MENTAL MONTAGE: The Direct-ators Part I

Joan Crawford unleashes a little pent up frustration on Lucy Marlow
in Queen Bee. When you push an actor too far, sh*t happens.

The diva temper tantrum is not an unfamiliar phenomenon. Nay, it is generally expected. As we gawk at the super-celestial stars above, we make apologies for their erratic behavior, irrational demands, social faux pas, because we find their eccentricities just as-- if not more- entertaining than their films, albums, etc. When Prince demands that his hotel room at the Roosevelt Hotel be carpeted entirely in purple (this happened, I was an employee at the time), it is so absurdly ridiculous that we find the trivia delicious. As such, it feels like a press release present when Reese Witherspoon-- who is supposed to be the Southern debutante of moviedom-- utters the immortal words "Do you know who I AM?!" to the cop who has just pulled her and her husband over for a DUI. It's nice to know, I suppose, that while these people may be richer than we, they are also abysmally, stupidly, embarrassingly superficial. As such, it boosts the confidence when our "stars" reveal themselves for what the majority of them actually are: burning balls of gas.

However, they're not all bad eggs. In fact, a lesser discussed evil is that of the maniacal director. Safe behind the camera, where he can force the sad, dancing monkeys of the acting profession to perform his most sadistic desires, many of these filmmaking artistes get drunk with the power that comes with the director's chair/throne. The man holding the megaphone is God on the set, and those underlings who question his authority will be destroyed. Or shamed. Or whatever it takes to get his rocks off and make him feel like he is invincible (and not the little boy who used to get pushed into his locker in high school because he liked Star Trek.) Fortunately, just as the misbehaving movie stars endured humiliatingly public slaps on the wrist for their misdirected naughtiness, the Dictator-style directors of Hollywood past have also occasionally gotten their comeuppance, and often from the very object of their attempted subjugation. Here are some of my favorite stories of badass bitch slaps and hot shot throw downs:

One of cinema's all time favorite heroes and tough guys is the incomparable John Wayne (right).  The mythology of the Western seems almost to have been created for him, around him, from him, because of him... His effect on the public remains fascinating. An odd duck with a distinctive, staggered delivery and super saucy walk, "the Duke" matured through his films from a young buck, with an innocent face and a reluctant penchant for honor, to a hardened cynic, who didn't take no sh*t off nobody but whose stone heart could sometimes be melted by the "Mattie Ross" types. When this guy was in the saddle, America was the safest place on earth. Ironically, such was not the case off camera. A fairly bashful man when operating without the social lubrication and liquid courage of alcohol, John was a fairly easy guy to push around. Due to his severed relationship with his mother, he always preferred the company of men and consequently looked up to the men who directed him as father figures. He worshiped no one more than John Ford. Unfortunately, as with many directors, Ford had the habit of counteracting his incredible talent for visual storytelling with almost consistent, semi-A-hole behavior. 

John Wayne seeks shelter behind Robert Montgomery during
They Were Expendable.

While Ford and Duke would forge a strong relationship that would span several films over several years, the director often took advantage of the actor's unwavering allegiance and surprising timidity. Their first meeting set the bar for the rest of their relationship (see here), but despite the hard knocks, Duke determinedly took on the Sisyphean task of staying in Ford's favor. On one occasion, he would have a little help from Robert Montgomery (left). During the filming of They Were Expendable, Ford was being particularly nasty and critical of Duke, his chosen whipping boy on the shoot-- Ford always had one. Duke could do nothing right in the clearly frustrated and unhappy director's eyes, and Ford insulted him constantly, calling him a 'clumsy bastard' and 'big oaf,' and mocking everything from his line readings to his salutes. Finally, the uber-professional and ever-focused Montgomery, who had a very low tolerance for BS, became over-irritated by the incessant immaturity and bullying. Thus, the normally introverted and pensive actor rose to his feet, walked right up to Ford, and hovered menacingly over his Director's chair with an icy glare: "Don't ever talk like that to Duke again. You should be ashamed of yourself." You could have heard a pin drop. No one, but NO ONE, talked to Ford that way. Yet, instead of getting fired up, Ford slumped guiltily in his chair like a school child who had just been reprimanded by his favorite teacher. There were rumors that, after filming wrapped for the day, Ford actually cried. Duke, on the other hand, probably slept like a baby.

Carroll Baker (right) also had a run-in with John Ford, with whom she filmed both How the West Was Won and Cheyenne Autumn. However, perhaps due to her talent and toughness, Ford took a liking to her and never set out to undermine her confidence. In fact, he seemed impressed with her work, and she eventually forged enough of a bond with him to started calling him "Pappy." Carroll was a smart cookie who realized that if she wanted to earn a place in "the boys' club," she had to play by their rules. Observation taught her that she needed to adhere to the Fordian principles of honor, duty, and utter obedience to the task at hand if she wanted to stay on his good side. She adhered. However, life has a habit of throwing curve balls, so despite her preparation, Carroll hit a snag during Cheyenne Autumn. When driving her wagon across a river for one tough scene, the current proved to be too strong. Carroll could feel herself losing control, and as she had two small children on board (who could not swim btw), she determined to steer out of the line and proceed with the current before she and the kids were totally capsized. Unfortunately, two stuntmen dressed as Indians tried to straighten her out to save the shot-- as per Ford's instructions. Carroll, feeling the wagon about to turn over, tried to call to them and tell them to stop, but they couldn't hear her over the sound of the rushing water. So, she did what her maternal instinct told her, stood up, and started lashing them with her whip! Needless to say, it ruined the shot.

'Pappy' (left), who had been filming from atop a mountain to capture what was supposed to be the amazing, panoramic shot, drove  all the way down from Olympus with his eye patch and unlit cigar in place. He approached Carroll, clearly miffed at losing the shot-- which had taken ages to set up-- and said, "Well, that's great! So in keeping with this film. I have a marvelous shot of two Indians being horsewhipped by a Quaker girl." (Quakers, in case you don't know, are a very nonviolent sect of people). As Ford glared at Carroll, she knew that he was reading her. She also knew that if she ratted the stuntmen out, Ford would judge her for being a "bad sport." She opted to stay mum and take the blame. Judging from the penetrating but knowing look in Ford's good eye, she also determined that he understood exactly what had happened and was testing her. Her silence proved to be golden, which maintained her membership in his boys' club. After the stuntmen stepped up and admitted their error, Carroll garnered further validation. "Well, I guess we have a heroine on our hands," Ford said with a twinkle in his eye. And that was the end of that. Well played, Carroll. Well played.

Barbara Stanwyck (right) was another tough cookie when it came to her profession. The true Panther Woman of Hollywood, due to her fabulously cultivated, in-control strut, Babs played her cards close to her chest until the call to "Action" came. At that point, her co-stars were just lucky if they could keep up with the intensity levels of her acting. Nearly every director she ever worked with became a salivating puppy at her feet due to her almost masochistic dedication to her craft. Cecil B. DeMille-- not an easy man to please-- was floored by her, and Frank Capra fell head-over-heels in love with her. Babs was not just a "broad" with brawn, however. She had an incredibly loyal streak, and as a woman who had worked her way up from poverty the hard way, she always had a soft spot for underdogs and those who were not lucky enough to have landed in her fortunate position of luxury. She often stuck up for other actors on the set, particularly the unknown, struggling ones. She was equally known to throw a punch or two for the big timers. 

Robert Cummings (left) would never achieve the stature of leading men like Cary Grant or James Cagney. He was an able, attractive actor, but he lacked the edge and hint of danger that would have made him as intriguing as his peers. Sadly, he was hopelessly wholesome. His place in film history is generally thought of as a reliable supporting male lead opposite the likes of Deanna Durbin, however, his distinctive resume illustrates his impressive career. He worked with the big guns likes Alfred Hitchcock in both Saboteur and Dial M for Murder, not to mention Babs Stanwyck in The Bride Wore Boots. The latter collaboration was a definite plus, but it wasn't all gravy. Apparently, filming the dismally generic and hack-job comedy was no laughing matter, and Barbara in particular was not at all impressed with director Irving Pichel, who seemed to be purposely making a bad situation worse. Boots turned out to be one of her least pleasurable career experiences (and also her last comedy). However, as a professional, she stuck out her chin and did her job. Yet, when she saw Pichel torturing her co-star with repeated and unnecessary takes of a very dangerous stunt atop a horse-- over, and over, and over again-- she finally took the gloves off, telling the director from Hell that if he forced poor Bob to perform the potentially neck-cracking feat one more time, he wouldn't get another scene out of her. As everyone at the studio and on set was utterly loyal to Queen Stanwyck, the message was received, they moved on, and the film was quickly "in the can." 

Clara Bow (right) was hardly the testy femme fatale. She lit up life onscreen and off with her vibrant and loving personality and supercharged sex appeal. A woman insecure about her lack of education and haunted by her tragic, impoverished past, Clara preferred to "kill 'em with kindness." Sadly, the favor would rarely be returned. Despite all the odds, which predetermined her as "Least Likely to Succeed" in the graduating class of life, her genuine nature and jaw-dropping talent got her all the way to Hollywood and soon placed her atop the superstar totem. Her struggles to this position were not easy. Talked down to and brushed aside as just another pretty face, trashy dimwit, and struggling actress wannabe, it was hard for her to make her mark and even harder to make it stick. The scenes from her first film, Beyond the Rainbow, all hit the cutting room floor. 

Luck started turning her way after her work in Grit earned her a plethora of kudos, and she was immediately handed a ticket to L.A. Unfortunately, when she arrived at Preferred Pictures to sign with B.P. Schulberg, the West Coast partner of the studio and her soon-to-be biz-nemesis, he took one look a her, turned to her agent, and asked, "Is this a joke?" He decided to torture Clara and put her through her paces, essentially humiliating her by demanding that she prove herself to him before he agreed to sign her. Dressed shoddily and deemed overweight, Clara was obviously slighted by BP's rebuff, but before she could even react, he was barking out orders and playing director: "Be happy! Be angry! Now cry!!!" Clara could have caved under the emotional duress, but she played his self-masturbatory mind game and won. A born actress who knew there was no other job for her on earth, she gave the goods-- her face would light up with exuberance, her brows would furrow in fury. The ace up her sleeve was her instantaneous access to tears. She could turn them on and off at will, and her sobering emotion at BP's cry of "cry!" left him stunned. Thus, Clara put the top dog in his place with no backtalk or sass. BP nearly wet his pants, then handed her the pen.

The director Lon Chaney is most associated with is Tod Browning-- a filmmaker with a penchant toward the odd and the macabre who understood the actor's genius and used his own adept creativity to develop a story that let the ravenous Chaney animal out of its cage. Naturally, as friends and frequent collaborators, the two bull-headed men had their share of disagreements. There were countless times when they would get into arguments on the set, mostly with regard to a certain scene and how it was to be played. The third parties-- assistant directors, cinematographers, etc-- would often try to intervene just to get the camera rolling again, but such was a mistake. In the middle of their yelling matches, Tod and Lon would simply turn to the intruder and tell him to "mind his own business" or, more forcefully, "Oh, f*ck off!" At the end of the day, they respected each other and their individual visions, so after the temper tantrums had been exorcised, they got down to business and put their latest genesis of genius on the silver screen. It's hard to find a shared piece of work between the two that isn't fascinating, if not utterly compelling and wonderfully disturbing. (Tod, Marceline Day, and Lon on the set of London After Midnight).

Strangely, the film for which Lon is most often remembered is one that he did not make with Browning. His great love child was The Hunchback of Notre Dame, which he made with Wallace Worsley, but it is The Phantom of the Opera that boasts the face that launched a thousand future fans for the "Man of a Thousand Faces!" A dedicated actor and true artist who molded his many movie mugs with nothing but plaster and vivid imagination, Lon needed a director who understood and trusted the gifts he brought to the table, which included his lifetime experience of both acting and directing. He was not to obtain such synchronicity from Rupert Julian, the director he had once worked with in his early, struggling years in The Kaiser, the Beast of Berlin. Lon found the tyrannical, self-important, trumpet-tooting actor/filmmaker had lost none of his pomposity when shooting on Phantom began. Julian had become something of a von Stroheim wannabe, wearing absurd boots and walking around the set like the Prince of Persia-- or some equally ridiculous, self-important monarch (see left). It was this pretentious indulgence in egomania that Lon the everyman found... distasteful to say the least. 

As Lon took his work seriously and was committed to embodying his characters honestly, and Julian was more interested in flash, their all-out brawls on the set could be heard from Hollywood to Holland. It grew to a point that the two wouldn't even speak to each other and would need the same third party substitutes to deliver various messages between them. Cameraman Charles van Enger was often stuck with the job. He would walk over to Lon and deliver Rupert's "direction" for the forthcoming scene; Lon would listen patiently, then deliver his response: "Tell him to go to Hell." (Ha. Hahaha). Lon won in the long run. In addition to helping direct his co-stars, who trusted him far more than Julian, he also communicated his aesthetic ideas to those on the production side, thereby secretly directing the film himself. Today, people still remember the Phantom's face and are touched by his private, internal Hell. No one, except for perhaps the most steadfast of silent film junkies, even know who the heck Rupert Julian was. (Nor do they care).

Lon makes history as Erik the Phantom. Burn Rupert!

To Be Continued...

STAR OF THE MONTH: Clara Bow

Clara Bow

Clara Bow has always been one of my favorites. However, I have put off an analysis of her life for some time. Her films make me incredibly happy, but her life story has a way of making me severely depressed. Nonetheless, this is one woman well worth investigating. With a name like Clara Bow, which needed no alteration when she hit Hollywood, it seemed like this diamond in the rough was bound for a life in lights. However, the truth of Clara's history, upbringing, and experiences in show business tell quite a different story. She was one of the first successful personas to enter the film business in its second generation. The world of Hollywood was on a major high by the time the 1920s hit. The collision of film's solid foundation with a quickly changing world would be simultaneously fabulous and fatal. Clara's peers would come of age in an industry built on shattered dreams. Former top-notch celebs like Fatty Arbuckle, Mabel Normand, and Wallace Reid were some of the fallen stars whose reputations uncovered then destroyed the illusion of Tinsel Town's perfection. Clara's gang of "flappers" would be more real. They rebelled against Hollywood's established ideals while embracing and running amok with the glamour. However, there was a price to be paid for this frivolity, for now that the public knew that its Golden Gods weren't impenetrable, they seemed even more intent on breaking them down than they once had been on building them up. Clara would be one of the first and the worst victims of this tragedy. Her sad fate is no shocker considering how she began. Once upon a time in Brooklyn...

~   ~   ~

...Clara was born. Two elder siblings had died at birth, making her the third-times-the-charm child of Robert Bow and Sarah Gordon on July 29, 1905. Unfortunately, her birth wasn't all that "wanted." In fact, her mentally unstable mother resented her own life and marriage to Robert to such an extent that she had hoped to die in child birth. Clara was, thus, forever punished for not killing her mother. She too was punished for surviving. Her mother's erratic behavior, mood swings, and psychotic episodes-- including violent death threats-- were co-mingled with Robert's lack of interest in familial responsibility and avid participation in alcoholism, philandering, wife-beating, and the eventual sexual abuse of his 16-year-old daughter. Growing up in impoverished tenements, Clara had few friends, save one that she witnessed burned alive. Mocked by the girls in class for the scraps that served as her clothing and her crippling stutter, Clara got along slightly better with neighborhood boys, playing stick ball and offering up a left hook to any punk who thought he could elbow his way around her. She was forced to leave her education behind at the age of 14 to help support her family, which she did by getting a job slicing buns at Nathan's hot dog stand in "Coney Island." Despite the harsh nature of her life, Clara's nature was never harsh. She continually blamed herself for her parents' actions, sought to appease them, and defended them when necessary. When Robert first caved and decided to take Sarah to a mental institution, Clara begged him to let her mother remain at home. Clara knew that Sarah wasn't right in the head, and she believed that deep down she really loved her. She was willing to do whatever it took to find that love.

Winning the "Fame and Fortune" contest didn't do Clara any favors.

She had to pound the pavement like any other actress. She

won respect by giving soulful and vibrant performances

such as this one in Down to the Sea in Ships.

Another solution in this quest for adoration was cinema. Clara wished to be the recipient of the same level of awe and respect that she had given her idols, one of whom was Mary Pickford. She knew if she could get on the big screen, she could change her life and the lives of her family. It seemed like a hopelessly desperate dream, but when Clara saw the opportunity, she seized it. She entered Brewster Publications' "Fame and Fortune" contest in 1921 and was shocked to find herself a finalist. Her naturalism and pep during her audition was a far cry from the other ladies, who had walked through their actions with contrived posture... and rudeness. The majority of the girls made fun of Clara's paltry outfit. She had the last laugh on that count when she won the big prize-- a bit part in a major motion picture! Her mother's congratulations was calling her a "hoor." Clara's first project as an actress was in Beyond the Rainbow. Little was expected from her, and her hard-won role wound up on the cutting room floor. Right after the film's release, Clara woke to find her mother brandishing a knife over her bed. As a result, Sarah Bow was institutionalized yet again on Feb. 24, 1922. Despite this upset and the dismal outlook of her cinematic future, which the Movies had assuredly already tossed in the scrap heap, Clara put herself to work, trying to find auditions and other acting gigs. She heard all the worst: too young, too fat, too short, etc. When Elmer Clifton took a chance on her, casting her in Down to the Sea in Ships, it changed her life. It was a contest that brought Clara into the world of film, but by God it was her talent that was going to keep her there!

Clara got down and dirty in Grit, and impressed director

Frank Tuttle in the process.

Clara jumped off the screen in Down to the Sea in Ships, stealing every scene she was in, and making memorable a film that would otherwise have been a run-of-the-mill dud. Her innate charisma and emotional instinct brought more attention and another role in Enemies of Women. While filming, Clara would learn that her mother, who still protested against her chosen profession, was dead. She received the news from her father while she danced on a table for one particular scene. She would always carry the guilt that it was the one thing in life that brought her the most joy that killed her "Mama." Robert, on the other hand, was ecstatic about Clara's career. The money and the increasing fame was working out well where he was concerned, as was his access to beautiful women, whom he made certain to introduce himself to on Clara's sets. Clara overlooked his behavior, believing that he was all she had left. When she started work on Grit and met 2nd cameraman Artie Jacobson, she would meet the first of many men that would sincerely care for her. The two fell for each other quickly, and after Clara made the move from New York to Hollywood, she and Artie would even begin scandalously and un-apologetically living together in sin. Clara's lack of qualm when it came to her personal life would cause quite a furor later on, but for now she was not quite popular enough for it to matter. Her new "boss," Ben Schulberg of Preferred Pictures, would make sure that she became plenty famous in due time.

The Grande Dame of BS, Elinor Glyn, dubs Clara the perfect representative 

of IT. In the film, Clara defines what "it"  really is: charisma, fire, sexuality, 

magnetism, character, strength... perfection.

Clara's popularity started taking off in The Plastic Age, but it was the iconic It that solidified her as a bona fide star, not to mention legend. With the publicity boost of the infamous Elinor Glyn dubbing Clara the 'It' girl, Clara became the leader in a legion of women who were embracing the new found freedom of the roaring-est decade in American history. Clara's heroine in It was more or less copied in her following films: all were openly sensual women living life on their own terms. They liked to dance, laugh, tease, and have fun where they may. Yet, they too were strong, sassy, and warm. Clara's own soulful sadness and world-weary knowledge would give her brazen females a gravity and honesty that rendered their spirited antics celebratory instead of defamatory. Clara's girls were basically good girls in the end, so all of the spunk Clara projected was digestible to the more uptight members of the American audience. Everyone seemed to agree that the It girl indeed had it, and their worship of her and clamoring for her films made her Hollywood's biggest star. (Louise Brooks was a huge fan). Clara was full of life, magnetic, electric, and yet kind. She too was a real girl, approachable-- incredibly beautiful with big, liquid eyes, but still un-intimidating. She wasn't a goddess on a pedestal like some of the other silent film Queens-- Gloria Swanson or Norma Talmadge, for example. She was a kid from Brooklyn, and a kid most importantly. In an era where the flaming youth notoriously burned the candle at both ends, Clara was the heat that ignited the wick.

Clara too continued to impress her directors, who marveled at her ability to so easily vacillate between giggles and tears. She so naturally was able to indicate her characters' hidden feelings and articulate their outward impulses that the director needed to tell her little more than where to stand-- not that she ever was able to stand in one place anyway. She drove her devoted cameramen crazy by whirling around the set, making it nearly impossible for them to keep up with her jazzy tempo. Her films continued to do sensational business: Wings, Get Your Man, Red Hair, etc. Having transferred to Paramount with B.P. Schulberg, she was the studio's number one cash veal. As a result, Schulberg worked her like a dog, putting her on a back-breaking filming schedule with little room for respite. Clara never complained, being in love with her work, but she did have moments of nervous exhaustion. In addition, the material she was given plummeted in integrity after It. Paramount had discovered that audiences would come to see the It girl no matter What, so they bothered little with structuring interesting plot-lines around her or trying to build her reputation. They let her charisma ride and watched the receipts roll in. Clara yearned for dramatic roles and the chance to prove the depths of her great emotion and experience, but the chances kept passing her by. This would hurt her later on.

Coop never stood a chance: Clara's buoyant humor and warmth charmed

him the moment they started filming Children of Divorce. The 

love affair wouldn't last. His old fashioned values couldn't

tolerate her modern temperament.

Her reputation was already in danger considering her candid demeanor and scandalous love-life. Clara had been taught as a child, by her mother Sarah, that men were dogs and not to be trusted. One must use her sexual wiles to control them without falling into their traps. Clara absorbed this lesson while hiding in a childhood cupboard when her mother was forced to entertain various "Uncles" during one of Robert Bow's countless absences. Money was short, and Sarah's heart grew harder. Clara was a much warmer and more loving woman than her mother had ever been, but emotional closeness was still difficult for her as a result of her childhood experiences. As such, she made a switch on the gender roles and often strung multiple men along at once-- most infamously juggling Victor Fleming, Gary Cooper, and Gilbert Roland all at the same time. Ideally, she wanted to settle down and be a normal, family gal, but the energy in her bones did not take well to domination. Eventually, she would need a safe place; for now, she made hay while the sun shined.

Clara's demise came from three hefty punches: the talkies, the depression, and the public. With a heavy New-Yawkuh accent and a stutter that reappeared in moments of stress, Clara was bewildered by the talkie revolution. The mic became a foe, and an unnecessary one, for Clara's charms and voice transferred well to sound. Yet, her "mic fright"-- which was exemplified when her eyes continually rose upward in search of it while she was performing her scenes-- was a symptom of something much more debilitating in her psyche. Only in her early twenties, Clara was already exhausted. She dealt with her father and extended family feeding off her, she was betrayed by countless friends,  was taken for a song by her business manager, and her studio still gave her no respect. Despite her popularity, she still earned far less than her contemporaries. Her desire to keep moving to keep from feeling was also catching up with her-- as was a series of broken hearts.

Clara put on her usual, brave face during her first talkie, 

The Wild Party, but her inner anxiety made her mic 

fright nearly unendurable.

The Depression didn't hut her financially, as her savings were in a trust for the most part, but the national temper had altered. Living fast and frolicking like there was no tomorrow made no sense to a country that saw only infinite, darkening clouds. Therefore, her usually un-stoppable film formula no longer worked as well. Then, the press started haranguing Clara out to dry, as it were. One of the first victims of harsh, gossip rag mags and swill publications, Clara was publicly defamed as a whore. She must have heard her mother's voice crying at her from the grave: "Hoor!" Her sex life became public, exaggerated, inaccurate knowledge, and before Clara knew it, she was being accused of screwing everything from her pet Great Dane to the USC football team. Why? Because she never concealed who she was or who she was currently infatuated with. Other starlets lived the same lifestyle, but wore masks of deceit and contrived innocence. As the times wound down, society no longer wanted "fast" girls, and Clara quite simply couldn't take it slow.

Clara said her mouth smiled, but never her eyes. In this 

melancholy photo, it is easy to see the pain they bear.

After an emotionally draining court case against her secretary Daisy DeVoe and a nervous breakdown, Clara escaped from Hollywood with her latest and most loyal beloved, Rex Bell, to a ranch in Nevada. Betrayed by those she had trusted, defamed by the fans who had made her famous, Clara decided to try something she never had: old-fashioned happiness. She and Rex were married. It worked... for awhile. While Rex supported her with his own acting and growing political career, Clara enjoyed the peace and serenity of isolation. It was a welcome relief. She returned to Hollywood to make two final features-- Call her Savage and Hoop-la-- and then she retired permanently. Part of the reason was her newly discovered psychiatric condition: schizophrenia. The condition slowly pulled her apart at the seams and pulled her away from her family, which had grown to include sons Tony and George. A failed suicide attempt and her increasingly erratic and unendurable behavior made Rex fearful of his wife and sons' safety, as well as his own sanity. The boys were sent to military school, Clara lived on her own-- in apartments and occasionally at sanatoriums-- and Rex continued earning the bread and butter. A sweet, generous, and charismatic guy, he continued to put on a brave face as Lt. Governor of Nevada, even though Clara and he were married in name only. He never obtained a divorce-- even when Clara's normally decent and entertaining behavior became vindictive-- remaining loyal to the woman who couldn't help herself. Clara became sad and even a litte bitter with the distance, but too quaked in fear at the idea of being in a domestic atmosphere. The pressure and responsibility of family life is what surprisingly sent her on her downward spiral. She accepted that she was better off where she was, yet she still missed the dream life she once had and felt continual guilt toward her husband and sons as a result.

The smiling Bell family in better days. The tension and fear in 

Clara's face is already poignant.

She too missed the movies, of which she remained a devoted fan. She adored Marilyn Monroe and Marlon Brando. She spent her time keeping up with new Hollywood, reading innumerable books- normally historical non-fiction-- and keeping up on her correspondence. Still, like Garbo, she allowed few visitors, save for perhaps her sons and Gilbert Roland, who had remained a devoted friend. It seemed the world had forgotten her, though she did obtain fan letters all the time, proof that she was indeed remembered and still adored. People wanted more Clara; Clara had no more to give. She passed away peacefully on Sept. 27th 1965 just past midnight. She was watching her ex-lover Gary Cooper in The Virginian as it played on Television. She probably sat thinking about the good old days and the magic that she had encountered when she was a part of that distant world of the movies. 

While Clara always carried within her a deep sadness, the

fighter in her always came out swinging. She emitted 

joy over despair. We are still reeling from her 

sucker punch.

Though her ending seems tragic, Clara wouldn't have accepted pity. She never did. She never felt sorry for herself, nor did she harbor any resentment against a world that had dealt her such repeated, dirty knocks. The same vivacious spirit and emotional generosity that she shared in her performances, which made her the studio favorite of every crew she ever worked with, is also the same quality that continues to intrigue modern audience. Dorothy Arzner said of her: "They all called Clara 'the "It" Girl,' the outstanding 'flaming youth.' Well, she was all that, but I think she was also the one flaming youth that thought." It is ironic that a woman who devoted her brief career in film to escaping her demons was worshipped because the sincerity of her personal horrors always infiltrated her performances and gave them truth. Because Clara was always able to relate to her characters, we were always able to relate to her. Most importantly, even after her death, she continues to give of herself in order to make others feel better. Clara was and is fun. Her Cinderella story didn't end with a happily-ever-after, but whoever wanted a perfect heroine anyway? It was Clara's earthy, brazen, unpretentious personality that surprisingly made her brief tenure as the Queen of Hollywood as unexpected as it is enduring.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Louise Brooks

For February, the month of hearts, let us pay tribute to one of the broken ones: Louise Brooks.

"Brooksie" is a truly confounding individual. She had the talent and charisma within her to take the world by storm, which she did, and the opportunity to luxuriate in fame and fortune, which she did not. Louise wasn't interested in the trappings of stardom, mostly because she wasn't interested in being "trapped." What she loved was freedom, liberty, and the experience of all things powerful, pleasurable, and sensual, (both mentally and physically). Growing up in a home devoid of any real emotion or nurturing, Louise learned to take care of herself and to explore life through a purely cerebral and animal way. There was no room for vulnerability or romance, and love was a word that her vocabulary failed to define. Her early sexual abuse also led to her social disenfranchisement, which left a vacancy within her-- something she couldn't quite understand, a void she could never fill. She would search in vain for an anchor but was always sent adrift in a sea of questioning and doubt.

This inner turmoil was unrecognized by the public, who ate up Louise's unparalleled, photogenic face and lightning bolt, onscreen presence like forbidden fruit. A born dancer, Louise enjoyed cinema but never wanted to be an actress. Movie stardom, it turns out, needed her more than she needed it. On a sort of whim, Louise took on the challenge of acting, probably out of curiosity but mostly for the money-- she loved to spend money on books and clothes, the only things worth having in her opinion. She would eventually be renowned for her fashion sense and especially for her "Buster Brown" haircut, the definitive flapper look, which all young girls began to copy. Her films in America were normally lackluster, noteworthy only because of her presence. After she had had enough of Paramount and the sadistic B.P. Schulberg, she journeyed to Germany and did the best work of her life with the influential G.W. Pabst. Pandora's Box and The Diary of a Lost Girl, though panned during their own time, are hailed as cinematic classics today and are some of the best silent works of art to ever come out of celluloid.

Louise was hard on her career failures, and after returning to America, she made a few more paltry films, mostly westerns, (yes, really), and returned to Kansas and the family that had formed her into a hungering curiosity. She wandered listlessly, dancing awhile, then finally found salvation in the written word back in her beloved NY. She penned many articles-- all highly praised-- on cinema, its stars, and its social implications, most of which were printed in foreign film magazines. Her "bio," Lulu in Hollywood, re-awakened the Louise Brooks fervor, and in her last years she became a sensation once again, but this time for her more personally valued intelligence and talent and not her beauty.

Louise remains a mystery, mostly because all of the seeming advantages she had within her grasp, she flippantly and even coldly turned her back on. She was always at once strong and doomed-- desperate to be loved and intensely afraid of it. She never understood her purpose or her impact on the public, and so she could not trust it. An enigma, an alluring vixen, a heartbroken child, Louise was everything and all at once. It was this sense of her intensity and energy that drew audiences to her like moths to a very, VERY hot flame. We are still drawn, searching endlessly in the beautiful faces of "Lulu," "Thymian," and "Fox Trot" for the lost secrets of Louise Brooks.