Joan Collins is still dancing ’til dawn – so what, exactly, is her secret?

The images of Joan Collins OBE – actress, personality, national and
international icon – dancing the night away in St Tropez this week bring joy
to the heart. At 82, La Collins makes fifth husband Percy Gibson, 32 years
her junior, look rather less limber. Singing along, with bare arms waving in
the air, tossing her raven hair, Joan remains the glorious embodiment of
glamour.

Last week she was partying with, and bestowing beauty advice upon, her
goddaughter, model-of-the-moment Cara Delevingne, adorning those famous
eyebrows with a pencil from her very own make-up range.

This week, we see her tripping the light fantastic at the pre-Venice Ambi
Pictures bash in gleaming white sequins, hot pink lipstick and a glowing
Riviera tan. Collins is justly bored by references to her age, but – ye gods
– what a gal.

I had the pleasure of interviewing and (girlish swoon!) receiving a makeover
from this icon back in the spring, and let me tell you, her looks have
nothing to do with clever photography. In the flesh, she is still more
radiant.

Good genes play a considerable part. As a baby, her parents were forced to
attach a sign to her pram bearing the legend: “Please do not kiss me”. Her
mother and nine aunts were the epitome of elegance.

However, Collins is no less an advocate of solid graft. She works hard at her
looks – eschewing the sun on her face, exercising and living off salmon,
avocados and the odd glass of champagne. She rolls her eyes when women in
their thirties patronise her by declaring that they hope they look as good
at her age, scoffing: “Many don’t look as good now!” Damn right.

Though naturally beautiful, Hollywood taught Collins the power of glamour. She
tells the story that, back in 1955, when she had just been cast to take
Marilyn Monroe’s place in The Girl in the Red Velvet Swing, aged 21, she
ran across its director, Richard Fleischer.

“After a day of rehearsing I walked into the cafeteria on the Fox studio lot
for lunch one day, wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt and – believe it or not –
not a scrap of make up.”

Fleischer, appalled, threw up his hands. “’Oh my God,’ he said. ‘You look
hideous. You should always appear in public with full make up, a nice dress
and white gloves, otherwise you’ll never get anywhere in this business.’”

Other starlets proffered advice, as did Monroe’s make-up artist, Whitey
Snyder, who taught our heroine how to blend foundation shades, apply it
thinly, then powder down so that it would survive a 12-hour shoot. She
continues to do her own face, faring rather better than the so-called
experts.

Her goal is that women should look like their most polished selves, and
nothing more: “If I catch a glimpse of reality television, my mouth falls
open at the amount of filler, huge lips, fake cheekbones, and those giant
teeth making them look like skulls.”

She dons wigs (again boasting her own range), to avoid scorching her locks via
styling, but her own hair is silkily lustrous. Clothing wise, she gets
things made, or at least tailored, admiring the work of Mark Zunino, a
protégé of Nolan Miller, who worked with her on Dynasty.

She exercises several times a week on her bedroom floor, declaring: “Doing 100
or more sit-ups each day can be a crashing bore, but I have to do them”. She
recommends supplements in the form of vitamin E, fish oil, antioxidants,
calcium and vitamin A, and considers HRT a “miracle drug”.

Collins has no truck with dieting, but weighs herself every morning and cuts
back a little if she has gained a couple of pounds. Her approach is pure
common sense: “Eat three meals a day. Try not to graze. You’re not a cow!”
She makes it a goal to finish two thirds of what is on her plate, and,
refreshingly, is of the Gallic persuasion that: “A day without wine is a day
without sunshine”.

Most beauty enhancing of all, there is the Collins attitude – breezy and
relentlessly positive. She is a thoughtful woman, but refuses to indulge in
navel-gazing, favouring action over introspection. And, of course, more than
the occasional bout of dancing ’til dawn.