Miss Agatha Hannigan—the gin-soaked, silk‑slipped, delightfully unhinged matron of the Hudson Street Orphanage. Burnett didn’t just play Miss Hannigan; she transformed her into a chaotic, tragicomic force of nature who would ultimately define the film’s long‑lasting appeal.

Most fans don’t realize Burnett wasn’t the first choice for the part. The role of Miss Hannigan was initially offered to Bette Midler, whose powerful voice and theatrical style would have taken the character in an entirely different direction. But fate had other plans, and Burnett stepped in—bringing with her a blend of vaudeville sharpness, emotional nuance, and comedic timing that made the character unforgettable. 

That choice would turn out to be a defining moment for the film. Burnett’s performance became so memorable that many viewers now associate Annie not just with its red‑haired heroine, but with the unstable caretaker who belted out “Little Girls” while drunkenly threatening to hang up on life itself.

Burnett portrayed Miss Hannigan as a woman teetering between slapstick comedy and real emotional despair. That balance wasn’t accidental. She has acknowledged that aspects of Hannigan’s alcoholism echoed experiences from her own upbringing, grounding the character in lived emotional truth even amid exaggerated physical humor. 

Nowhere is that balance more evident than in the musical number “Little Girls.” Burnett staggers, sways, rearranges a painting just so she can make it crooked again—all tiny touches that reveal Hannigan’s unraveling mind. Critics and fans alike still cite the scene as a masterclass in comedic acting, done with just enough darkness to feel real. 

Filming wasn’t as glamorous as the final product suggests. Director John Huston, best known for gritty noir films like The Maltese Falcon, was an unusual choice for a musical—and his dramatic sensibilities clashed with Broadway‑style energy on set. Yet somehow, the mismatch created a vibrant, oddball atmosphere that Burnett thrived in. 

To make matters even more complicated, Burnett underwent chin surgery between filming and reshoots. When she returned to set, her new look posed a continuity nightmare—especially for the “Easy Street” scene, which originally involved over 400 background performers before being scaled down. She joked to Huston, “Two months ago, I didn’t have a chin. Now I do.” The director’s solution? “Just come out looking determined.” And she did, with impeccable comedic confidence. 

Forty years later, there have been multiple adaptions of Annie—TV films, live musicals, and reimaginings. But none have surpassed the charm, chaos, and layered humor of Burnett’s performance.

Whether she was belting out songs with Tim Curry and Bernadette Peters or snarling at her army of exhausted orphans, Burnett gave Miss Hannigan a soul—albeit a twisted, booze‑soaked one. She made the villain weirdly lovable, even when she was at her worst. And that is why her portrayal continues to be the definitive version for generations of fans...