I enjoyed your article on Victoria Principal (PEOPLE, May 23) because it seemed as if there's a real individual underneath all that prettiness. She's an actress, a businesswoman and a person who has experienced a great deal but managed to keep her head on straight despite the pressures of her profession. And as for her past—big deal. It's nobody else's business.
Victoria Principal's claim that she achieves fitness through 15 minutes of daily exercise is an insult to those of us engaged in a real exercise program. Fifteen minutes is barely a warmup. Obviously, her secret is that she was, as they say, born with it.
Patti M. Thompson-Davey
Victoria Principal is fighting a losing battle if she thinks Dr. Harry Glassman is the "only man in the world" that she would marry. He has already said he resents "the lack of privacy" in their relationship. Either he'd better start looking for a plain Jane type or, if she really wants him, she had better reassess her career and her priorities.
Three cheers for Zev Bufman! Finally a producer has come to Broadway with enough glitter in his back pocket to keep tongues wagging and tickets selling. The carnivorous critics who savaged Private Lives failed to accept the venture in the spirit in which it was intended: just a good, trashy media romp. The spectacle was enough to keep my eyes riveted to the stage. And trying to drive my car down 46th Street after the show was nearly impossible because of the horde of fans mobbing the stage door for a fleeting glimpse of two of the world's biggest superstars.
Gina Heidemann deserves her husband, Gerd, the man who said he had unearthed Hitler's so-called diaries. She claims, "It would have been a joy to tell the world the reality about the Führer." The truth became very clear when what remained of the people in her Führer's concentration camps were set free from the hell that they had survived.
Today a movie has to be a special effects extravaganza to get people out of the house. Blue Thunder would probably qualify as just one more such picture had it not been for Roy Scheider's fine acting. Scheider may frequently be cast in the shadow of "hardware," but he is never overwhelmed by it. He did not play second fiddle to a thundering helicopter, nor to a 24-foot, one-and-a-half-ton mechanical shark. Instead, he created characters with depth and sincerity, who held the screen. In addition, he has earned two Oscar nominations for outstanding performances in The French Connection and All That Jazz. Gossip columnist Marilyn Beck failed to recognize his talents when she put down Blue Thunder as nothing more than a "Dukes of Hazzard of the sky." If Dukes' John Schneider could give just half the quality performance that Scheider always makes a point of giving, I'd do better than eat my hat—I'd watch a whole episode of The Dukes of Hazzard.
East Stroudsburg, Pa.
Where has Roy Scheider been all his life? Actors have always had a bad name, and it has nothing to do with Ronald Reagan. Old Ron made it to the top in spite of the fact that he was once an actor—a fact that seems to gall Scheider, Asner, et al.
South Gate, Calif.
As I sit here staring at my framed PEOPLE cover of the Beach Boys, dated Aug. 23, 1976, I think it's very sad that nothing has changed for the group and its leader, Brian Wilson. Almost seven years later Wilson continues to be rock's No. 1 basket case. Your recent article leads us to believe he's ready to make another comeback—don't hold your breath. Wake up, Brian! The rest of us should have your problems: tons of hit records, money to spare and millions of fans who still support the group and love the music you created. The final tally on Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys is going to read like a painful American novel, replete with divorces, drug and alcohol abuse, kids growing up in broken homes, group mismanagement and the main characters wondering what went wrong.
I can certainly understand why Mary Wilson "felt very upset that Diana Ross didn't give the same importance to the Supremes" as Mary did. I grew furious myself watching the Motown 25th-anniversary special when I realized that the girls weren't going to do a song together, alone. The female group primarily responsible for putting Motown on the music map was robbed of its moment of reunion and glory by a tacky, tacky woman. Having followed the Supremes since Day One, I remember how sad I felt when they split in 1969. The Supremes are the true legend, not Diana—much as she would like to believe it.
Melba M. Maloyed
I grew up with all the Supremes: Diana Ross, Mary Wilson, Florence Ballard and later Cindy Birdsong. The vision of these lovely ladies bedecked in sequins, wigs and sultry, steamy sex appeal haunted many of my teenage dreams. Now Ms. Wilson is in the process of destroying one of my sweeter memories by presenting her own view of the way things were. I guess the last few years have taken a toll on her career and her pocketbook. A regrouping of the Supremes without Miss Ross and Miss Birdsong makes about as much sense as trying to reconvene the Mamas and the Papas without Michelle Phillips and Cass Elliot. Mary, give it a rest.
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