Today's celebrity death is...

[Chicken Run Supreme]

She was a prolific actress around the late 50’s and the 60’s but will always be remembered by myself and many others I imagine, for her role as Sister Diana Murdoch in the iconic Ice Cold in Alex. She also played the Queen Mother opposite Helen Mirren in The Queen and was the narrator in the long running BBC feature Talking Pictures .
I can remember watching an interview with John Mills about Ice Cold in Alex and he was highly complementary about Sylvia Sims and how some of their scenes together were quite risqué for the time. She was stunningly attractive in her time.

RIP

[EvilC]

RIP. What an incredible talent.

[OFT]

That's very sad.
Marquee Moon is a fantastic album.

RIP Tom

[last.caress]

Lisa Loring, the actress who played Wednesday Addams in the 1964 TV show The Addams Family, has died. She was 64.

RIP

https://www.variety.com/2023/tv/news/li ... 06117/amp/

[northiron]

Barrett Strong, if you haven't heard of him you will have heard his songs

https://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-64450921

[Cuenca 'ammer]

https://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-64450133

Annie Wersching: The Last of Us video game and 24 actress dies at 45

only really remember her in Bosch..but chuffin' Nora 45 is no age at all....

[WCpete]

Patti Smith has written an obituary for Tom Verlaine from the New Yorker.

Cutting and pasting because it’s from a subscription paywall.

He awoke to the sound of water dripping into a rusted sink. The streets below were bathed in medieval moonlight, reverberating silence. He lay there grappling with the terror of beauty, as the night unfolded like a Chinese screen. He lay shuddering, riveted by flickering movements of aliens and angels as the words and melodies of “Marquee Moon” were formed, drop by drop, note by note, from a state of calm yet sinister excitement. He was Tom Verlaine, and that was his process: exquisite torment.

Born Thomas Joseph Miller, raised in Wilmington, Delaware, he left his parental home and shed his name, a discarded skin curled in the corner of a modest garage among stacks of used air-conditioners that required his father’s constant professional attention. There were hockey sticks and a bicycle and piles of Tom’s old newspapers strewn in the back, covered with ghostly outlines of distorted objects; he would run over tin cans until they were flattened, barely recognizable, and then spray them with gold, his two-dimensional sculptures, each representing a rapturous musical phrase. In high school, he played the saxophone, embracing John Coltrane and Albert Ayler. He played hockey, too, and when a flying puck knocked out his front teeth he was obliged to put away his saxophone and dedicate himself to the electric guitar.

He lived twenty-eight minutes from where I was raised. We could easily have sauntered into the same Wawa on the Wilmington-South Jersey border in search of Yoo-hoo or Tastykakes. We might have met, two black sheep, on some rural stretch, each carrying books of the poetry of French Symbolists—but we didn’t. Not until 1973, on East Tenth Street, across from St. Mark’s Church, where he stopped me and said, “You’re Smith.” He had long hair, and we clocked each other, both echoing the future, both wearing clothes they didn’t wear anymore. I noticed the way his long arms hung, and his equally long and beautiful hands, and then we went our separate ways. That was, until Easter night, April 14, 1974. Lenny Kaye and I took a rare taxi ride from the Ziegfeld Theatre after seeing the première of “Ladies and Gentlemen: The Rolling Stones,” straight down to the Bowery to see a new band called Television.

The club was CBGB. There were only a handful of people present, but Lenny and I were immediately taken with it, with its pool table and narrow bar and low stage. What we saw that night was kin, our future, a perfect merging of poetry and rock and roll. As I watched Tom play, I thought, Had I been a boy, I would’ve been him.

I went to see Television whenever they played, mostly to see Tom, with his pale blue eyes and swanlike neck. He bowed his head, gripping his Jazzmaster, releasing billowing clouds, strange alleyways populated with tiny men, a murder of crows, and the cries of bluebirds rushing through a replica of space. All transmuted through his long fingers, all but strangling the neck of his guitar.

Through the coming weeks, we drew closer. As we walked the city streets, we would improvise ongoing tales, our own “Arabian Nights.” We discovered that we both loved the work of the Armenian American composer Alan Hovhaness, our favorite work being “Prayer of St. Gregory.” Examining each other’s bookcases, we were amazed to find that our books were nearly identical, even those by authors difficult to find. Cossery, Hedayat, Tutuola, Mrabet. We were both independent literary scouts, and we came to share our secret sources.

He devoured poetry and dark-chocolate-covered Entenmann’s doughnuts, downed with coffee and cigarettes. Sometimes he would seem dreamy and faraway then suddenly break into peals of laughter. He was angelic yet slightly demonic, a cartoon character with the grace of a dervish. I knew him then. We liked holding hands and spending hours browsing the shelves of Flying Saucer News and going to Forty-eighth Street and looking at guitars that he could never afford and riding the Staten Island Ferry after three sets at CBGB and climbing six flights of stairs to the apartment on East Eleventh Street and lying together on a mattress gazing at the ceiling and listening to the rain and hearing something else.

There was no one like Tom. He possessed the child’s gift of transforming a drop of water into a poem that somehow begat music. In his last days, he had the selfless support of devoted friends. Having no children, he welcomed the love he received from my daughter, Jesse, and my son, Jackson.

In his final hours, watching him sleep, I travelled backward in time. We were in the apartment, and he cut my hair, and some pieces stuck out this way and that, so he called me Winghead. In the years to follow, simply Wing. Even when we got older, always Wing. And he, the boy who never grew up, aloft the Omega, a golden filament in the vibrant violet light

[LittleChris]

RIP Cindy Williams from Happy Days and Laverne & Shirley.

[WCpete]

Also from the great George Lucas film, American Graffiti. Cindy always played the good girl.

[Up the Junction]

Minor celebrity, admittedly, but one whose loss has been felt.

[Morocco Mole]

EDIT: deserves his own thread….

[last.caress]

Lance Reddick - Cedric Daniels in The Wire, among other roles - has died. He was 60. No age at all really.

RIP

https://www.tmz.com/2023/03/17/the-wire ... dead-dies/

[smuts]

Oh no, always enjoyed him in his roles. RIP Lance.

[Cuenca 'ammer]

cor that's bloody tragic.

he was excellent in that series although to be fair it was so full of great characters and actors it's hard to say who was better than whom.

just went to the Beeb and of course he's in the John Wick films too......

[bunk]

Ah man. Such a presence in The Wire, the walk, the stare, the ice cold deliverence of a few words that would ruin some Baltimore PD's day. "You'd rather live in **** than let the world see you work a shovel".

[Metal Hammer]

Lance Reddick - Cedric Daniels in The Wire, among other roles - has died. He was 60. No age at all really.

RIP he was great in Bosch

[Cuenca 'ammer]

MH

forgot about that, you'\re spot on, he was too..

actually it was a VERY good series as well. Jamie Hector from The Wire also in it..

hopefully Bosch Legacy second series will be out soon..

no release date as yet, but filming's been wrapped up and Legacy season 1 started in May so hopefully..

still such a shame though......so under rated in John Wick too.....

[Eggchaser]

RIP he was great in Bosch

He was

RIP

[SirStoneyOfBow]

Reddick was a fantastic actor. Very popular with fans and his peers. Truly gutted to see.
Had that voice that was like silk, which he could turn off and on to instill fear, humor or otherwise.
His roles in Vox Machina and the Horizon series are of recent two characters he absolutely owned. He was the highlight in every scene he was present.
RIP.

[Clacton-ammer]

That's sad on Lance Reddick, been in so much of I have enjoyed watching, a cracking actor.

When I have seen him on screen he always looked so trim and looked after himself so to see "natural causes" is a surprise.

RIP.