A perfect fact to remember us by, we “post-moderns” or whatever we are: When we say that entertainment is “adult,” we mean it is infantile. The pictorial spelling-out of exactly what happens when a couple goes to bed is in the “Billy learns how to tie his shoes” spirit of edifying books for toddlers. Vulgar words and obscene pictures are the quintessence of teenage- boyness. Compared with the typical modern flick, Dorothy Lamour’s best pictures have a paradoxical superiority: They are better for children, and vastly more adult.

She died September 23 at 81. It is a painful era for lovers of American culture — we are losing the remaining heroes and heroines of the golden age of the 1930s, ’40s, and ’50s. A few months back, Gene Kelly, a wonderful song- and-dance man when he reined in his pompous, arty urges. Ginger Rogers last year; when you add up the crunchy wisecrack comedy (Fifth Avenue Girl, The Major and the Minor), the solid acting (Stage Door, Kitty Foyle), and the sublime art of her dances with Astaire, she was the greatest lady of American cinema — a fact the obituaries forgot to mention. As for Miss Lamour, she was no Ginger Rogers. But she had great charm, a certain grace, and the marvelous art of keeping things in perspective. A heroine she was, of the wonderful age when the movies were grown-up solid citizens instead of (as the mood dictates) sullen prima donnas, foul-mouthed children, or raving nut cases.