At Almost 103, He is the Oldest Living Star See below!

In the flickering light of a high-definition age, there remains a group of individuals who belong to the era of silver nitrate and big band symphonies. These are the centenarians and icons of Hollywood’s Golden and Silver Ages—men and women who have transitioned from being the faces of a generation to becoming the living archives of a century. As we navigate the mid-2020s, many of these legends are still here, quietly rewriting the rules of time and proving that the human spirit does not come with an expiration date. Behind their weathered smiles lie stories of survival, secret battles against the fading light, and an iron-clad resilience that defies the natural order of aging.

At the forefront of this prestigious group is Ray Anthony, who at nearly 103 years old, stands as the last living bridge to the era of the great showmen. Born in 1922, Anthony is the final surviving member of the Glenn Miller Orchestra, a man whose trumpet once channeled the very swagger and romance that defined mid-century America. In a world now dominated by synthesized beats and digital streaming, Anthony represents a tangible connection to a time when brass sections ruled the airwaves and dance halls were the cathedrals of social life. His longevity is more than just a biological feat; it is a testament to the life-sustaining power of rhythm. To hear him speak or to see him hold his instrument is to witness a century of American music personified, a reminder that the “swing” era isn’t just a historical footnote—it is still breathing.

But Anthony is not a solitary traveler on this long road. Around him, a constellation of icons continues to shine, each carrying a different thread of history. Elizabeth Waldo, born in 1918, is a visionary whose life’s work has been the rescue of indigenous music from the brink of oblivion. While others sought fame through the traditional studio system, Waldo dedicated herself to preserving the ancient melodies of the Americas, turning fading memories into enduring compositions. Her presence in 2026 is a quiet victory for cultural preservation, showing that a life dedicated to a higher purpose can create a legacy that outlasts its contemporaries.

Similarly, Karen Marsh Doll remains a vital link to the cinematic masterpieces that defined the 1930s. Having worked on the sets of The Wizard of Oz and Gone with the Wind, she is one of the few humans left on Earth who saw the Emerald City being built and felt the heat of the burning of Atlanta. Her life serves as a bridge from the rigid, all-powerful studio system of the past to a modern world that barely recognizes the mechanics of how those dreams were once manufactured. For Karen, these aren’t just “classic movies”; they are memories of long workdays, the smell of greasepaint, and the sound of directors yelling through megaphones.

The resilience of these elders is echoed by figures who refuse to let the curtain fall on their creativity. Mel Brooks, William Shatner, and Barbara Eden are not merely “survivors”; they are active participants in the cultural conversation. Shatner, who famously traveled to the edge of space in his nineties, continues to mentor and create, proving that curiosity is the true fountain of youth. Mel Brooks, the king of comedy, still possesses a wit that is sharper than men half his age, reminding us that laughter is perhaps the most effective defense against the encroaching years. Barbara Eden, forever etched in the collective consciousness as a symbol of charm, carries her legacy with a grace that bridges the gap between the television era and the social media age.

In the realm of pure craft, we look to the likes of Clint Eastwood, Sophia Loren, and Michael Caine. These are actors who did not retire; they evolved. Eastwood, in his mid-nineties, continues to command the director’s chair, his face a landscape of experience that adds gravity to every frame he captures. Sophia Loren remains the embodiment of international glamour, her presence a reminder of the era when film stars were treated as deities. Michael Caine, having recently announced his formal retirement from acting, leaves behind a body of work that spans seven decades, yet his influence remains a guiding light for every young actor stepping onto a set today. Their artistry has not faded; it has simply transitioned from the frantic energy of youth to the profound, resonant wisdom of old age.

Then there are the activists and the stalwarts: Julie Andrews, Shirley MacLaine, Al Pacino, and Jane Fonda. These individuals have taken their fame and used it as a megaphone for change, proving that relevance is not a matter of a birth date, but of a willingness to engage with a restless century. Jane Fonda continues to stand on the front lines of social and environmental movements, her energy a challenge to younger generations who might think that age equals apathy. Julie Andrews remains the “voice” of grace, her career a masterclass in how to maintain dignity in an industry that often discards women as they age.

What makes these legends truly stunning is not just that they are still alive, but that they are still themselves. June Lockhart and Eva Marie Saint carry with them a warmth and a lucidity that suggests time has only refined their brilliance. They remember the friends lost along the way—the Hepburns, the Brandos, the Monroes—and they carry those names with them, acting as the custodians of a lost Hollywood. To look at a photo of Dick Van Dyke dancing in his late nineties is to see a defiance of gravity, both literal and metaphorical. It is a visual manifesto that tells us that while the body may slow, the spirit can continue to leap.

Their presence creates a living archive, a collective memory that spans from the Great Depression to the AI revolution. They are the last people who remember what the world looked like before it was fully connected, yet they have adapted to thrive in our current reality. They remind us that history is not just something found in books or on Wikipedia; it is something that sits in a chair and drinks tea, something that remembers the taste of a certain meal in 1945 or the specific light of a California afternoon in 1952.

In 2026, as the world moves faster than ever, these icons serve as an anchor. They provide a sense of continuity in a fractured age. They are a challenge to our modern obsession with “the next big thing” and our tendency to discard the old in favor of the new. By simply being here—working, mentoring, and remembering—they prove that time does not have the final word. The final word belongs to resilience, to passion, and to the courage to keep stepping into the light, even after a hundred years of doing so. They are the true masters of the art of living, showing us all that the best part of the story might just be the final chapter.