Certain larger-than-life personalities, when they die, seem to take an entire era with them. Former President Ronald Reagan comes to mind, his 2004 death closing the book on a political chapter: the U.S.’s involvement in the Cold War. So does Charlie Chaplin, whose 1977 passing — coming after the deaths of Harold Lloyd and Buster Keaton — signaled the last of the great silent-movie auteurs. Likewise, Elizabeth Taylor.

Certain larger-than-life personalities, when they die, seem to take an entire era with them.

Former President Ronald Reagan comes to mind, his 2004 death closing the book on a political chapter: the U.S.’s involvement in the Cold War. So does Charlie Chaplin, whose 1977 passing — coming after the deaths of Harold Lloyd and Buster Keaton — signaled the last of the great silent-movie auteurs.

Likewise, Elizabeth Taylor. The two-time Academy Award winner, who died Wednesday at age 79, supersedes the cliché “end of an era” and truly does take with her a Hollywood — indeed an entertainment world — that no longer exists.

If you haven’t yet reached retirement age, you’ve never lived in a world in which Elizabeth Taylor wasn’t a star. Since coming to the nation’s attention in the 1944 film “National Velvet,” Taylor has been a constant in the world of entertainment.

She was celebrated (for her smoldering looks and violet eyes); she was denigrated (for stealing girl-next-door Debbie Reynolds’ husband, Eddie Fisher); she was sympathized with (her seeming constant illnesses); and she was satirized (all those marriages).

But Liz, as she was widely known, remained relevant. She raised funds tirelessly for AIDS research. She was, for a time, the wife of a U.S. senator — John Warner, whose 1978 campaign in Virginia she helped seal. She was knighted (well, technically, “damed” ) by Queen Elizabeth II. The last of her eight marriages, in 1991, to a construction worker she met at the Betty Ford Clinic, was held at Michael Jackson’s Neverland ranch amid a media frenzy.

At the core of this nonstop celebrity was the actress — “legendary actress,” a phrase that will be much heard in the coming days. She won two Academy Awards, for “Butterfield 8” in 1960 and “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” in 1966. Her 50-plus other movies ranged from prestige projects like the filmed version of the Pulitzer Prize-winning play “Cat On a Hot Tin Roof” to the critically panned, big-budget spectacle “Cleopatra.” Whether the film got good press or bad, Taylor stayed in movie fans’ good graces.

Over the years, the roles eventually got slimmer, as they do. And the public appearances became fewer, as they must. Even the marriages trailed off, as trips down the aisle seemed to be eclipsed by trips to the hospital for the resilient but oft-ailing actress.

Still, Liz Taylor always personified a type of Hollywood glamour they don’t make anymore — you can buy a bottle of her White Diamond perfume, but you can’t buy that.

As she exits the stage of public consciousness, Elizabeth Taylor’s performing won’t be missed; she last appeared in a film 17 years ago. And her films won’t be missed; they live on at Netflix and Turner Classic Movies. Her particular brand of class and charisma, however — that will be noticeably absent. It represented a now-bygone era.

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