PERSONAL NOTE: Who can ya' trust?

Walk of Fame or Walk of Shame?

Navigating through various source materials to get to the "truth" of my monthly stars is always an ordeal. One biographer says one thing only to be opposed by another writer; one source tells a story, while another witness remembers things differently. So, whom do I believe? The short answer is: every one and no one. The only thing I can rely on for certain are facts: dates, recorded history, the words from the subject's own mouth-- and sometimes not even that-- and then, I allow the various other accounts, rumors, hearsay's, to pepper the facts with a story. Afterward, I can only hope that my logic and good sense will guide me down the most honest and accurate path. I consider myself an open-minded person, and while I am occasionally disappointed with a negative portrait of a personal hero, I don't allow whatever reaction I feel to end in a place of judgement. I don't blame people for falling below my own expectations, because I constantly fall beneath my own. We're only human, after all. Neither do I ignore more salacious or slanderous materials, and I assure you this is not just because they feed a certain greedy part of my morbid curiosity-- if we have a "funny bone" we too have a "sickly bent"-- but because I want to be open to all possibilites in rounding out the personalities of cinema. I am not deluded about Hollywood, or human nature for that matter, or its questionable underbelly. For Pete's sake, there was a bordello that supplied customers with Movie-Star-Look-Alikes. I don't think anyone is in denial of La La Land's dual nature at this point.


But when it comes to whom to trust, I am always going to choose the guy who backs his conclusions up with solid research and not the guy who relies on mysterious, unnamed sources who are good for one or two stories. Out of respect for the subject, I too am going to listen to what his family and close friends have to say more than the guy "who met him that one time at coat check" or the girl who "saw him at parties once and awhile." As to the authors themselves, a reader can tell the difference between a thoroughly investigated text and one that is feeding the author's own fancies. I didn't come to Hollywood until 2005, so everything prior to that year remains a complete mystery, but I too can't help but indulge my bull-shit detector when I come across a script that is clearly taking a little too much pleasure in nullifying or completely erasing the brighter sides of Hollywood. The writings of Darwin Porter, David Bret, and even Charles Higham-- who has been publicly lambasted for his (unprofessional) tendencies to edit source material for his own intentions, aka the Errol Flynn "Nazi" claims-- are constantly called into question, debunked, and cast aside as entertaining, lewd mirages written to sell books and not to be believed. I don't know these men. For all I know, they are telling the complete truth or at least think that they are. But when studying various examples of their work and comparing them with what I have learned through my own personal research, I don't rely on them for accuracy. I keep their "theories" in the back of my mind and move on to more reliable authors.

The reason I introduce this discussion is because much ballyhoo has been made of the recent memoir of Scotty Bowers, an alleged Hollywood pimp, prostitute, what-have-you to the stars. I've had several people bring his recent book, Full Service: My Adventures in Hollywood and the Secret Sex Lives of the Stars, (left) to my attention and ask me about it, and since one of the subjects he discusses amidst his numerous sexual rendezvous is this month's star, Spencer Tracy, I thought it appropriate to at least address the text on that count. Now to begin with, I urge anyone approaching "biographical" material to do so with a certain amount of skepticism; to be certain that the author is approaching the material objectively, and that his "sources" are in fact sources. Too, do not rest on one perspective for the whole story, but compare and contrast with what other researchers and writers have discovered, as well as the recorded statements and memories of those who actually knew the subject. You have to be able to balance the materials and compare the facts with falsehoods. In other words, don't accept one version of history without doing some serious, critical thinking first. Mr. Bowers certainly seems to have people fighting in his corner, such as Gore Vidal, who vouches for him, so this makes it difficult to completely discount his stories. Yet, the way in which he narrates calls his reliability into question. The book reads like a badly written smut novel with the obvious intent to profit off sensationalism. For all of his intimate sexual relationships with the stars, you sense no intimacy, just the thunderous sound of his own back-patting-- he essentially describes himself as master-puppeteer of a population of sexual monsters. He assumes the tone of "free love" and acceptance, of course, to dilute this narcissism, but it is pretty clear that he didn't write this book to shed light on some long-hidden truths but rather to illuminate his own magnificence.


In addition, the book is very poorly written. I really couldn't take any of it seriously. For him to claim that he knew so many stars so well, and then fail to accurately capture their voices and personalities, is something to note. For example, he describes a scene between himself, George Cukor, and his "good friend" Katharine Hepburn, in which she sulks under George's beratings and then pouts, "You know I don't have any friends..." Ha. Hahaha. Interesting, since every other account of Kate paints her as a resilient and somewhat haughty woman not prone to be howled at by anyone. She hardly seems the type to mourn her loneliness, and if she were to show such a vulnerable side, it makes one wonder why she would do so in the presence of a complete stranger-- close friends often claimed they didn't know what she was thinking because of her fierce, emotional guard. Again, Bowers reveals himself as someone just that special-- like moths to a flame. I'm sorry... I'm still laughing as I write this... I'm imagining Kate kicking Bowers in the nuts and saying, "Who they Hell do you think you are?!" That scene is much more believable, I think.

Is it not somewhat absurd that in 2012, we are still led to believe that femininity and lesbianism

 (and equally masculinity and male homosexuality) are mutually exclusive concepts? If Kate

 preferred to "wear the pants," does this necessarily infer same-sex orientation?

Bowers may have run in the same circles as the stars. He describes his ascent from a gas pump attendant to a bartender, who consequently winds up pimping for his straight and gay friends and prostituting himself when requested-- though, of course, he never accepted money for his services. It was all about love, man. Now, clearly human sexuality is a much more malleable thing than we allow ourselves to admit, and it is possible that Hollywood during the studio era was something like a precursor to the "free love" '60s, but if Bowers wants us to buy this product, then he has made a fatal error. I get excited when supposedly revelatory books like this hit the market, thinking that I will learn something knew and hopefully true about a part of our history. Sadly, I am too often left disappointed by the sensationalized, graphic nature of the script, such as in this case. Are you trying to tell me a story or turn me on? Because you're doing neither. Bowers does not take the position of: Well, I was around these people, this is what I saw, this is what I know. He instead goes into lewd detail of his sexual shenanigans and prowess, luxuriating in his position as Mr. Congeniality. It's like listening to a grade schooler brag about himself. I'm going to get sick of listening to you after 3 minutes, and I am not going to believe anything you say: "Oh, you can bench press 3000 pounds? Sure, ya' can. Sure."

For example, the rumor of Cary Grant and Randolph Scott's (right) romantic relationship is one that is more popularly accepted, though it is still contested by various remaining family and friends, including ex-wives and his daughter. I would be willing to accept this scenario as a possibility, however. A hidden identity would explain a great deal about Cary's personal sadness, and other different accounts hint at its plausibility. I have never one-hundred percent accepted it, just because it hasn't been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt in anything I've encountered, and out of respect to his remaining kin, I don't want to publicize something that could be a falsehood. But if Bowers hoped to convince me, he did not go about it the right way. Talking about how suave Cary was (which everyone knows) and how charming Randolph was (which everyone knows) doesn't display any particular knowledge, nor does talking about how "hot" it was when the three of them gave each other fellatio bolster the story. Thus, the disappointment: I open a book intending to discover a fact, only to witness a man indulging in fantasy. Which, again, if it is true, I cannot believe, because there is nothing to back it up. There is nothing to endear me to the author and make me trust him. There is no integrity in the script, nor any sense of dignity leading me to believe that he truly cared about these various people. It's merely an emotionless account of him screwing his way through Los Angeles. After every "romantic episode" I was left... well... laughing, and then asking, "Yeah, and?"


Bowers has come under fire as well for his lack of proof. We are all left to "take his word for it." Now, as a human being, he has as much right to be heard as anyone else. But, whereas other biographies, books, or articles use more than one source to tell their subjects' tales, there is no voice here to back Bowers up. There too is no mention by him of anyone else (living) who can say, "Yes, I was there. I know this happened." Suspiciously, Bowers is the sole man in Hollywood who witnessed any of this. He must have been really special to have been invited into this secret, secluded world. There too, since this book was released, have been many dissenting voices crying out against him and accusing him of fabrication. Now, these could be either disappointed voices who do not want the stars they've imagined polluted or family members that don't want to admit such perversities were present in their dearly departed. But, noted and acclaimed biographers and researchers have also violently debated the book's veracity, and it is interesting that in all of their research, they have come across no evidence to support Bowers's claims. It appears more that Bowers latched onto various rumors at the time, attached them to some of his own experiences, and exaggerated for dramatic effect. What is also noteworthy is that, while many are contradicting his stories, no one is validating them. Even Gore Vidal cannot lend him real support, for he states, "I have never caught him in a lie," but he cannot say, "I know he is telling the truth." Other writers who support him too are more enchanted by his tales than certain of their veracity, which, if he is telling the truth, is very unfortunate for him.


But, despite all of the He Said/She Said, there are definite examples of perjury to prove him wrong. Vidal may not have caught him in a lie, but others have. There has been a lot of controversy surrounding his trysts with the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, Edward VIII and Wallis Simpson, whom he claims were both homosexuals. Very possibly true, but he errs when he claims that Edward preferred for him to call him "Eddy." A minor thing, but many researchers have made much of it. Those who have done their homework claim that Edward would never have surrendered his royal title. Now, even this could be argued. Who knows what this guy was like in the bedroom? But the fact that he told Bowers to call him "Eddy" and not by his real nickname, "David," is more than a bit suspicious.

But to come more to the point, James Curtis, author of Spencer Tracy, pointed out several examples as to why Bowers's portrait of Spence (left) was total invention. Bowers asserts that he and Spence, whom he claims was bisexual, had a fling around the time Spence was filming Pat and Mike, which was released in 1952. He describes the "seduction" thusly: Spence would get sloppy drunk, behave like a mad ogre, then engage in sexual relations with the stunned Bowers, who had no idea of Spence's inclinations but was happy to oblige. The only trouble with this tale is that it has been well documented that Spence remained completely sober from his 1945 release from the Doctors Hospital, which he entered essentially for detox, to 1955 when he slipped up on the set of The Mountain and had a drink. The entry in his calendar for that day reads, "Gin." Spencer always recorded his alcoholic slip-ups. As a devoted Catholic, it was, in a way, a form of flagellation for him to note when he had essentially failed as a human being. Just as he would celebrate "3 months sober!" so too would he record "loaded" when he fell off the wagon. There is no note in his calendar during the Pat and Mike period to indicate that he got trashed and consequently had sex with a man. Now, the sex he may have purposely not mentioned, but the drinking... always. Spence was serious about handling his alcoholism, and he would go for incredibly long spells without drinking, even resisting the temptations of imbibing friends like Clark Gable or Laurence Olivier when they drank around him. If he had taken a drink during this period, had he atypically not noted it himself, the studio would have, the press would have, friends would have. Everyone knew when Spence fell off the wagon, because he followed the same routine: drank for days, disappeared, holed up somewhere, got sober, and re-entered society. No such situation is recorded by anyone during this breadth of time. Which means, Bowers-- as an aware human being-- knew that Spence battled alcoholism and tried to use this detail to bolster his story. Too bad that little added detail of Pat and Mike perjured him. The timing doesn't add up.

He too asserts that Katharine Hepburn was a lesbian and that the relationship that she and Spence shared was a studio mandated publicity ploy to cover up both of their sexual preferences. Interesting. Now, why would MGM choose a married man as Kate's beard? Why stop one scandal by starting another? You don't put out a fire with fire. In truth, the studio did all it could to stifle Spence's philandering and his relationship with Hepburn in the press for fear of smearing his reputation as a married man (to wife Louise), so explain the thinking that would put him and Kate together to save the latter's face? Why not choose a nice, single beard for her? It makes no sense. Particularly since, as their extra-marital affair was well protected by the studio, the general public knew nothing about it until very late in their careers, after the great passion that brought them together had simmered into their latter day affection and companionship. So, if news of their "fake" relationship was meant to protect their bi/homosexuality, the studio sure got a late start on the cover-up. But this is nothing compared to the first-hand witnesses of colleagues and friends, like Garson Kanin, Ruth Gordon, and Kate's niece Katharine Houghton who saw their love affair and described the relationship's ups and downs, their devotion to each other, and their deep and abiding love. Bowers is asking us to believe that Kate and Spence not only fooled the press, but fooled everyone they came into contact with as well. There would be no reason for them to carry the charade that far, particularly if the inner-circle Hollywood Bowers describes was as open and unashamed as he claims it was. If Kate was a lesbian with no romantic feeling for Spence, why was she so fiercely protective of Spence? Why go to such lengths to keep him sober, why follow him around like a little girl in love, if she did not adore him? Why would he look at her with warmth when he thought no one was watching him, if he too did not love her? I'm sorry... I'm witnessing Kate kicking Bowers in the nuts again... Hahaha... (Kate and Spence relax while filming Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, right).


Bowers too claims that the studio invented Spence's Catholicism to explain his failure to obtain a divorce and marry Kate-- again, allegedly to protect the real reason for the deferral: their sexualities. First of all, by the time this would even have been an issue to publicly discuss, Spence would have been dead and needless of studio protection. Secondly, anyone who knew Spence would validate his religious inclinations. Spence was a deeply conflicted individual concerning his religion. He was not proud of his behavior as a man, and at the core of his unhappiness was his belief that he had failed as human being because of his drinking and because of his infidelity. He was like a little boy who couldn't help himself and would then punish himself for his sins. Attending church was a special thing he shared with his father as a boy, and he continued to attend mass regularly as an adult, as many witnesses could affirm. He too admitted on several occasions, including to longtime friend Pat O'Brien, that he had wanted to be a priest as a boy and regretted his decision in taking, what he considered to be, a lesser profession. Spence's Catholicism was not an invention. It was a cross he bore his whole life. Which begs the questions, what the Hell is Scotty Bowers talking about? And if he is lying about this, then what else is he lying about?

Bowers had some pretty shocking things to say about Tyrone Power. I won't give it away, but

 it rhymes with "Olden Tower." ("Bowers," coincidentally, does not rhyme with "taste").

In the end, I don't know. I don't know if Bowers is telling the truth, or thinks he is, or is some crazy old fart who has become lost in his own imagination. Since he describes suffering sexual abuse as a child, it is possible that as a resultantly sexually confused adult, in order to cope with and hide from certain demons lurking in his own soul, he created an erotically charged world of Hollywood, where all of the brightest stars adored him and came to him for sexual satisfaction-- a place where he was in control. Yet, if he is telling the truth, then he simply told his story the wrong way. Reading his book is like watching porn (not that I ever have, mind you): you sit there indulging in the most outrageous of scenarios where absolutely everything is over the top. The interactions are ignorant, inhuman, super-animal, and as a result, internally, you laugh. You know it is all a joke. This isn't how real people sound or act. It is fantasy. It's fun. But in no way, shape, or form do we believe it to be emblematic of the real world. The best I can say of Bowers is that he has a great future as a porn writer.


The trouble with books of this variety, is that they claim to shed light on the truth while really clouding it. While the book isn't solely about homosexual revelations, that is the portion that-- as always-- has caused the most controversy. We know that there were a great number of closeted homosexuals in Hollywood from the silent days onward. We know about William Haines because he was very open about it. We know Marlene Dietrich was bi-sexual, because she too was unabashed. We know of the likes of Ramon Novarro and Rock Hudson, sadly because of the way they died. It only makes sense that there are more hidden stories, and certainly it is a hope that their dignity be restored and thus dignity extended to the gay demographic in having the truth revealed. However, when the gay community is "outted" in this fashion, it actually does them a disservice. Instead of depicting them like everyone else-- movie stars forced to keep up a facade, including in this case their sexual preferences-- they are painted as sexual deviants and perverts. They are portrayed as human-adjacent as opposed to just human. What purpose does this serve? But perhaps I am simply offended, because I have a great many homosexual friends and take such things personally. Too, Bowers does the gay population no favors by describing nearly all of Hollywood as gay, as if everyone born with the acting gene too was born with same-sex orientation. Because you can't believe that every person-- minus Humphrey Bogart, I suppose-- living in Hollywood during this era was gay or bi-curious, you have to receive Bowers's perspective as foolish, and thus believe that he's lying about everyone. So, we are back to square one, and those members of the populace who were indeed forced to remain closeted are still left closeted. That... is sad. And in the end, what does it matter? None of my heroes' sexual proclivities are going to change my respect for their talents one iota, so if Bowers simply wanted to stir the pot and shake things up, he too has failed on that count.

Gene Tierney illustrates the point: there are so many faces in Hollywood, 

but which ones are real?

There is much fault that I can find with Bowers's memoirs: depicting Errol Flynn as a pervert who liked little girls, claiming that Walter Pidgeon (?!?!) propositioned him after having known him all of 5 seconds, because he just looks that good pumping gas... I don't seek to protect the stars from the slander of "gayness" nor to uphold a pristine image of Hollywood, because I know more than anyone else that that is the greatest lie of all, but I do have to use my conscience when gauging material.  If I can't trust the author, I can't trust his writing. I don't hold anything against Bowers for his latest offering, and I give him the benefit of the doubt that at least some of it is true, but "in defense of Spence" at least I had to point out some glaring inconsistencies.  After all of the research that I've personally done, I feel that I am fair in weighing what information to believe, what not, and what to consider when building up a subject for myself. I won't deny the possibility of Bowers's stories, but let's just say that he has a long way to go to prove himself, particularly when there are better researched, better written, and more thoroughly supported accounts of the people he claims to know so well. It says something when a stranger like Curtis can use his words to get me so close to a man like Spencer Tracy that I feel like I know him, and a "friend" of the stars like Bowers can tell me some "first-hand experiences" and leave me... well... just laughing. So, to those who asked my opinion, I respond, "Go ahead. Read the book. Enjoy it. Then come back to the land of reality and do the subject matter the dignity of thinking logically." The truth is not as simple a thing as we make it out to be, but nor should we indulge in uncertainties to float our own fancies. People deserve better.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Spencer Tracy

Spencer Bonaventure Tracy

Acting isn't easy; over-acting is. Actors that seamlessly merge with a character and make you believe what they are saying are rare. One such "rara avis" is Spencer Tracy, who-- as according to the old "Seinfeld" bit-- could even make the line "These pretzels are making me thirsty" interesting. His fame was an unlikely phenomenon with his atypical, leading man looks, and his lasting career was a miracle due to the mental demons and liquid libations that tugged at him throughout his life. Yet, he remains one of the greatest legends of the silver screen. He had talent-- a hard won, well-crafted talent that he made appear effortless. Because he was never known for possessing a handsome mug, he too was able to flawlessly age with his characters, continuing to play the every-man, the defiant man, and the last artifact of masculine Americana. And the guy only got better with age. The road to such success was a rocky one; one that never really became smooth. That's what we liked about Spence, though. He was authentic, rough, and real. His pains were as evident as his pleasures. He was one of us.


Spencer Tracy should have been a girl. At least, that was what his mother had hoped, since her firstborn had been a boy-- Carroll. The second born was to be named "Daisy" after her good friend Daisy Spencer, but when John and Carrie Tracy welcomed another son, they compromised by naming him "Spencer" instead. Consequently, while devoted to his mother, Spence got along best with his father, with whom he always attended mass. The church became a bond between father and son, an interesting obsession, considering the arguably immoral penchants the two men had toward liquor. John Tracy was by all other rights a warm man and a loving, loyal husband, who had worked hard to build himself up from a bank teller to a moderately powerful business man, including a position as the general manager of Parker Motor Truck Company. His one weakness was the bottle, and the numerous, inviting taverns lining the streets of Milwaukee were often too hard to ignore. John would casually enter a bar and subsequently disappear for days at a time. He would then come home apologetically, swear off "the stuff," and proceed on as the kind and jovial man everyone knew. In his youth, Spence became accustomed to these bouts of absence, and he sensed the pain they caused his mother. The mystery of just where his father went or why, however, remained a mystery. Already, footsteps were being laid for an idolizing son to follow.


As yet, Spence was not as tormented. He definitely had a habit of getting into more trouble than his quiet, more obedient brother Carroll, and he too was hurt when he heard himself referred to as "homely"-- never a confidence-booster for a child-- but he too had a soft side. On the one hand, he was a "hyperactive terror," and on the other he would give a friend the shirt off his back, a generous trait he would carry with him always. School was another matter. He was smart enough, but he didn't really start applying himself until he attended Catholic School. Spence always worked best under discipline, which is why he also got on fairly well with all of those adorable ,scolding nuns. An independent adolescent, he worked odd jobs to make money, usually using what little dough he had to buy himself ice cream, but he wouldn't discover his true calling until he took to the stage, first becoming enthralled by the movies, and later staging his first murder-mystery play for neighborhood friends at the age of twelve. After seeing various plays, he decided that he wanted to become his hero, Lionel Barrymore. First, he needed to grow up. He enlisted in the Navy at the age of 18 and, after witnessing little combat, attended Northwestern Military and Naval Academy, where he found a penchant for public speaking. It was at Ripon College that he would decidedly turn his thoughts from a career in medicine to one on the stage. After attending The American Academy of Dramatic Arts with childhood (and lifelong) friend Pat O'Brien, the game was set. Despite his father's wishes that he become a normal, business man, Spencer would pursue his dream of acting and devote himself to it entirely. A nagging guilt for this decision would plague him for the rest of his days. He would often lament not becoming a priest-- his first youthful ambition, like most Catholic boys-- thinking his chosen profession silly and unimportant.

One of Spence's early roles in Sky Devils with Ann Dvorak.

Nonetheless, as an eternal masochist, Spence gave acting his all. While working the stage in bit parts, he met Louise Treadwell, who would become his wife. The two had little in common other than acting, but Spence admired Louise's strength and talent, and she admired his passion and potential. As he worked his way up the showbiz totem, Louise become more and more assured that her husband was bound to become a star. The years were lean, and work wasn't steady, but even after she had to give up acting to raise their son John, her faith in Spence never wavered, even when he himself considered giving up. The young family took another blow when it was discovered that John was deaf. Spence mournfully responded, "He'll never be able to say 'Daddy...'" As usual, Spence blamed himself, thinking that his son suffered because he had not been a good Christian-- which suggests that he had already started the extra-marital dalliances he would become notorious for. His drinking too had started to mirror his father's, though as yet, it was nowhere near as severe. He didn't have too much time to belly-ache with a family to feed, so he thrust all of his self-loathing, anger, and pain into his performances, shocking and wowing audiences with his electric presence and carnal sense of danger in plays like "Conflict," "Dread," and "The Last Mile."


Then came Hollywood, or rather, then came Spence to Hollywood. His success on the stage had caught the attention of many, including George Cohan, but it was John Ford who hailed him West. Ford was so moved by Spence's performance in "The Last Mile" that he insisted on using him in his prison flick Up the River, a film that would pair him with another up-and-comer-- Humphrey Bogart. A contract with Fox followed, but despite solid work, Spence failed to catch on with audiences, due to the usual issues of miscasting. He wasn't particularly handsome, he wasn't suave, but he wasn't necessarily sinister either. The studio-heads knew that he was talented, that he had something indescribable and natural, but what it was or what to do with it, no one knew. Slowly, he let the world see what he was capable of in films like Disorderly Conduct and The Power and the Glory, but Spence was quickly becoming disenchanted with Hollywood and yearned to return to the stage. The only issue was cash: a film contract at least provided a steady paycheck, and now that he was supporting his wife and children, his mother, some extended family, and essentially his brother, he was too worried to give Tinsel Town an assertive "adios." After Spence and Louise gave birth to their second child, Susie, born mercifully in tact and unencumbered, Spence made the move to MGM, much to his good fortune-- it was Leo the Lion who would give him the extra bite he needed.

With Mickey Rooney and Bob Watson in Boys Town. Spence took the role as

 Father Flanagan seriously, not even wanting to accept it at first, 

because he considered himself beneath it.

Finally, Spence started catching on. The film that started the furor was Fury, in which his initially optimistic, and boyish character of a young man in love turns into a vengeful dynamo when he is wrongly accused of kidnapping. Intense, animalistic, and yet sympathetic, he reached depths of his own soul that seemed to echo the inner demons of his audiences. His versatility made him a prime asset for the studio, and his warmth and natural knack for comedy earned him his first Academy Award for his portrayal of Manuel in Captains Courageous. Ironically, he would find equal success playing men of honor and morality, including the priests of San Francisco and Boys Town, the latter for which he won his second consecutive Oscar. He was always deeply sensitive about his work, and the slightest criticisms from the press cut him deeply. There was little help for this since the greatest compliments too seemed to fall on deaf ears. The combination of humility and pessimism is rarely beneficial to the bearer, but he made up for his personal misgivings with dedication. 

Spence and Bette enjoy their wins in 1939, he for Boys Town, she for Jezebel.

He won a score of admirers, not just from fans and critics, but from his co-stars. The King Himself, Clark Gable, suffered an eternal bro-mance for Spence, jealous of a talent that he knew far surpassed his own. Pal James Cagney, always humble, stated that Spence was the best kind of actor, because he couldn't be imitated, unlike himself. Women in particular were enamored of him, not just because of his talent, but because of his complete lack of ego. In a city comprised of male Prima Donnas, narcissists, and sycophants, Spence was simply a hard worker who gave a damn about his craft and showed equal respect for the leading ladies who indulged in such professionalism. Bette Davis adored him, Joan Bennett loved him, and Claudette Colbert was thunderstruck buy him. But, not all women were able to keep their feelings platonic. A naturally insecure man, the attention and attraction of beautiful women and his own human weaknesses led him to engage in multiple extra-marital affairs with the likes of Loretta Young, Gene Tierney, and Ingrid Bergman. His dependence on women was a frailty that crippled him as much as it temporarily may have soothed. But, through none of these flings did his marriage to the ever-loyal Louise seem to be in danger. She was not only independently pursuing her own ambitions and working towards John's education, but she had faith in her union. "He'll come back," she always said.

Spence and Kate turn up the heat in Woman of the Year.

And then came Kate. Spence was teamed with Katharine Hepburn for the first time in 1942's Woman of the Year, and thus began one of the greatest on-screen pairings in cinematic history-- and one of the most controversial off-screen love affairs in "tsk-tsk" Heaven. Spence was the perfect match for the intelligent, flinty, and quirky female who drew raised eyebrows for her tendency for trousers and assertive, even bossy, way of communication. Her more cerebral approach to things was the perfect opposite for Spence's more natural, instinctual methods. His masculinity too was the only brand Kate had ever encountered, on-screen or off, that had the ability to dominate and fascinate her. Perhaps she was so taken with him,because he was the only man who ever had the cojones to tell her when to "shut the Hell up." His ruggedness reminded her a great deal of her father, which endeared her to him, and his subtle, intuitive acting left her flabbergasted and awestruck. Spence too found a worthy opponent in Kate, who at first bewildered him, but later surprisingly seduced him with her loyalty, selflessness, and sturdy character. She didn't flinch when he growled; she stood her ground and challenged him. Unlike Louise, she did not turn her head from his behaviors as a way to cope, but instead met him head on, comforting him when needed, scolding him when necessary, but always, always remaining reliable. To Louise's defense, Kate did not have the responsibility of motherhood to usurp her affections-- Spence had Kate all to himself, and she was happy to oblige. Granted, Kate's presence initially induced Spence to endure another guilty bender-- commencing in yet another extra-marital affair attacked his always inflamed guilt complex-- but she too acted as a protector who in time kept him off the booze and taught him that he could overcome his addiction. He would enjoy some of the longest periods of sobriety under her watch, though the inner sadness he felt at betraying Louise too aggravated his hypochondria-- he was unable to sleep, his head was always spinning with worry, and he was constantly certain that he was dying of something-- and equally positive that he deserved to.

A darker portrait of impossible love in Sea of Grass.

While the world at large for many years remained ignorant of this liaison-- a secret MGM fought hard to keep out of the press but that was, of course, an open secret in Hollywood-- they couldn't deny the electric chemistry the duo had on the screen. The public loved them together, and so, when word eventually got out late in their careers and more fully after his death, the affair was strangely not held against them, much in the way Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks were forgiven for abandoning their previous marriages to wed each other. To the public, they belonged together. Spence and Kate derived from each other a sexuality that had been missing from their other films. Both were atypical leading stars-- Spence leading with guttural passion and Kate with intellect-- but sensuality was lacking until they found each other. Spence drew out Kate's femininity, and she elicited his eroticism. Through the span of their careers, this balance of wills would create one of the greatest, career-spanning interpretations of the battle of the sexes in the history of film. It wasn't just about masculine versus feminine, it was about old versus new, tradition versus change, and domination versus submission. 

The cinematic embodiments of Male versus Female in Adam's Rib.

While the gift-wrapped endings of these films tended to come with a patriarchal victory for Spence, they were a great step forward in closing the gap in the gender divide. For every battle won by the male character, the female character's fierce defiance could be counted on to come back with a surprise coup. The rules were bent, played with, and re-communicated. Progress was being made. In Woman of the Year, the man overcomes the woman's ambitions to teach her, not necessarily that her place is in the home, but that she could embrace the more delicate side of her nature without letting it make her feel weak; that as a partner she must give as much as she takes. In Adam's Rib, which many hail as their best collaboration, the man does not shy from using typically female tactics to win back his woman-- who can forget that scene when Spence's eyes fill with feigned tears? In Pat and Mike, an athletic woman is praised for her abilities and talents and coached in them, desired for them, and not harangued for her un-feminine ways. These films celebrated not only the distinction between men and women-- "Vive la difference!"-- but celebrated each individual's uniqueness-- every human being can be loved despite their temperaments, eccentricities, or flaws... as long as he or she has found the proper partner.

The success of this duo (in 9 films) was unprecedented, and for a great deal of time, the only films they seemed to make were with each other. But, in between, Spence also maintained his reputation with various other successes, always marked by his continued, solid performances: Bad Day at Black Rock, Father of the Bride, The Actress, etc. Through it all, he would continue his battle with alcoholism, maintaining great periods of sobriety and painfully falling of the wagon, only to pick himself back up again. Each slip was recorded in his loyal calendar book, where he would essentially lacerate himself for his imperfections, conscientiously keeping tabs on himself and his short-comings. If he went on a bender, he would mark it down to shame himself. Equally, if one of his films was a flop, he would jot it down. Nothing he did was good enough, and he was never satisfied. As Louise continued to build up support for The John Tracy Clinic, which sought to educate families suffering from deafness, (old polo pal Walt Disney was a constant donator), Spence was proud that he had the good fortune to help fund the establishment but remained embarrassed both that he had failed his family and that his performing career was a joke compared to the world-altering impact his brave wife was making. 

Spence and Fredric March got along like gangbusters behind the scenes, but on camera 

they created a great battle of will and wit in Inherit the Wind.

Yet, he continued to hurtle himself into his work, not realizing that he was indeed affecting change, particularly after he made the acquaintance of one Stanley Kramer-- the definitive producer and director of cutting-edge, socially provocative films. The two artists fit like a hand in a glove. In Stanley, Spence found a capable filmmaker who cared as deeply as he about doing work that mattered-- that could reach an audience in the head, heart, and soul. In Spence, Stanley found his dream actor, who could achieve and bring to life the most impossible and impassioned characters with ease. Spence's multi-layered, dramatic, and comical performances in Inherit the Wind , It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World, and Judgment at Nuremberg would do more than shake up the cinematic world, they would alter our social universe. Despite his human frailties, just as in his roles as priests in San Francisco and Boys Town, Spence would stand as the pinnacle of conscience and justice, leading the little people to a better, brighter existence. He was the sole actor that audiences would trust with such a responsibility, simply because we could at all times believe what this complicated, authentic, man was telling us. His characters may have been imperfect, but they had dignity-- the most admirable of human traits.

Another game-changer: Sidney Poitier, Katharine Houghton, Kate, and Spence

 in Guess Who's Coming to Dinner.

Spence's last film was too his final collaboration with two of his favorite partners-- Kate and Stanley-- in Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, yet another classic. Older, more frail, and very obviously sick, Spence still gave the audience his all with this final effort toward human comprehension. Even in his old age, he remained so striking that the eternally professional Sidney Poitier had trouble getting through his lines-- he was saying them to a screen legend, after all. As always, Kate fussed about Spence on the set, babysitting and bolstering as need be. Onscreen, Spence portrayed the liberal-minded patriarch who lets go of the old to make way for the new, but only after he has realized that the future is giving birth to a society that, though different, is just as pure. His final speech-- his character was always known for those breath-taking, final speeches-- extols the virtues of true love and enduring affection, essentially praising his relationship with Hepburn as she looks on with eyes full of tears, and finally gives his blessing to the black man who wants to marry his white daughter-- and to all others who defy convention in the name of love. And so, he put the final period on a 67 year sentence, took his final bow, and made his great exit from the land of cinema.

Spence out-lasted so many of his contemporaries, because he was not a studio-made star. He was just himself. Thus, as other actors aged and lost their luster, Spence remained because he had never lied. He had never covered the deep creases in his face with make-up nor played the lover-boy (on camera). He wasn't even the boy-next-door. He was the same son-of-a-gun you passed on every street or sat next to at any bar. He was a well-rounded human being, not a concoction. For this, he remained malleable, cast-able, and-- most importantly-- working steadily while so many of his friends slipped through the cracks or sadly passed away-- leaving him, as always, deeply grieved. Jean Harlow, Victor Fleming, Clark Gable... All pals that he saw put in the ground before him-- odd, since he pessimistically always thought himself at death's door, fearful that the cardiovascular disease that ended his father's life was right around the corner. Indeed, it was waiting, but it waited a long time. After filming on Guess Who's Coming to Dinner wrapped, Spence and Kate retreated to his cottage at 9191 St. Ives (George Cukor's property) where they had been living together discreetly. Kate heard the typically restless Spence go to the kitchen to make himself some late night tea, and then she heard a "crash" as the cup and his body hit the floor. He was gone. Louise was summoned, and the two women who loved him most prepared him for his final journey. Kate would not attend the funeral, following Spence's hearse as far as she dared and then saying goodbye to him before he disappeared into the mass of chaos and flashing bulbs. He would have wanted it that way; this final moment belonged to Louise.

Spence with daughter Susie and son John. Spencer's fears of inadequacy and sense 

of guilt would hamper his relationships with his children, but he was

immensely proud of both of them.

In the end, no one could ever really diagnose what it was that plagued Spencer Tracy. Why he was born with a supreme disappointment; why he always seemed to be dissatisfied with himself... He wasn't a particularly flashy character, and despite the necessary emotional maintenance he needed, he needed few physical comforts to be satisfied. Kate described him as "a lion in a cage. You gave him meat, he ate meat. You gave him water, he drank the water and then he walked up and down, up and down in the cage of life, looking out, and in those eyes you saw the jungle-- the freedom-- the fear-- the affection-- unblinking, unguarded." While he remained certain that he was dying and going to Hell, it seems assured that a man who provided his fans with so much hope, who guided us to feelings of rightness, paid his penance during his life and made it to the Heaven he dreamed of as a boy. He always wanted to be a priest, and in a way he was. Not only did he fulfill this prophecy in his incarnation of Father Flanagan of Boys Town, but in his embodiment of the solid moral compass that showed us both the penalty of sin in Fury and the rewards of adherent principle in Judgment at Nuremberg. One hopes that he has at last found peace and solace, and that in the end he was at least able to appreciate the great work he did. As for the rest of us, we shall continue to gratefully indulge in the continuing legacy of the the agony and the ecstasy of Spencer Tracy.

BITS OF COINCIDENCE: Part IX

Linda Darnell felt like a star-struck fawn when she began working
with her acting heroes. Little did she know that she would
 in due time become one of the inspirational elite.

Just as the integration of sound in film created an uncomfortable tension between the silent generation and the studio era, so too would the invention of Television topple Golden Era Hollywood's ivory tower. Changing fads, younger audiences, and this new feat of technological competition would-- along with age-- humble many of cinema's greats. The more business savvy Gods and Goddesses immediately hopped on the gravy train, such as Loretta Young who starred in her own TV show. Other, older curmudgeons found it difficult to acclimate, like Clark Gable, who let his MGM contract run out and then sought semi-retirement. Linda Darnell became one of the many who was left to walk a crooked line between sudden, grateful independence from studio control and complete and utter bafflement at what to do next. Like many of her generation, too young to retire and too old to appeal to the new method-acting trend, Linda did a little of everything: the occasional, poorly made film, some television, and most importantly the stage. It was on the stage that Linda believed she truly learned to act and to carve out characterizations that went beyond simply hitting marks and giving good face to the camera. The various plays she did-- A Roomful of Roses, The Children's Hour, Critic's Choice, etc-- were sometimes successful and sometimes flops, but the experience was still an enriching one for her. With mostly positive reviews, her confidence was bolstered, and with younger cast members looking up to her, she gained a self-respect that had been absent from her film work. Many upcoming thespians and later film actors would get a chance to perform opposite the fading but still radiant icon, whom they came to respect and admire for her kindness, generosity, and under-appreciated talent. And so, it was on the stage performing Tea and Sympathy in 1956 that one of the gentle guiding hands of Old Hollywood would help usher in New Hollywood when Linda performed opposite a future leading man... Burt Reynolds.

After years doing stage and television work, Burt Reynolds takes his place

 in film history in Deliverance.

Another, earlier transition in the entertainment world came with cinema's first appearance. Suddenly, the world of the stage was broadened and audiences were introduced to another form of passion plays in flickering lights. Of course, as with all new "fads," many stuck their noses up at film and film actors, thinking it a cheap imitation of true performance. While half the population held tightly to the boards of the stage, another half embraced the possibilities of stories in pictures, resulting in an exciting and contentious era in our nation's past. While film actors endured the shame of ostracization and prejudice from a society that deemed them not only artistically by morally inferior, the actors of the stage dealt with an impending paranoia that the burgeoning new medium of movies was going to shake them out of the business. In time, movies did come to override the theatre as the mass favorite, but the prestige of the stage remained. Yet, with film's new success, attributed in part to the actors and actresses who helped elevate it above the mundane and superficial, respect between the two groups followed. One such example of this can be seen in the tribute one of the stage's greatest actors paid to one of cinema's. Turns out John Barrymore (left) had a bit of a crush on Lillian Gish. Not only did the notorious lecher certainly find her beautiful, but he was apparently in awe of her emotive talents, which he deemed "superlatively exquisite." He was moved to such a degree that he was uncharacteristically too embarrassed to approach her with his compliments. Instead, he used notorious director D.W. Griffith as a go-between. He wrote Griffith a letter full of plaudits, and asked him to pass on his ardent respect to Lillian after seeing her performance in Way Down East: "I wonder if you will thank Miss Gish from all of us who are trying to do our best in the theater." Of course, Jack would later arrive in Hollywood himself and start making his own impression on the cinematic world, but had it not been for his respect for actors like Lillian and their work in the medium, he may well have simply continued treading the boards on Broadway.

D.W. Griffith's "soul," Lillian Gish, apparently reached
John Barrymore's as well.

Another olive branch was extended by none other than Olive Thomas (right). She was at the height of her career when she started filming The Flapper. Life was good, work was steady, and she was quickly solidifying her place as a qualified leading lady. This certainly only served to heighten Olive's perpetually high spirits. Always a generous, free-spirited person, her charm was infectious and endeared many of her colleagues and collaborators to her. One such person was Norma Shearer, an up and coming ingenue who was breaking her way into the tough world of Hollywood through bit parts and extra roles. A fiercely determined girl herself,  Norma-- who landed her first, uncredited role in The Flapper alongside sister Athole-- most assuredly watched every move Olive made with great acuity. Here was a woman she wanted to emulate: charismatic, sensual, talented, and powerful. Never the haughty type, Olive and Norma must have struck up some sort of casual, working relationship while filming, for when Olive learned that the struggling actress had fallen ill, she was deeply concerned. As was her nature, she offered assistance without giving it a thought and wound up forking the dough for Norma's medical bills. It was a debt for which Norma remained eternally grateful and sadly never got to repay, due to Olive's untimely death. But, having indeed learned from a pro, she put this bit of kindness in her pocket and "paid it forward" in her later career, where-- after she became one of MGM's top attractions-- she often lent a hand to other up-in-comers in need, (such as Janet Leigh and Tyrone Power).

Norma Shearer grew to wield her hard-won fame
 energetically and gratefully.

Another type of world that consistently seemed to collide with Hollywood was that of the gangster. The stories of underworld debauchery made their way into cinematic stories as soon as prohibition put a bitter thorn in America's side. While we did not enjoy the truth behind the myth of the booze-pushing mobster-- the man-handling, threatening, and murdering-- we could not help but idolize him in some respect, because at least he was giving us something good to drink! Gangsters too were drawn to the glamorous allure of Hollywood for business and pleasure, and thus our nastiest ne're-do-wells started rubbing elbows with our creme-de la-creme, (see more in a past article here). Linda Darnell's mother, Pearl, would in time come into close, friendly contact with none other than Mickey Cohen (left). After Linda had moved her entire family to Los Angeles and bought them a home, Cohen happened to move in right around the corner. Due to his menacing reputation, many of the neighbors were understandably unhappy. Pearl, a tough cookie, hardly paid his presence any mind. After all, she had been causing a ruckus of her own. More than one neighbor raised an eyebrow at the unconventional Darnell home, where chickens ran amok, snakes were treated like fuzzy bunny rabbits, and Pearl fed her horse through the kitchen window. For classy Los Angelenos, this was the epitome of redneck malfeasance. For a time, Mickey distracted the neighborhood's attention from Pearl-- particularly after a bomb was thrown into his home! Now reasonably frightened, the block started a petition to have the hood ousted, but Pearl refused to sign. She believed him to be the "perfect" resident: he was quiet, had no parties, and kept up his home. When Mickey learned that Pearl had stood up for him, he called personally to thank her. I guess the only person more terrifying than Mickey Cohen was Pearl Darnell. 

Desi Arnaz (right) had his own relationship with the mob, and not just through his television production "The Untouchables." Desi's family escaped the violence and upheaval of Cuba during the revolution of 1933 and settled in Florida. His father, an ex-politician who had been incarcerated for his loyalties, wanted to start fresh in American and went about establishing himself as a businessman. Living in Miami as a teen, the charming and mentally ambidextrous Desi was also interested in business and thus had no penchant for education. Yet, at his parents' insistence, he attended St. Patrick's Catholic High School part time. The one spot of good luck was meeting the boy who was to become his closest friend at the time: Sonny Capone. Desi was aware of who Sonny's father was, but out of courtesy never brought up the fact that ol' Al was doing time in Alcatraz. He would never meet the notorious thug in the flesh, but he did have a bit of a shock one day. As per usual, Desi called the Capone household to chat with Sonny and make plans to meet up and get into the usual boyish hijinks. However, a strange, male voice answered the phone. Desi was thrown at first... and then became even more thrown as he put two and two together: Al was out on parole at the time, and must have traveled to meet with his family. Holy Moly! He was talking to Al Capone! Desi would play it cool at the time, but years later he would have a good chuckle over it. However, after he had found success in Hollywood with wife Lucille Ball, he was surprised to hear from his old friend Sonny, who was deeply insulted by "The Untouchables" due to its subject matter-- an insult to his father. "How could you do it?" Sonny asked. "Why not?" Desi retorted. "Somebody else would have anyway." Sonny's ego was not soothed-- he served Desi with a million dollar law suit. Sometimes, old friendships die hard.

Al Capone: one character not even Hollywood could make up.

TAKE ONE, TWO, THREE: Nothing's Black & White

Though an obvious casting choice for Julie in Show Boat, Lena Horne missed out 

on a role that finally matched her skin tone... because of her skin tone.

Quick challenge: name five studio-era African American stars. The first name served is Sidney Poitier, next Hattie McDaniel, then Lena Horne... Maybe one is able to recall the comic efforts of the heavily stereotyped Stepin Fetchit... Kind of gets hard to tack that last digit, doesn't it? While no one can argue the continuing spell that classic Hollywood casts over us-- the beauty, the allure, the glamour-- when one is being realistic, there are many flaws in Tinsel Town's handsome face. Hence, cinematic racism: a painful subject and a continuing saga of human failure and regeneration for every generation. The great thing about being a student of film is having this tangible ability to witness human beings in action. Since the advent of this medium, we have been able to literally watch history unfold and effect change before our very eyes, though we are rarely aware of this phenomenon as it happens. The social motivations that compel us to tell certain stories-- and audience reactions to these documentations-- in turn, become artifacts of our ever malleable culture.


Evaluating movies of the past, wherein racial slurs or sexist statements make a modern audience wince, can often result in the ostracizing of certain films-- we are unwilling to admit past blunders, so we bury our past. But this too is a failure on our part. In not permitting certain films-- which fail to live up to our current politically correct standards-- to be seen, we miss out on the talents that paved the way toward a more understanding, comprehensive society. For example, there are those that refuse to list Gone with the Wind's merits due to the perpetuation of the "happy slave" myth, as portrayed through the characters of "Mammy," "Pork," and "Prissy." True enough. But what of the stellar performances? The epic love story? The scope of filmmaking as yet never before reached? And what of the black actors McDaniel, Polk, and McQueen who you are robbing of their moment? One small step for man, one giant step for mankind. Through cinema, you embarrassingly watch man commit his prejudices and slowly unlearn them. One shouldn't be afraid to watch us making these steps, nor rob himself of the intrigue of literally watching it happen. And so we move from Cabin in the Sky, to Gone with the Wind, to Malcolm X, etc. And this is just dealing with one branch of our multiple minorities.

In the Romeo & Juliet tale of West Side Story, the interracial romance between 

a white Jet and a Puerto Rican Shark was made savory by casting the 

Caucasian Natalie Wood as Maria.

With that overly lengthy introduction being said, I can now press on to the matter at hand, which is how the racial issue has been investigated in our cinematic storylines in one particular fashion. While the burden of racial tension almost consistently fell on Mr. Poitier's shoulders, producing in his career one of the most profound and effective bodies of work in perhaps all film history, the female element of the African American race was very rarely given voice. When it was, it was normally stereotyped through the role of the sassy servant or house maid. But, there too was a strange mutation in which a black woman was given opportunity to reveal the prejudices under which she suffered through a character with true depth and feeling, but in this case, of course, she had to be half white. The final clincher, she had to be played by a Caucasian actress. (Harrumph). While this shoddy choice at casting was taken as a slap in the face to the many black actresses dying for a chance to give credit to their race and prove themselves as genuine talents, the choice was just as much about business as it was an unhealthy dose of racism. Due to the production code, there could be no interracial romance or miscegenation on camera, which meant that a black actress could not indulge in a romance with a white actor (this is the same stipulation that caused Anna May Wong's career to suffer). This, in addition to the fact that famous, white actors were considered the real stars and money earners, led to  forward thinking plots with backward thinking production. Nonetheless, these films are worth a glance, as they are yet one more step forward from our segregated past. I have three films (and multiple versions) to discuss today: Show Boat, Imitation of Life, and Pinky.

~     ~     ~

To begin with, we have Show Boat, based upon the book by Edna Ferber and the following smash musical by Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein II and adapted for the screen thrice in 1929, 1936, and 1951. (Unfortunately, the following racial angle was suspiciously absent from the 1929 silent version, so I have had to drop it from the discussion altogether). The plot of the story varies little from film to film and involves the generational saga of a family of show boat performers: Cap'n Andy and Parthy Hawkes, their daughter Magnolia and her husband Gaylord, and in time their daughter. On the outskirts of these tales of love and loss, performance and reality, there is another character-- one who is not of the family. The "other." Julie, played by Helen Morgan in 1936 and Ava Gardner (left) in 1951 (and Alma Rubens in 1929), is a songstress on the boat and a good friend of the blossoming Magnolia. The interesting thing about this woman is that she is biracial, but "passes" for white. However, the Hawkes family knows the truth and does not shun her for her accidental heritage. In addition, Julie is deeply in love with her husband Steve-- a white man. As Magnolia is a bit younger and as yet untouched by love, she is fascinated by Julie, whom she looks to for guidance. Julie communicates her character's deep, unshakable love through the show-stopping "Can't Help Lovin' Dat Man." During the number, we see Julie as a woman of spirit and warmth: a big sister to Magnolia, a devoted lover to Steve, and, underneath it all, a sad little girl who can't believe that her dreams have come true. This sadness will be broadened when the authorities threaten to arrest her for her interracial marriage to Steve-- which is indeed illegal-- at their most recent, unfortunate port. Reluctantly, the Hawkeses are forced to let Julie and Steve go from the show, and the romantic duo are thrust head-first into an unforgiving world with only each other as comfort.

Fast forward to a few years later, and we find Julie alone without her man. Steve, her one true love, has left her, most probably due to the societal pressures of being married to a "negro girl," but also there are hints at infidelity and the other hard-knock financial pressures that any entertainer must endure. Julie mourns him, singing her heartbreaking "Bill" to the drunken crowds at The Trocadero, a gigantic step down from the homey and classy show boat. Julie too, it is discovered, is a drunk who has taken to the bottle to cope with her heartbreak. Surprisingly, Magnolia is brought back into her life and, just like Julie, she has fallen on hard times with her husband, Gaylord, whose gambling has cost them their home and eventually each other. He too has walked out on his wife, and so the two spurned women are reunited in song, for Julie overhears Magnolia auditioning for a spot at the club. Her audition piece is, of course, "Can't Help Lovin' Dat Man." Just as she had several years prior, Julie performs her act as guardian angel, watching out for her younger soul sister, and ensuring that she will not have to suffer the same pains as herself. She leaves her job at The Trocadero, seeing to it that Magnolia takes her place. Here we encounter the first example of the chosen sacrifice of the lower race. In all areas, Julie and Magnolia are fairly interchangeable. Though Magnolia was fortunate enough to be born to more prosperous and white parents, they are both destitute, abandoned, and lost. The one defining difference is Julie's mixed race. For this, she is irredeemable and she knows it. Julie committed the mortal sin of thinking she could climb above societies' restraints and enjoy the high life-- aka the white life-- but fate surely and swiftly reminded her of her place in the caste system. Though the Civil War has ended, her breeding still makes her a slave. She knows her place, and she accepts it. Her giving heart, which gave all to Steve, now continues to give to her friend who, of course, goes on to become a great star.


This same goodness eventually works to reunite Magnolia with the wayfaring Gaylord, whom a drunken Julie encounters some time later. Ava Gardner does some of her best work in this scene in the 1951 version when she all but shames and begs Gaylord to give up his scandalous, cowardly ways and return to Magnolia. If she can bring one man back to the woman who loves him, it will have made her martyrdom worth it. All of the suffering she has endured as an outcast will be won back if she can prove that true love does exist, and her karmic injustice will be paid in full-- as the other, she delivers the true rights of happiness to the true white race that deserves it. Forgiven for sullying the waters of purity, this last sacrificial act may give her peace. Gaylord does return to Magnolia, and the Hawkes family floats on their boat to better things on the ever-flowing river of life. Julie, we are left to assume, will be kept warm for the remainder of her days with the knowledge that she has done some good. As is her fate, she should expect nothing more, right?

Julie is not the only person of "color" in the story, with various other helping hands along the way being portrayed by Hattie McDaniel and Paul Robeson ('36), and William Warfield ('51), the latter two of whom perform with great pathos and gut-wrenching gusto the famous "Old Man River." As is usual, these authentically black characters are treated with a sort of condescending affection that is elevated only by the performances of the actors. They are kind-hearted but most importantly unambitious. They know their place and do not seek to escape it. It is Julie's ferocious beatings against history's iron cage that eventually victimize her. This is why she is not carried to heaven on 'Old Man River' with the other, allegedly smarter members of her race. While these themes today irk the conscience, the films are at least successful in painting sympathy for the African American population, though they are still forced to suffer. The fact that a white woman was chosen to play the mixed Julie is somewhat forgivable in the restraints of the time, as an onscreen romance between a black Lena Horne-- one original choice for the role in 1951-- and a white actor was a definite no-no and far too shocking for an America still in the midst of racial segregation. Lena in fact was asked to coach Ava Gardner in her singing for the role, which was an additional slap in the face to both women. In the end, Ava's singing would not be used but was dubbed by Annette Warren. The only happy ending there is that Lena and Ava were actually good friends. Ironically, Lena had performed the song "Can't Help Lovin' Dat Man" in the biopic of Jerome Kern's life, Till the Clouds Roll By, in 1946. The time had not yet come for a black woman to have a romantic leading role, even a supporting, romantic leading role. Women of color were still resigned to character roles and bit parts. Yet, the film industry was able to inch the door open ever so much wider, and through the superb performances of its actors, audiences at least subliminally could begin to empathize with a dark race-- though sadly by giving them a white face.

~     ~     ~

The story for Imitation of Life further showcased this other racial archetype when brought to the screen in both 1934 and 1959. Overall, these films are about the relationships between mother and daughter, but the most striking aspect of both was the choice to introduce a "light-skinned" black girl as a supporting character. In accordance with the whole production code stuck-uppedness (new word), the character of Peola ('34)/Sarah Jane ('59) had-- as described by her black mother Delilah/Annie-- a very light-skinned father. While this strange extended storyline is meant to occur outside the main plot-- which concerns the sudden prosperity of working girl Bea Pullman/Lora Meredith (Claudette Colbert/Lana Turner) conflicted with her mothering of Jessie/Susie (Rochelle Hudson/Sandra Dee) and her romantic life with suitor Steve Archer (Warren William/John Gavin)-- Peola/SJ and her disdain for her skin color becomes the most fascinating part of the movie. Her rejection of her true race results in harsh penalties, and by existing in a counterfeit "imitation of life"-- in which she tries to pass as a white girl-- she suffers heavy consequences.

Both films are essentially the same in plot, but where the '34 version is more poetic and sentimental the latter version is overly melodramatic but bold. In both, the white matriarch encounters the black matriarch by accident, and as they are both mothers struggling along, Bea/Lora gives Delilah/Annie a job as, basically, her housekeeper. The most obvious difference in the films occurs through the Bea/Lora character, who in '34 is a widow who essentially bogarts Delilah's pancake recipe to start a restaurant and later a thriving pancake mix enterprise. Of course, as she is a tolerant, open-minded individual, she considers Delilah an equal partner, but when she offers Delilah her financial freedom, the latter doesn't want it: "Please don't send me away..." It is the contemporary equivalent of the "happy slave"-- after being freed from imprisonment, the convict is far too unaccustomed to life on the outside, and thus opts to remain incarcerated. The two women get along well, are "friends," though from time to time it is obvious that Bea enjoys mocking Delilah's lesser intelligence. Though this is seemingly the epitome of a romanticized, segregated, separate-but-equal existence, the distinction between the two women in levels of "class" is brilliantly observed when they go off to bed: Bea climbs the spiral staircase to her glamorous bungalow, while Delilah descends the steps to her simple room in the basement. With Louise Beavers giving the character of Delilah light touches of comedy and innocence, and Claudette bringing her equal emotive skills to the table, both women remain likable despite the itchy subject matter. The one character who isn't fooled is Peola (Fredi Washington), who clearly recognizes the difference between her mother and Bea and soon enough decides that she too wants to be white. And why wouldn't she? Who wouldn't prefer wearing elegant gowns and throwing hot-to-trot soirees to massaging the boss's feet? (The "happy" family, left).

Equally, Sarah Jane in the '59 version (Susan Kohner) recognizes her limited life choices as a black girl. In this version, white heroine Lora Meredith is a much more determined albeit conscientious character. As much as she loves her daughter Susie or the wooing Steve, she wants to be an actress most of all and nothing is going to stop her. The severity and danger of Lana Turner works perfectly in the role, who is clearly crawling out of some hole that she refuses to ever re-enter (unlike Colbert, who was simply a single mother trying to survive the depression). Glamour matters, fame matters, money matters-- thus, in this film, it is clearer that Lora too is engaging in an "imitation of life," one that the magazines have taught her is the truth. Sarah Jane has apparently been reading the same articles and looking at the same pictures-- all with smiling, white faces. Her mother, Annie, is not offered an independent way up in the world, as Delilah was in '34, but instead is put to work for Lora with no argument or other ambition. In both films, it is the black matriarch who is not playing games, who embraces her true position in life and does not try to combat it. Yet, the performance of Juanita Moore as Annie in '59 makes this character much more believable and integrous. Her warmth and honesty make daughter Sarah Jane's treatment of her all the more painful to witness, especially as she is the pure, moral compass of the story. While one can fault her for not pushing for a better life, she is too smart, too savvy, and too full of character to make such an error. She accepts who she is, her color, and her heritage, and when SJ tries to reject these same things, Annie tells her plainly and sternly, "It's a sin to be ashamed of what you are." SJ, of course, won't have it. (Annie tries to reason with Sarah Jane, right).

In both films, the black daughter has no qualms about expressing her disdain for her race nor resenting her mother for it. Out in the world, she easily passes for a white girl, and she can tell the difference in the way that she is treated. She ignores her mother when she comes to see her at school, so the other children will not know that she is truly black. When the truth comes out, she becomes hostile and flees. As she ages, her antipathy only increases. In '34, she runs away from school-- "one of those nice, black, southern schools"-- to get a job as a white girl at a restaurant. Where '59 has an edge on '34 is in how far it takes Sarah Jane's own attempts to escape her racial shackles. As a child, SJ doesn't want to play with the black doll, she wants to play with the white doll. As a teen, her rebellion becomes more intense. While Lora and her mother get along, she's no fool. She knows that Lora, while supporting Annie, too looks down on her-- a point made when Lora shows surprise that Annie has other friends, and thus another life outside her employ. SJ shows her contempt for Lora's feigned liberalism by mimicking a black servant in one particular scene, leaving Lora appalled and embarrassed. Whereas Peola's outside confrontations are merely implied, we clearly witness the tension of Sarah Jane as she permeates the wall between the black and white races. This most blatant example is that SJ starts dating a white boy, whom she intends to run away with and marry. In the most powerful and shocking scene of the film, she is confronted by her young lover, who mercilessly beats her when he discovers that she is "a nigger." Sarah Jane runs away, using sex as her only weapon of defense, and takes jobs as a showgirl at various clubs (left). If she can seduce a white man and get a ring, perhaps she can at last achieve salvation; at the very least, as a sexual being, she can garner as much attention as a white girl. In both stories, the Peola/SJ character finally breaks from her mother, who in the end dies of a broken heart. The black daughter is thus left to carry the guilt of her neglect and the personal shame of abandoning her roots. The white mother-daughter pairs, on the other hand, learn from these tragic mistakes and are able to avoid them, walking off into the distance untouched by such injustice.

While Peola/Sarah Jane may at first seem atrocious to audiences, her fury at her enforced situation is incredibly telling of current societal pressures, especially through Kohner's performance in '59. Her Sarah Jane is sadistic, masochistic, and brimming with rage. Yet, her character gains sympathy in her occasional softness with her mother, under whose gaze she finds it difficult to froth. Her desperation to run away with her boyfriend too engenders affection-- she so much wants to live the white, picket fence fantasy that she is willing to commit the biggest white lie to do so. To some, she appears an ingrate-- living in the Meredith family palace with her mother, Lora, and Susie-- who is her friend. But the naive bliss of Susie paints a stark (annoying) contrast to her own life, which is always one step below. Everyone tries to pretend that the two girls are the same, but they're not. They're different, just as Julie and Magnolia were not the same in Show Boat. The protective fortress of Lora's home is nothing compared to the cold outdoors. Why would SJ not want to carry the fantasy further? The audience has to forgive her for trying. Yet, she cannot be forgiven for denying her roots and turning a cold shoulder on her mother, (Peola turns on Delilah, right). In the rat race of life, all one has is one's kin, one's people, one's blood. The Delilah/Annie character bore all the burdens of a subordinate life to give her daughter a slightly better one, only to be shunned for her sacrifice-- the ultimate degradation for a mother. The black mother figure accepted the slow progression of life; the black daughter tried to jump too many hurdles into the future. She suffers the loss of her mother as a result-- the only person who truly loved her for who and what she was.

~   ~   ~

The most groundbreaking offering to this limited genre comes from none other than Elia Kazan. Elia was was known for his envelope-pushing films, especially in the opportunities they gave to actors. Each of his offerings seemed to crank the wheel of human progress a bit further, simply because he directed films with human honesty. No social issue, no dark crevice of the human soul was out of bounds. Under his guiding force, the female sex particularly had more of a voice with better roles and more compelling stories. Thus, it was no surprise when he was placed at the helm of Pinky in 1949 to tell the story of a biracial woman whose southern homecoming forces her to definitively choose an identity-- black or white. Starring in the film is Jeanne Crain-- everyone's favorite apple blossom girl with grit-- who is about as far from black as one can get. Again, Lena Horne would be dismissed as a leading lady, as would Dorothy Dandridge. Another possibility was Linda Darnell-- herself a half-breed of sorts, as she carried within her Cherokee blood. But, due to the usual studio stipulations and societal prejudices, Jeanne snagged the role. It is at least a testament to her that she was able to handle it with such grace and conviction.

"Pinky" is a young woman who has been away at college in the north studying to be a nurse. While there, she has been passing for white and too has fallen in love with a white doctor who knows nothing about her contaminated heritage. Her grandmother, Dicey-- played by Ethel Waters (with Jeanne, right)-- fills out the role of the moral compass of an earlier generation, one who holds onto the integrity of her roots while bearing the burden of a life that was bereft of even fewer opportunities than Pinky has been afforded. Elia Kazan paints vivid pictures of the stark difference between living life as a young, beautiful white girl and a young, beautiful black girl in various scenes, such as one in which the police interfere in an altercation between Pinky and two sinister men with obvious intentions. At first, the officer is on the innocent, harassed Pinky's side, until he learns that she is actually half-black, and thus all-black, at which point he quickly switches allegiance to the lechers. Pinky, though torn between her love of her grandmother, respect for herself, and disgust of the bigoted white race, cannot wait to return to the north and resume her life as a white woman. But cutting ties with her true self is not as easy as that, especially after she befriends and takes care of the ailing, wealthy Miss Em (Ethel Barrymore). Em leaves Pinky a hefty inheritance when she passes on, and immediately the town interjects, thinking it-- I suppose-- unconstitutional that a woman of color be given such a privilege when the money should go to Em's family-- family that had no care for the dying woman when she was alive. A court case ensues in which-- much to her surprise-- Pinky triumphs and receives the inheritance. Her fiance asks her to return with him to the north where they can go on pretending that Pinky is a wholesome, Caucasian girl, but Pinky refuses. She decides to stay and turn Miss Em's home into a clinic and black nursery school. She embraces her roots-- the antithesis to Peola's decision-- and makes a life for herself as her true self.

Pinky defends the right to her inheritance (in the arms of her white lover) in 

this lobby card.

In this film, we see an atypical success on all counts of the biracial woman. Just as Julie in Show Boat, Pinky at first wants to escape the constraints of her skin color and "live the dream," as it were-- the white dream. Like Peola, she wants to ignore her roots and pass as a white woman to do so. However, she finds a success that these two women did not. The end cases for both Peola and Julie were negative in that, despite their comeuppances and martyrdoms, they always maintained the bitter pill of guilt for their choices. They rebelled only to be struck down and forced to live with regret. Why? Because they denied half of their identities. Julie did not try to deny her blackness so much as she tried to ignore it. When she was severely reminded, she went about punishing herself, and never again tried to push for a better life.  Peola completely rejects her blackness so that she may live this self same hypothetical life of privilege and too is castigated. Pinky may begin with the same intention, resenting her mixed race-- or at least half of it-- but in the end she comes to an acceptance of self that elevates her from a place of shame and remorse. She refuses to live a lie with the man she loves, and thus embraces the roots that society tells her she should shun-- the fatal error that Peola committed. Yet, she refuses to live as a victim to this, the fatal error that Julie committed. Instead, she becomes an entrepreneur, starting her own school, running her own business, and thriving in a society the way a white woman could-- Hell, the way a white man could! She will not be shackled by racism nor any of man's bigoted laws. She marries her pride in her African roots with the benefits that a full white woman of the time was expected to enjoy, and in truth she does better. She succeeds because she possesses no self-denial.


What makes this last film an even greater historical success is that this mixed race character is the main character. She is not the sad, supporting character that the leading lady is meant to learn lessons from. There is no angelic white girl to contrast with or dominate her. She is the one learning lessons, she is the one triumphing under adversity, she is the one on whom the entire pendulum of the plot swings. While it is true that she suffers under the weight of her race, while she must sacrifice true love and thus not emerge an outright winner as a white female character may have, her abandonment of love is not necessarily a loss in that her love was not real to begin with. It was based on a lie and a denial of her true self. Thus, in letting go of her white lover, she is able to live free and clean with dignity. Her strength is her gain. What is interesting is that, despite the fact that this film was made prior to the '51 versions of Show Boat and the '59 version of Imitation of Life, these latter films should still be made, taking a step backward after Kazan made such a great step forward. Though, I suppose this can be attributed merely to the fact that they were remakes. Yet, Hollywood would have to wait such a long time after this comparatively early contribution to see such another leap from cinematic prejudice-- one step forward and two steps back.

In Saratoga Trunk, Ingrid Bergman plays the biracial daughter of a white, Creole 

aristocrat and a light-skinned "woman of color" who returns to New Orleans 

to enact some vengeance... and make love to Gary Cooper.

What can be said of the white-woman-in-a-black-woman's-role scenario is complicated to say the least. While these films have solid messages and great performances, the unorthodox or rather ignorant casting remains a strike against them. However, when placed firmly within their own distinctive timelines, they make more sense. In the history of America, we may like to believe that the swift hand of justice can come slamming down and shake the world up so violently that rightness may finally have its way... but this is not the truth, is it? Monumental change is only ever effected in baby steps, and so these films, by being plopped into the human pool, enacted a ripple effect that would in turn engage further human discussion and brotherly comprehension. This is what makes the medium of cinema so great, particularly in a world heavily populated by visual learners. You can tell man "how the other half lives," for example, but until he sees it with his own eyes, he won't get it. What he sees, he shall believe. It takes a long time for human beings to wear down a path into a road; a long time for these various roads to meet each other and connect us all on our various quests. So, these films, as prejudiced as they may be in retrospect, were still solid, firm footprints in the dirt, leading a way to understanding that the writers, directors, and actors could only hope the rest of society would follow and, hopefully, improve upon.