Milestones

By Sean Gregory

RETIRED. Ian Thorpe, 24, fashion-conscious, philanthropic Australian freestyle swimmer who dominated the 400-m race, winning nine Olympic medals--five of them gold--as well as a record 11 world titles; in an announcement to a stunned press corps in Sydney. Nicknamed the Thorpedo, he explained that, though still at the top of his game, he had met his swimming goals and wanted to begin the rest of his life. "You can swim lap after lap, staring at a black line, and all of a sudden you look up and see what's around," he said. "That's what it feels like to me."

ASSASSINATED. Pierre Gemayel, 34, outspoken anti-Syrian Lebanese Minister of Industry and son of former President Amin Gemayel; after three gunmen shot him at point-blank range as he was driving on a busy street; in Beirut. A rising political star in the Christian Phalange Party, founded by his grandfather and namesake, he was the fifth anti-Syrian leader in the past two years to be murdered. Parliament member Saad Hariri, son of former Prime Minister Rafiq Hariri, who was killed last year, vowed to find and prosecute those responsible.

DIED. Alexander Litvinenko, 43, former KGB spy and vocal critic of the Kremlin; of radiation poisoning; in London. He wrote a dramatic statement, released after his death, fingering Russian President Vladimir Putin as the engineer of his murder and describing him as "barbaric and ruthless." (See page 45.)

DIED. Gerald Boyd, 56, former managing editor of the New York Times--the first African American to hold that title at the newspaper--who resigned in 2003 following the revelation that Jayson Blair, a reporter Boyd had helped groom, had repeatedly fabricated or plagiarized stories; of lung cancer; in New York City.

DIED. Jesus Blancornelas, 70, relentless investigative reporter known as the godfather of modern Mexican journalism, who exposed drug cartels and government corruption and survived an assassination attempt in 1997; of a chronic illness; in Tijuana.

DIED. Philippe Noiret, 76, one of France's most esteemed actors, who lent an earthy, avuncular charm to more than 125 movies over a half century; in Paris. A two-time winner of the Cesar award (France's Oscar), he gained global fans as a weary film projectionist in 1988's Cinema Paradiso and as the poet Pablo Neruda in the 1994 hit Il Postino.

DIED. Anita O'Day, 87, edgy vocalist of the '40s and '50s, dubbed the Jezebel of Jazz for her ability to scat new energy into old standards and for her long struggle with drug addiction, for which she served jail time; in Los Angeles. Born Anita Colton (O'Day was pig Latin for dough--"what I hoped to make," she said), she brought early hits to bandleaders Gene Krupa (Let Me Off Uptown) and Stan Kenton (And Her Tears Flowed Like Wine) and cemented her hipster reputation by performing in low-key jackets and skirts instead of gowns. Of her career--highlighted by signatures Sweet Georgia Brown and Honeysuckle Rose and a stunning performance at the 1958 Newport Jazz Festival--she said, "When I'm singing, I'm happy."

DIED. Robert Lockwood, 91, giant of Mississippi blues who, after learning guitar at age 11 from blues pioneer Robert Johnson, fused raw Delta chords, electric blues and urban funk; in Cleveland, Ohio. Teaming up in the 1940s with harmonica ace Sonny Boy Williamson, he made Arkansas radio's King Biscuit Time the most influential broadcast of the era.

DIED. Betty Comden, 89, sophisticated, witty wordsmith who, with rumpled collaborator Adolph Green, helped create stage musicals like On the Town, Bells Are Ringing and The Will Rogers Follies and wrote screenplays for such seminal MGM films as Singin' in the Rain and The Band Wagon; in New York City. Throughout a 60-year career, the pair, who were not married to each other, worked every day, mostly in the living room of Comden's Manhattan apartment, composing stories and lyrics for the likes of Leonard Bernstein and Jule Styne and seamlessly adapting them to music that ranged from bouncy (Make Someone Happy) to brash (New York, New York) to melancholy (The Party's Over). "A lot of people don't believe this," she said of the duo's working process, "but at the end of the day, we usually don't remember who thought up what." After a slew of Tony Awards and induction into the Songwriters' Hall of Fame, Comden reluctantly retired in 2002--the year Green died.

DIED. Robert Altman, 81, prolific, curmudgeonly, irreplaceable renegade whose movies both defined and mocked the modern American spirit; in Los Angeles. Arriving in Hollywood after copiloting B-24 bombers in World War II, the Kansas City native kicked around the industry for nearly a quarter-century before directing MASH (1970), a ribald Army comedy set in the Korean War but offering a cynical take on U.S. involvement in Vietnam. MASH set the Altman attitude and technique: sprawling frescoes with crawling cameras, dozens of characters, overlapping dialogue, and a belief that life was way too messy and complex for ordinary film narratives. Any Western town (McCabe & Mrs. Miller), casino (California Split), reception (A Wedding), concert (Nashville), Hollywood power grab (The Player), L.A. earthquake (Short Cuts), country weekend (Gosford Park) or old-time radio show (A Prairie Home Companion) could be the setting for his artful chaos, which gave actors plenty of freedom, and writers nightmares. Receiving a Lifetime Achievement Oscar this year, Altman revealed that he'd had a heart transplant a decade ago. That borrowed heart didn't fail him any more than his corrosive wit did in a 60-year career.

With reporting by RICHARD CORLISS, Ellin Martens, Julie Rawe, Harriet Barovick