Susan Anton didn’t come up through Hollywood the polite way. She didn’t slip in quietly or pretend to be invisible until someone discovered her. She walked in at nearly six feet tall, auburn hair catching the light, a voice built for showrooms, and a smile that practically dared the world to underestimate her. Born in 1950s California and raised in Yucaipa, she was already catching eyes before she caught cameras. Miss Redlands. Miss California. Second runner-up to Miss America in 1969. The kind of early fame that either burns out a young woman or ignites her.
In Susan’s case, it lit a fuse.
She went from San Bernardino Valley College to national attention almost overnight—not through film or theater, but through a cigar commercial. Those Muriel Cigar ads in the ’70s, where she sang in a voice smooth enough to sell anything, made her a household name. “Let Muriel turn you on…” It was ridiculous, catchy, and absolutely unforgettable. People who didn’t know her name knew that jingle. People who didn’t smoke suddenly wanted to. The commercial didn’t create a star—it revealed one.
She was on The Merv Griffin Show roughly thirty times, becoming one of those faces that floated across late-night television like a familiar dream. Before long she was the pitchwoman for Serta’s Perfect Sleeper mattress, crooning the jingle and announcing her name with a confidence that said she belonged in the spotlight.
Then came the films.
In Goldengirl (1979), her very first film, she took the title role—no small step for a relative newcomer. She earned a Golden Globe nomination straight out of the gate, the sort of accolade that usually changes a career forever. Spring Fever, Cannonball Run II, and a mess of TV appearances followed. Time Magazine even named her one of the “Most Promising Faces of 1979.” It looked like she was about to become the next Hollywood blonde bombshell, the kind of icon America loves before it tears apart.
But Susan Anton wasn’t built for Hollywood’s usual story arcs. She wasn’t interested in being the tragedy behind the glamour.
She didn’t chase movie stardom—she chased performance.
She sang with Sinatra. She performed with Sammy Davis Jr. She toured with Kenny Rogers and landed a Top 10 country hit, “Killin’ Time,” in 1980. She played stages bigger than most people ever see in their lifetimes, including seven years—yes, seven—in The Great Radio City Music Hall Spectacular in Las Vegas, performing more than 5,000 shows with the Rockettes. That’s not fame. That’s stamina, grit, and unshakeable dedication.
And Broadway loved her. She didn’t just drift into the theater world—she planted her feet on those boards and held her ground. The Will Rogers Follies. Hurlyburly. The national tour of All Shook Up. She played Velma Von Tussle in Hairspray in Las Vegas and later at the Hollywood Bowl, bringing the role a deliciously wicked glamour no one else could replicate.
TV kept finding her too: Stop Susan Williams, Cliffhangers, Night Court, Baywatch. She played an actress, a producer, a diva, a dreamer, and herself. Susan Anton never slipped into anonymity—she always felt like she existed in close-up, even when she appeared for only a scene.
Her voice is the throughline: in lounges, musicals, talk shows, Las Vegas showrooms, and anywhere else someone needed a woman who could fill a room with fire. Even in her later years she kept working—appearing in Law & Order: SVU in 2010, the wonderfully unhinged Sharknado 4 in 2016, and the psychological thriller Painter in 2020.
Her personal life—two marriages, the second to director Jeff Lester—was far quieter than her career. They settled in Las Vegas for over twenty years, building a production company together, Big Picture Studios. She didn’t fade out or retire into obscurity. She just changed stages, shifting from performer to producer, still shaping stories, still building worlds, only now from behind the camera.
That’s the thing about Susan Anton: she never belonged to one medium.
She wasn’t just a singer.
She wasn’t just an actress.
She wasn’t just a Vegas headliner, a Broadway star, or a commercial icon.
She was all of it. And she is still all of it.
Susan Anton is the definition of a long-haul career—one built on presence, poise, talent, and a refusal to apologize for taking up space. Tall, glamorous, and unshakably confident, she’s the kind of woman who walked into the spotlight and made it look like she owned the electricity feeding it.
And in a way, she did.
