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One imagines how it might have been--without the sudden death, in New York, at thirty-one; without the riotous mourners outside the Frank E. Campbell funeral home; without the subsequent female-fan suicides, or the "lady in black"showing up at the tomb every year.
One imagines a spring night in 1971, fifty years after the release of "The Sheik."Inside the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, a career-highlights film ends, and the silent, smoldering screen caliph gives way to the televised elderly gentleman, rising from his seat. He is tanned and toupeed (he'd been hiding a bald spot as far back as 1923) and quite heavy now (he still eats snails by the dozen with the ...