Life is a circle. All this stuff comes back.
At ninety-two, Julie Newmar tends her Brentwood garden with the same deliberate grace she once brought to Catwoman — a role that made her a cultural icon but never defined the full arc of her life. Behind the sequined mask was a trained dancer, a single mother who refused institutional care for her son with Down's syndrome, and a woman who learned sign language when illness took his hearing. Now, in the quieter register of her final chapter, she has turned from performance to philosophy, from spectacle to the slow cultivation of beauty, purpose, and peace.
- A woman built for spectacle — nearly six feet tall, trained in ballet, too unusual for Hollywood to easily contain — found her defining role almost by accident, when a brother overheard a phone call and insisted she answer it.
- The cultural electricity of Catwoman outlasted the show itself, making Newmar a gay icon and a touchstone for drag communities who saw in her something more than glamour — a kind of sovereign femininity.
- Beneath the fame, a marriage collapsed almost as it began, and Newmar faced the solitary work of raising a son with Down's syndrome against medical advice that urged her to institutionalize him.
- When meningitis took her son John's hearing at age three, she enrolled in night school to learn sign language — not as sacrifice, she insists, but as necessity made into love.
- Now in her nineties, she has reorganized her life around metaphysical concerns, financial stewardship for John's future, and the ninety varieties of roses in a garden she tends as both sanctuary and statement.
Julie Newmar moves through her dense Brentwood garden on a mobility scooter, pausing to offer a blueberry from the bush as naturally as she might offer a thought. The garden — ninety varieties of roses, jasmine, fruit trees, winding paths — is not a monument to the past. It is where she lives now, at ninety-two, and it reflects her governing conviction: that life is about beauty, in flowers, in behavior, in the treatment of others.
Her path to Catwoman was circuitous. The daughter of an engineering professor and a Ziegfeld Follies dancer, she was trained in ballet, accomplished at piano, and nearly six feet tall — qualities that made Hollywood uncertain what to do with her. She was cast as a woman so beautiful she paralyzed men, as a robot programmed for perfection, as a figure designed to be looked at rather than heard. A Tony Award in 1959 for The Marriage-Go-Round — in which she played a woman who chooses to raise a child alone — offered a glimpse of something more. Then her brother overheard a phone call about Batman, and everything shifted.
She adopted two cats to study their movement, adjusted the costume herself until it fit like liquorice poured over the body, and brought a dancer's charged physicality to the role. The tension she created with Adam West became television legend. Decades later, in To Wong Foo, a drag queen character spots her signed photograph and names her the ultimate. She still receives thousands of responses when she posts Catwoman images online. The connection, she says, feels blessed.
But the second half of her life moved in a quieter direction. A marriage at forty-four ended almost before it began — he wanted her celebrity; she wanted a family. A first pregnancy ended in traumatic miscarriage. When her son John was born in 1981 with Down's syndrome, the doctors recommended institutional care. She refused without hesitation. When meningitis took his hearing at three, she enrolled in night school to learn sign language. She speaks of all this without drama. They made it work, she says. John had a lovely life.
She studied real estate management when her performing career wound down, managing the family's Los Angeles properties with the left-brain precision she inherited from her father. She filed trademarks for her own underwear designs. She reads the news on Facebook and Instagram. She holds no opinions about modern Hollywood because she is no longer part of it — only an observer.
Raised Christian Scientist, she has since woven in Buddhism and a quiet belief that extraterrestrials move among us, benevolent and soon to reveal themselves. She does not convert problems into worries; that would be a waste of energy. She has lived by a law against criticism, belittlement, and attack. John's days are structured, his future financially secured. She does not worry about what comes next. She feels their lives are joined, and whatever exit from Earth awaits them, the word that comes to her is pacific.
Julie Newmar leans from her mobility scooter and plucks a blueberry from a bush in her Brentwood garden, offering it with the ease of someone who has spent decades tending this particular corner of Los Angeles. The garden is dense with purpose—ninety varieties of roses, fruit trees, begonias, jasmine, geraniums winding through labyrinthine paths. She points out a creamy pink bloom named after Marilyn Monroe, whose former house sits just up the road. At ninety-two, Newmar moves through this space with the same feline grace that made her Catwoman in the 1960s Batman television series, a role that transformed her into a cultural icon and, improbably, a revered figure in queer and drag communities. But the garden is not nostalgia. It is her present.
"I would say my life is about beauty," she says. "Beauty in the garden; beauty in your behaviour, in your treatment of others." She speaks of life as a circle, of having already done things for herself and now being concerned with what she can do for others. The metaphysical has become her terrain. She has lived in this house for decades with her son, John, who has Down's syndrome. They spend much of their time here together.
Newmar's path to Catwoman was unlikely. She was a trained dancer—ballet and other forms—an accomplished pianist, athletic and cultured, the daughter of an engineering professor and a Swedish-French fashion designer mother who had danced in the Ziegfeld Follies before a car accident in 1920 cut her career short. At nearly six feet tall, Newmar was difficult to cast. She was too statuesque, too unusual. In Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, she was relegated to the background because her dance partner, a former baseball player, could not keep pace. In Li'l Abner, she played Stupefyin' Jones, a woman so beautiful she rendered men immobile. In My Living Doll, she was a robot programmed to be the perfect woman. The roles were often two-dimensional, designed to showcase her body rather than her talent. She won a Tony for The Marriage-Go-Round in 1959, playing an independent Swedish woman who decides to have a man's child and raise it alone—a role that would echo her own life in ways she could not have anticipated.
In 1966, her brother, visiting from Harvard, overheard a phone call about a role in something called Batman. He insisted she take it. Newmar adopted two cats to study their physical behavior, adjusted the costume herself, lowering the belt to accentuate her waist until it fit like "liquorice poured over the body." She brought a dancer's sensuality to the character, creating a palpable tension with Adam West's Batman that viewers still remember. The role made her name in a way her earlier work had not. She became a gay icon, a figure of reverence. In the 1995 film To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar, a drag queen character spots her signed photo and declares her "the perfect, the ultimate." She still receives thousands of likes on social media when she posts Catwoman images. The connection feels blessed to her.
But the second half of her life took a different shape. She married at forty-four to J Holt Smith, a Texan lawyer seven years her younger. The marriage fractured almost immediately. She wanted to be a wife and a mother; he was drawn to her celebrity. Her first pregnancy ended in traumatic miscarriage. When John was born in 1981, the marriage was essentially over. She raised him alone. The doctors suggested a care home. She refused. "No, no, no. This is too important," she said. When John developed meningitis at three and lost his hearing, she enrolled in night school to learn sign language so she could speak to him in a way that would help his understanding of life. She downplays the hardship now. "We made it work. So John had a lovely, lovely life."
When her performing career wound down, she studied real estate management and managed her family's property portfolio in Los Angeles. In the 1970s, she filed trademarks for her own underwear designs under the brand "Nudemar." She has become, as she says, like her father—left brain, concerned with bills and logistics. Yet she remains connected to the world through Facebook, Instagram, YouTube. She reads the news. She has no views about modern Hollywood because she is not involved in it. She is only an observer.
Newmar was raised Christian Scientist, a faith preoccupied with metaphysical concerns and skeptical of medical science. She has woven in Buddhism and a belief that extraterrestrials are among us, protecting us, and will soon reveal themselves. There is nothing to fear. She does not take problems and turn them into worries; that would be a loss of energy. She has lived by a law: never criticize another, never belittle another, never attack another. She finds the joy in all things. John is cared for during the day by someone deaf who takes him out, and he spends time with a self-organized group of disabled people. Money-wise, his future is taken care of. She does not worry. "I kind of feel that his life and my life are joined together," she says. "However we make the so-called exit from Earth, we'll be in a … the word 'pacific' comes up."
Citas Notables
I would say my life is about beauty—beauty in the garden, beauty in your behaviour, in your treatment of others. Because we all know that life's a circle.— Julie Newmar
No, no, no. This is too important," she replied when doctors suggested placing John in a care home.— Julie Newmar, on refusing institutional care for her son
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
You've spent most of your life being looked at. Does that change when you're ninety-two?
The looking doesn't stop, but what I do with it changes. I'm not performing anymore. I'm just living. And people still want to connect with that Catwoman version of me, which is fine—it's a blessed feeling. But I'm not her anymore.
When John was born, you were at a crossroads. Your marriage was ending. You could have chosen differently.
I never considered it. He was my son. The doctors didn't understand Down's syndrome very well then, and neither did I, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that he was mine and he needed me.
You've said you don't worry about the future. But you have a son who depends on you. How do you reconcile that?
Money is taken care of. His care is arranged. But beyond that, I believe his life and mine are joined. We'll exit together, in whatever way that happens. There's a peace in that.
You've been very philosophical about the roles you played—the seductress, the object of desire. Some women might feel angry about that.
I understand them. But I also understand that I was lucky. I liked the attention. I liked men. And I found joy in the work, even when the roles were limited. That's what I do—I find the joy.
What do you want people to know about you now, at ninety-two?
That beauty matters. Not just in how you look, but in how you treat people, in your garden, in your spirit. Life is a circle. All of it comes back. I've already done things for myself. Now I want to do things for others.