It is one of the seminal moments in American film and, quite possibly, American culture generally. The camera dollies in toward a woman in a leopard-skin coat and matching hat, her back to the camera, then veers slightly to the left to reveal an ornate, gold-framed, full-length mirror in which we see the woman's image, though her face is obscured by the coat's collar. She pulls down the collar just enough to reveal that inimitable Streisand visage, arches her brows, and assesses herself -- coolly. Then she purrs, "Hello, gorgeous." There is a cut to a close-up, and Streisand emits the tiniest, almost inaudible laugh/snort, as if it were a joke, though she acts as if the joke is on us. It is. But then her expression turns dark, wistful, as if to tell us how far she has had to come to utter those words.
This is how Barbra Streisand introduced herself to the film audience in Funny Girl in 1968, and what an introduction it was! First, there is her look -- a kind of exoticism, half Afghan hound, half Jewess. And then there is the manner -- the secretiveness, the cool, diva elegance only slightly betrayed by those arched brows, the self-scrutiny that gives way to self-doubt. And then there is the voice -- that unmistakable Brooklyn accent, the "gorgeous" elongated to "gaaaaw-jus," an accent that just didn't comport with the regal bearing, the expensive coat, the sense of control. And then there is that laugh, as if to say... well, it said a lot. And then that sadness, which said even more.