The love vote
This year’s Valentine’s Day Sweetheart Awards go to: Lee Remick, for looking twice as yummy in “The Europeans” as she did 25 years ago in “A Face in the Crowd,” and for proving that beauty need not be a crippling handicap to movie acting. If she did more classics, I might eventually become an educated man. Blythe Danner, for shaking my hand on a movie junket and asking, “Didn’t we meet before?” a pretty tired line, but I pretended not to notice. Bo Derek, for revising John Derek’s flagging screen career, and for just being an all-around good kid. Julie Andrews, for appearing in the same movie with Bo Derek and, overnight zooming from a 10 to a 20. Lilias Folan, the TV yoga lady, for knowing which end is up and, after my review, sending me an autographed copy of her guide to stretching yourself out of shape, which I found even more suggestive than her TV exercises. Suzi Quatro, Season Hubley, Meryl Streep and Sigourney Weaver, for not changing their names. Susan B. Anthony, for making a difficult comeback but, alas, providing fresh proof that women just can’t handle a dollar. Dianne Feinstein, for having the courage of her high-buttons and bows, reminding me of all the pretty, smart, good little girls in grade school who gave everybody valentines and their heart to but one. Gilda Radner, for being funny and sexy, evidence that the two are not necessarily opposites and, under ideal condi- tions, overlap. Ella Fitzgerald, for singing just like Ella Fitzgerald. Mimi Farina, for having the nerve to confess that her big sister is intimidating and for having just about the tenderest pair of green eyes in orb history. Laura Antonelli, my favorite take-out pizza, for making one dumb movie a month in which she at least has the simple decency to take off her outer garments. Cher, for respecting the Freedom of Information Act and permitting me access to her dressing room for 30 minutes to reveal enough data to fill her navel — but which, through powers of invention that would stagger Norman Mailer, I was able to turn into a two-part interview. Princess Margaret for keeping hearts pounding back at the Palace for getting into yet another hopelessly entangled romance. Margot Kidder, for giving Lois Lane oomph and, by extension, upgrading all female reporters, largely due to the most sensuous upper lip in all Hollywood — or, for that matter, the Free World. Kristy McNichol, for blossoming from Buddy on “Family” into fullfledged nymphetdom and forcing Tatum O’Neal, Jodie Foster and Brook Shields to look to their teddy bears. Nan Talese, for holding hardworking husband Gay Talese’s hand during 12 years of arduous research on his forever-upcoming book, “Sex in America.” Lana Turner, for surviving Phil Sinclair’s tribute to her. San Francisco Magazine, for having the smarts to name me to its Hundred Most Eligible Men List, even though failing to specify eligible for what: The list? Manhood? Ann Jillian, the lengthy blonde vision with the doves in “Sugar Babies,” for five minutes of basic unabashed ecstasy. Lynne Joiner, Wendy Tokuda and Barbara Simpson, local TV damsels, for making the gruesome evening news look great. Florence Henderson, for having lunch with me after I made a fool of myself in print over her, and for keeping her hands to herself the whole time. Emilia Lanier, identified by Elizabethan scholar A. L. Rowse as the Bard’s “Dark Lady of the Sonnets,” for getting it on with Shakespeare.