THE REEL REALS: Gail Patrick

Gail Patrick

Gail Patrick is known for her performances as the snide, straight gal in classic films like My Favorite Wife. As a result, her roles throughout the Golden Studio Era pretty much label her as 'My Favorite Bitch.' Gail was kind of fantastic. She was the catty female on the outside that all girl secretly were on the inside-- the villainous Yang to the Yin of the more sterling leading ladies of the time, like Carole Lombard, Ginger Rogers, and Irene Dunne. While Gail did play the good girl sometimes, in films like the cult classic Murders at the Zoo for example, she hit her stride by playing the dame who's trying to elbow her way to the prize-- generally the man. Gail was an atypical star. Not just because her height, intelligence, and countenance communicated an intimidating inner strength, but because she, as a general rule, wasn't an overly emotive actress. Much more cerebral and business savvy than many of her contemporaries, acting for Gail seemed more like a calculated investment that paid off. She was serious about it, but didn't take it seriously. The glamour was nothing, the fame was nothing, and her integrity and character reacted to these things irreverently. She considered them mere tools of the business and not the self-obsessive realities that too many celebrities get caught up in.

Gail lived a fascinating and multi-faceted life, one in which she attacked her many ambitions-- studying law, starting a children's clothing line, becoming an executive producer for "Perry Mason," (WHAT?!)-- and refused to settle for anything less than everything of which she was capable. Ambitious, beautiful, and well-educated, Gail was a force to be reckoned with, a feminist before her time, and her independent nature is probably partially responsible for her multiple marriages and divorces. I mean, who was really man enough to go toe-to-toe with this diva? While in cinema she remains the girl you hate, in reality she is the girl you love to hate. In the end, at least her characters were honest. They weren't sugar-coated goody-two-shoes with saccharine personalities and fairy tale endings. Gail was the real thing-- a tough broad holding it together and determined to survive this maelstrom of life no matter what it took. What would My Man Godfrey or Stage Door have been without her? Every good story needs a good, bad girl.

BITS OF COINCIDENCE: Part XIII

"Two of these girl are not like the others": This picture depicts 6 starlets

labeled as Paramount's upcoming ingenues. Four of them got

to Hollywood with a publicity lift. (Clockwise from top left:

Grace Bradley, Ann Sheridan, Katherine DeMille,

Wendy Barrie, Gertrude Michael, & Gail Patrick).

Ann Sheridan (left) had a little unexpected help getting to Hollywood-- unexpected because it was totally indirect. You see, the genesis of the "Contest to Fame" ploy goes back much further than today's "So You Think You Can Dance" and "The Voice" competitions, (give me a high-five if you think my pal Jessica Childress was totally robbed on the latter. For example, long before Clara Lou Sheridan's "Search for Beauty" win, another Paramount leading lady used a similar contest to get her ticket West: Clara Bow. Movie lover Clara won the Movie Picture Classics "Fame and Fortune Contest" of 1921, and many others would follow in her "Well, it's worth a shot" wake (see here). More importantly, it was because of the later, highly publicized contest for the casting of the "Panther Woman" in Island of Lost Souls that Paramount almost immediately instigated the next year's "Search for Beauty" contest. The amount of lovely talent that the studio was able to pick up from the "Panther Woman of America" hopefuls turned out to be a real coup!

Though only one woman could win, of course, the Lost Souls gag introduced Paramount to Grace Bradley, Gertrude Michael, and perhaps the most familiar, Gail Patrick-- known for her cleverly bitchy love-to-hate-her roles in My Man Godfrey and My Favorite Wife. All of the gals earned contracts due to their entries. Yet, the woman now forever known as the Panther Woman was Kathleen Burke (right), who would enjoy a fairly brief but memorable career-- in addition to her initial prize of a free five-week stay at the Ambassador Hotel-- because of her fortunate feline fame. Her sleek figure and large eyes definitely fit the bill for her first film role in Lost Souls. Another of her memorable works was the bizarre and iconic early horror film Murders at the Zoo. As a direct result of this pulchritudinous recruitment, Paramount stable initiatied the "Search for Beauty" contest, Ann's sister-- Kitty-- entered her photo into the mix, and Ann was chosen as a finalist and eventually became the only member of her pack of winners to obtain not only moderately successful but full-blown, movie star career. But, the joke was on Paramount, because it was Warner Brothers that would give that to her. Of course, Gail, Kathleen, and the girls had actually helped a bit too.

Discoveries are strange things. Some actors work for years or even decades before they attain a sliver of notoriety (or money) for their "cinespian" efforts. Then, there are those regular, every day people who are just minding their own business when show-business taps them on the shoulder-- see Lana Turner. Carole Lombard (left) was something in-between. She was "discovered" early, forgotten for some years, and finally able to force her way back into the industry. The almighty finger of fate that chose her future for her was attached to none other than director Allan Dwan, one of the biggest silent filmmakers in history. He just so happened to spot the 12-year-old Carole in her usual, tomboyish get-up playing pick-up baseball with her brother Stuart and some of the other neighborhood boys. It was serendipitous, because Allan was struggling to find a character just like Carole-- then called Jean Peters-- to play the role Monte Blue's kid sister in The Perfect Crime. As Allan watched Carole "knocking the Hell out of the other kids," he knew that he had found his girl. Carole was cast, much to her surprise and enjoyment, and though she only worked two days on the film, she considered the experience a blast. In fact, she decided then and there that an actress was just what she wanted to be! She had taken acting classes before, but it had only been in fun. Now, it was serious. After three years of nothin', Carole would re-enter the film biz-- first as Jane, then as Carol, then as Carole-- and after a lot of extra work and due paying, she got what she wanted: superstardom. Had Allan picked another girl that day, Carole might not have known that she was born to crack us up!

Joel McCrea (right) was one guy who got around. In addition to being William S. Hart's paper boy and good friend of fellow rodeo rider and future actor/governor Rex Bell (otherwise known as Mr. Bow), he also rubbed elbows with one of the most famous women in the history of film: Greta Garbo. It seems an unlikely pairing, if only because Garbo rarely rubbed anything with anyone, so much did she value her space and privacy. Joel's luck was catching an up-close glimpse of the Swedish Sphinx before she had become an American sensation and forever turned inward. In other words, he found her pre-jaded. At the age of fourteen, Joel was working as an extra and stunt double at MGM, and it just so happened that he was able to get a gig on the film that would be Greta's first American release-- Torrent. Interestingly enough, Joel was getting paid to be Greta's double on the film, which at the time,  he probably didn't see as too monumental, since no one really knew who Garbo was yet. If anything, it probably hurt his pride that he was playing a girl!

In any event, Jeol put his equal love of horses to work on the job, which was to "ride a horse onto the seen and pull him up so sharply that he would slide through the mud on his hind legs." This, Joel dutifully performed twice, but then, the surprisingly maternal and youthful Greta (left) insisted that she replace him. The stunt was too dangerous; he might be hurt! Joel was touched by her concern and dashing heroics, but he and the rest of the cast and crew were nonplussed with her resulting stunt work. It was Joel's performance in that sequence that made the final cut. Though Greta had tried to come to his aid, I guess you could say that it was actually Joel who helped her get her start in the American movie industry.

Myrna Loy also had some unexpected help from a Knight in Shining Armor-- or should I say, "Amour?" Myrna's dreams had not always been geared specifically toward film. In truth, she longed to be a dancer and had filled her childhood days by designing elaborate costumes and performing shows in her yard. Yet, by the time she was in her late teens, her dreams and her fate were starting to merge. She was working then as a dancer at the Egyptian Theatre when it hosted big premieres with live pre-shows and scenes. Then, in 1925, her grace and unusual features, which made the intelligent and well-bred girl from Montana look quite exotic (right), earned her a sitting with photographer Henry Waxmen, leading to her alluring figure and visage being on two-dimensional display on the Egyptian walls. 

Henry also kept these shots at his studio, of course, which is where heartthrob Rudolph Valentino (left) saw them. He knew in his heart that he had spotted a star! Myrna's misleading, vixen looks made Rudy think that she was perfect for the role of "Mary Drake" in his upcoming project, Cobra with Nita Naldi. He got her a screen test, which the untrained novice unfortunately bombed, and the role went to Gertrude Olmstead instead. Yet, Myrna had obviously made enough of an impression on both Rudy and his wife, Natacha Rambova, to earn herself a small role in the latter's pet project What Price Beauty?-- a satire on the cosmetics industry. Unfortunately, Rudy didn't turn out to be much of a Pygmalion, due to his shocking and early death the following year, but his small invitation to another world opened a door to the career Myrna was born for, and she did all right by herself-- from extra girl, to bit player, to supporting lead, to leading lady extraordinaire. (Interestingly, Myrna would remember Rudy as a happy-go-lucky, friendly guy while  she though Natacha seemed a bit of a slave-driver. Their marriage seemed more child-parent than husband-wife).

Ginger Rogers (right) was also the kind of person to help someone out, particularly family. This explains the brief cinematic career of her maternal cousin Helen Brown Nichols of Kansas City. Almost as soon as Ginger starting working steadily in feature films, she called on Helen and suggested that she try her hat at the acting biz too. Ginger offered more than entre, for she was the one who also suggested Helen's stage name, which was to be Phyllis Fraser. Phyllis didn't tarry in the biz too long, but the experience was certainly a stepping stone to other things, including her literary aspirations. However, there is another pseudo-relative of Ginger's in the famous Hollywood pool. 

You see, Ginger's aunt Jean Owens  was married to actor Vinton Hayworth. Vinton began working in films in the mid '30s and his impressive career extended to the end of his life in 1970. His most memorable work was on television, which included appearances on "Alfred Hitchcock Presents," "Green Acres," and "I Dream of Jeannie." Coincidentally, his natural niece was Rita Hayworth, his sister Volga's daughter! When Margarita Cansino made it big (see left), she took her mother's last name as part of her stage name, and Vinton, who up to this point had been performing as "Jack Arnold," made a lucrative decision and followed suit. While this doesn't make Rita and Ginger blood relatives, the matrimony of Vinton and Jean did unite these two ladies as cousins-in-law. Makes you wonder if they ever chit-chatted at family reunions...

Speaking of relations, Anne Baxter (right) sort of had art in her blood. The maternal granddaughter of Frank Lloyd Wright, the legendary architect, little Anne grew up with expectations for greatness and the notion that utilizing and sharing one's talents was a necessity. Anne saw her way to contribute to the family glory when she attended a play starring the always remarkable Helen Hayes. That was that. Acting was the thing. Of course, those acting classes with Maria Ouspenskaya also helped her along past the point of sheer willpower.  By the age of thirteen, the ambitious youth had appeared on Broadway! By the age of fifteen, she was auditioning for the role of "Becky Thatcher" in a cinematic adaptation of Tom Sawyer. Making this moment even more exciting to the wannabe ingenue was her scene partner in the screen test-- the eighteen-year-old Montgomery Clift! 

While Anne would recall that his perfect beauty was marked with a few pimples, she would admit that the blemishes did not detract from his already breath-taking handsomeness. Of course, Monty (left) was not to be outdone by Anne's resume. He had performed very successfully onstage, including his recent praised-- albeit brief-- performance in "Yr. Obedient Husband" as 'Lord Finch.' Coincidentally, the leading man in this play was Fredric March, who reflected years later that he knew right away that the hypnotic Monty was "going places." But, back to Anne... The duo got along swimmingly during the audition process, but unfortunately were not cast as Tom and Becky. Who was??? Exactly. Big mistake, casting directors. BIG. Anywho, Monty-- whom Anne recalled as being both "hyperactive" and "hypersincere"-- very courteously invited her to a show at Carnegie Hall to take the burn off the harsh slap in the face that they had both received. No matter, they would team up later with none other than Alfred Hitchcock in I Confess! Some years had passed, but both got where they were going, separately but together.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Lupe Velez

Lupe Velez

"Fame" and "infamy" are practically the same thing in Hollywood. As such, "notoriety" has a very different meaning when viewed in a Tinsel Town context. Thousands upon thousands of hopefuls migrate to Hollywood every year in the hopes of becoming a movie star, in the hopes of obtaining celebrity status, or in the hopes of attaining eternal glory. Yet, to live forever, you have to die, and in most cases you have to die either tragically young or just plain horribly. It has often been argued whether or not names like Dean, Phoenix, or Monroe would contain the same power and mystique they do today if the bearers would have lived to healthy, ripe old ages. I'd like to think so. After all, the Brandos, Stewarts, and Crawfords certainly did. Yet, the golden era stars have a more powerful hold over pop culture than their silent forbears. So few people are familiar with the early pioneers, minus the obvious gems: Chaplin, Garbo, Gish... That is, unless their names are touched with debaucherous rumor. As such, one wonders, would we still recall Fatty Arbuckle if it weren't for that tragic and unfortunate scandal? Would Mary Miles Minter mean anything to anyone if not for her implication in the death of William Desmond Taylor? And, the biggest question for this month: would anyone remember Lupe Velez if she hadn't taken her own young life far too soon? Do you even know of whom I'm speaking, brave new world? If not, let me tell you: Lupe was AWESOME. That is capitalized. All caps. On purpose. Yes, Lupe is another Hollywood tragedy. Yes, she is another butterfly crushed on the wheel of fate. Yes, her death took her fame and made her infamous. But her life makes her splendid and fascinating still. Behold the brazen vixen:

Lupe Velez: the Mexican Spitfire. Indeed. Lupe's nicknames would always play off her exuberant personality and its tendency toward natural disaster: The Tropical Hurricane, The Mexican Hurricane, The Mexican Wildcat, The Mexican Madcap, Whoopee Lupe, and The Hot Tamale! Still, she started simply enough, albeit with more spunk than most. Maria de Guadalupe Villalobos-Velez aka "Lupe" was born on July 18th, 1908 in San Luis Potosi. She certainly had a greater amount of pep than her siblings, and this she apparently inherited from her equally vibrant and troublesome father. Both were frenetic bundles of energy who enjoyed practical jokes and raising occasional Hell, but fortunately Lupe inherited the loving maternal instinct that her father lacked. He would eventually disappear in the midst of war, remarry, and also turn his back on his daughter after she revealed her thespian inclinations. This is why, in her career, she is billed by her mother's last name and not her father's. In fact, in many ways Lupe would become the father and breadwinner of her family. After causing a ruckus in convent school, wherein she enjoyed taunting the nuns with her projected tongue while their backs were turned, Lupe would be the only member of her family to put up her dukes when times got tough. While the Mexican Revolution continued and her soldier father consequently went missing (and presumed dead!), the family's original fortune dwindled, and Lupe devised a plan. She would put her love of mugging, singing, dancing, and her stellar impersonations to use and earn money on the stage! All the better for her. She dreamed of being an actress and loved soaking in the films at the local theater where she learned to bat her eyes seductively or alternately march into the fray, sword in hand. As a result, she got a lot of acting practice as a little girl giving performances on her rooftop.

The ingenue gives good face... and bod. Her "exotic" beauty

was always played up in her career.

Any talk of marriage-- and she had many suitors with her gorgeous features and natural charisma-- was overruled and put out of mind as she began her career. As she herself said, "When anyone have say to Lupe 'You cannot do!' it is like when they wave a red flag before the eyes of a bull to get the bull started!'" This is how she forced her way into a solo performance when the manager of the local theater tried to offer her a chorus girl's spot. Her reception was wild, perhaps because she took the stage with no stockings. She sang, she strummed the ukulele, but mostly she moved-- and fast! Her shimmying about got the men in the audience in an uproar, and she became an overnight sensation. Soon enough, she was being lauded as one of the favorite entertainers in Mexico! She was learning the ropes of performance fast. She was also learning how to handle catty females, who seemed to sabotage her at every turn-- jealous of her beauty and threatened by her popularity. She was once so angered by the constant badgering she suffered that she punched her fist through a window and performed onstage with a bloody hand! Lupe got back at the "mean girls" my impersonating them onstage and making a mockery of their affectations and exaggerated talents. This only endeared the public to her more. Along with her great beauty, Lupe had a raging sense of humor. Her lack of pretense and utter sincerity allowed her to form a bond with her audience, which tore the fourth wall away. Her attitude, which continued later in her career, was always, "I may be up here on stage, but you know I am really down there with you." She did not inherit any vanity after her success and went through life as she always had: grocery shopping, eating at cheap cafes, and putting on no airs. She was an approachable femme fatale: a rare find. Even after her film success, she could be found cracking up with crew members or spectators between takes.

Lupe tangoes her way to stardom with Douglas Fairbanks in The Gaucho.

When Lupe saw a chance to advance her career by going rogue in Hollywood, she took it. After being hand-picked by Richard Bennett to audition for  the stage play "The Dove," she earned a free ride to the land of eternal sunshine. Unfortunately, Mexico was not ready to let her go. She and her chihuahua were halted at customs when she was discovered to be both underage at seventeen and lacking her mother's signature on her pass. Lupe went home, corrected the mistakes, and tried again. After this second attempt, she arrived in L.A, using what little English she knew ("Hell!" being one of the words) only to find that her opportunity with Bennett was lost. She was determined to stay and make something of herself nonetheless, and she obtained bit parts in Hal Roach comedies opposite luminaries like Laurel & Hardy and Charley Chase. Then came the big lift! She was offered the chance of a lifetime when Douglas Fairbanks asked her to audition as his hot-blooded, comedic love interest in The Gaucho. Ironically, when Lupe arrived, Doug found her to be too "innocent." That was a laugh. He quickly altered his opinion when she refused to take off her shoes for the audition. Then, as instructed, she punched Eve Southern in a scene, but a bit too hard-- she gave her a black eye. Doug cast her, and the nineteen-year-old Lupe tangoed her way to glory. From this moment on, her career in Hollywood grew and grew. Her personality on film was alive and infectious-- she practically jumped off the screen. Not only did she gives actors like the ever electric Fairbanks a run for his money with her scene-stealing, but she also won the respect of her peers. Lon Chaney paid her the highest of compliments while working with her on Where East is East, even after her surprising talent nearly mopped the floor with the entire cast. In addition, each director and crew member she came across was inspired and touched by the way she approached her work with both great focus and professionalism. When she made a mistake, she would literally kick herself in the rump-- she was so hard on herself that no one else had to be. When the talkie revolution came, she easily transferred to sound, despite her accent, which was a true testament to her star power.

Lupe and fellow Mexican actress Dolores del Rio. Despite publicity

gags, the two got along well.

Of course, Lupe's "exotic" looks and origin always played into both her onscreen and off screen life. Though admittedly she knew very little English when she arrived in the United States, by the time the talkies had emerged, she had already learned to speak it elegantly. Nonetheless, in all of her film work and in every interview, the Spanish-speaking lady's language barrier was always exaggerated for comic effect. Her Mexican heritage was both her schtick and a stigma. Because Lupe was hot-tempered in reality and a very fun-loving, high-living kind of gal, her antics were always blamed or laughed off as a symptom of her Mexican-ness. Instead of this serving as a celebration of her ethnicity, it often felt like a slap in the face. As Michelle Vogel pointed out in her biography of Lupe, the actress's only real rival in Hollywood was the equally Mexican-born Dolores del Rio. As such, the gossip mills set tongues wagging with talks of a vengeful rivalry between the two ladies-- and ladies they were. They had no issues with each other and were never really in competition for roles, because they were such different people. However, Dolores carried herself with more grace and diplomacy than Lupe, who was essentially the Mexican Lucille Ball. Consequently, Lupe had much more trouble crossing over into the world of the truly-- "sniff, sniff"-- elite. Thus, her heritage was used to tie her to cliched acting roles and, quite often, to make fun of her in her private life. Lupe would play it up in the press to maintain her persona, but the pretense came to hurt her deeply.

No acting necessary: Loop and Coop fell in love quickly 

on the set of Wolf Song.

And her private life was a blazin'! Aside from her childhood sweetheart, whom she left for the stage, and the millionaire who tried to marry her in Mexico, whom she refused, Lupe didn't seem to have too much time for love. Men, yes. Love, no. That is, until she met her exact opposite: Gary Cooper. Tall, quiet, bashful, and ever-patient, Coop was easily taken in by Lupe when they began work on Wolf Song. Much as he had been attracted to Clara Bow, Coop seemed to be entranced by all of the fiery qualities in Lupe that he did not possess. She, in turn, was enamored of his calmness in the face of her constant storms. The tales of their lovers brawls are legendary, and usually involve Coop sitting silently as Lupe howled at him like a banshee. He would later proudly show off the war wounds that she had left him-- literally. I'm talking scars, people. Obviously, with their polar temperaments, the union couldn't last. They grew increasingly jealous and suspicious of each other, though Lupe always protested to be a one-man woman. (Sadly, monogmony was not one of Coop's major qualities). The straw that broke the camel's back was said to be Coop's mother, Alice, who never approved of Lupe, nor had she approved of Clara. Coop thus settled down with the more acceptable socialite Veronica "Rocky" Balfe, and Lupe lived with an eternal broken heart. Friends believe she never fully recovered, and she would openly admit to those closest to her that Coop was the love of her life: the one that got away, the only man she ever loved...

She thought she had found a better partner when she wed Johnny Weissmuller. He was Tarzan, for Pete's sake! Certainly he could handle a little heat in the so-called kitchen. Well, he could... For a time. But Johnny also quickly realized that the great passion and love that drew him to Lupe could not withstand their obvious differences. After her divorce from Johnny, Lupe would enjoy a brief engagement to Guinn "Big Boy" Williams, but that too eventually went kaput. Through it all, Lupe's career had enjoyed its ups and downs. For a time, her career seemed to be taking quite the nosedive, and she was often shoved into silly B-films in supporting roles. The public seemed to be losing interest, and her studio was losing faith in her. She did a handful of projects abroad, but she was quickly back in the limelight with the success of The Girl From Mexico. This launched the series with which she is most often associated: The Mexican Spitfire. Again, the films lampooned her accent and caricatured "Lupe" persona, but her timing and often improvised sense of comedy made the films (eight in all) huge hits. The plots centered around misunderstandings, mistaken identities, and the always hilarious strains of marital discord. Partnered with funny man Leon Errol, the two fools volleyed off each other while the cast of supporting players merely rotated around them and held on for dear life! It seemed that Lupe had managed to salvage her career, and it was only getting better. Little did the public know that the funniest woman on the silver screen was privately hurting.

A great shot depicting both the tigress and the scared kitten inside.

It has been speculated by many that Lupe suffered from the mental strains of bi-polar disorder. This would explain the mood-swings, the failures of her romantic relationships, and possibly her death. As much as we may try to probe into someone's psychology to try to understand why she took her own life, a spectator can never fully grasp the complexities and pains that drive a person to take such drastic measures. What we know in retrospect is that Lupe was four months pregnant when she committed suicide with the aid of 75 Seconal pills. The reason, which she herself stipulated in one of her suicide notes, (she addressed one to her lover and the other to her faithful housekeeper), was that the father of her child refused to marry her. Alone, this reason doesn't seem like reason enough, not with the publicly known Lupe being so brimming with life. However, if you add onto this her possible mental disorder, years of misfortune in love, and her actually very real religious life, we may be getting closer to the truth. She thought to bear a child out of wedlock was an unforgiveable sin. There too is well-founded speculation that the child she took with her to the other side was not that of her current amour--Harald Ramond aka Harald Maresch-- but that of long lost love and sometimes lover Gary Cooper. 

When Lupe's plan to have her sister Josefina raise her child temporarily until she could "adopt" it fell through-- due to Josefina's noncommittal attitude-- it is quite possible that in a weak moment, Lupe felt hopeless, alone, and betrayed. Some think she merely meant to make a statement, using an attempted suicide as a stunt to garner sympathy from Harald and force a proposal, but the amount of Seconal in her body-- even more than killed Carole Landis later in 1948-- doesn't suggest that this was an accidental overdose. Lupe, as always, went full throttle. In addition, Harald had in fact proposed to her, but was unable to commit to a quick marriage, due to what one assumes was his marital status to another woman. He too wanted to prove that he could earn enough to support her. It is believed that when he suggested that he and Lupe have a "fake marriage" until they could make it official,  she misunderstood his reasoning. But, perhaps she just tired of the charade, and the hiding, and the white-washed BS. Lupe had always played it straight with the public, never hiding behind edited words or false idol appearances. With the loss of another Prince Charming, life had become too desperate. Thus, on the night of Dec. 13, 1944, Lupe succumbed to her own insecurities and despite what certain slanderous, false historians say, she died in her bed-- not with her head in the toilet. She was but 36-years-old. She once said, "I've never met a man with whom I didn't have to fight to exist." She had finally pulled the gloves off. Fittingly, the night after her death, the Hollywood Legion Stadium-- where she had attended so many boxing matches, revving both the fighters and the crowd up-- paid her tribute by placing a spotlight on the seat that she would normally have occupied. The bell was lightly tapped in her honor as well.

And this is what gorgeous looks like: Lupe was equally capable

of dramatic roles, and her directors were amazed at the

way she could turn on the waterworks at will.

It is always those who laugh loudest that seem to be the most in pain. Comedy and tragedy, which seem so far apart, are closer than one assumes. Thus, Lupe Velez, the always hamming firecracker from Mexico, was covering up an ocean of secrets with her brave, bold facade. She certainly would not wish to be remembered the way she currently is-- as yet another Hollywood tragedy, mocked in such publications as Hollywood Babylon. The real Lupe was something different. The real Lupe, who triumphed again and again over her own madness, was good friends with and the comic envy of Carole Lombard. The real Lupe had a love and passion for life that drew men and fans to her like moths to a flame. The real Lupe was incredibly generous, providing for her family, doling out her fortune, and using her limited Hollywood power to help anyone in need. Lupe was an eternal dreamer, a woman of great humor, who-- despite her extensive jewelry collection, which single-handedly saved her from the crash of '29-- had no vanity. She was just as comfortable laughing it up with the guys-- Errol Flynn was known to wander over to her house for a late night game of cards when he, like she, was unable to sleep-- as she was endearing women to her, most of whom-- like Estelle Taylor and Mary Pickford-- always offered her a protective, maternal gaze. Lupe was such an unpretentious woman of the earth, that her escape to Heaven seems almost absurd. But there was more, much more, to this dynamo than met the eye. Now, her secrets are buried with her, as is a flame in Hollywood history that should have burned on much, much longer.

HISTORY LESSON: The Sex Bombs

Clara Bow gives the people what they want: sex.

The objectification of women in film is nothing new. From the advent of the medium, filmmakers, studios, and even sometimes the actresses themselves, have used their beauty and sexuality to reel in viewers, build up a fan base, and maintain mankind's engrossed attention. Sex is power. The sexual muscle is the easiest one to flex, mostly because we do so unconsciously, subconsciously, and unwittingly, countless seconds of every day. From a business stand-point, it makes sense to appeal to our sensual selves. Show a pretty face, a bit of leg, a pair of breasts, and voila! You've flipped the switch. You have our attention. Women aren't innocent either, salivating unapologetically over bare, muscular torsos and perfectly formed asses when the Joe Manganiello's of the world take the screen. But when does this purely visceral, instantaneously physical appeal become too much? Particularly with regard to the female form-- which is continually scrutinized, perfected, and promoted as being thin, voluptuous, barely clad, and above all young-- there seems to be a continuing saga of damage with regard to the pin-ups, love goddesses, and sex icons that we visually fornicate with, fantasize over, and eventually cast aside. But who is the real victim: the girl in the ever-erotic pose or the voyeur gawking uncontrollably. What is a sex-object, and can the pawn just as equally be the player???

There was a point in time when Theda Bara was regarded as the sex-siren of the screen. Fashioned by Fox, Thedosia Goodman was built from the ground up to be a dangerous, foreign temptress. Her sex-appeal was desirable because it was bad. With her coal-black eyes and opulent figure, not to mention jaw-droppingly revealing clothing-- particularly in those times (left)-- Theda as "the vamp" was the embodiment of sin. If Sex was the Devil, then she was one of his minions. Much as Cecil B. DeMille would use religious plotlines to delve into his own naughty sensibilities, Theda was the warning of evil that we were all meant to learn from-- i.e. the "slut" you were not to do or be-- and while learning the lesson, we got to indulge in her sins along with her-- "win-win," as they say. The issue with Theda's highly specific and sexual film persona, like many of the ladies to follow her, was that it boxed her in. The character, both public and private, that Fox designed for her was so well-ingrained in the public consciousness that she could not escape it. Thus, when the fad of "Theda Bara" had lost its allure, so too did Theda lose her career. William Fox had drained every last ounce of coin that he could and cast her aside. She became, thus, the aged whore-- used up and no longer desired. Her career on film was over as of 1926 when she was just over 40-years-old. Age, of course, could have also had something to do with it. Hollywood needed young blood; Theda was old hat. As her persona and sex were inseparable, she could not translate to other genres. Her identity as a siren completely derailed her career.

Herein lies the conundrum of being a woman, which is only heightened through the celebrity experience. Walking the fine line between being attractive and becoming an ornament is not always easy. Women that were able to maintain their independence and thrive in the world of film were those that thus entertained and defied sexual conventions. Marlene Dietrich was dripping with sex, but she too swapped genders from time to time to maintain her own unique identity. Mary Pickford emitted a subtly sensual eroticism that always played second fiddle to the often tomboyish, head-strong independence of her heroines. Katharine Hepburn strutted with the confidence of a man, wielded her worldly intelligence mightily, and occasionally showed up in a dress and reminded people that she was a quite beautiful woman (right), particularly when making eyes at Spencer Tracy. However, these women had personalities. Norma Shearer, Gloria Swanson, Carole Lombard, Barbara Stanwyck, Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, etc-- they all had sex, but they all had their own unique edge that allowed them to indulge in lengthy careers and the continued worship of their fans. Many used their sexuality to get a leg up in the business, and once they had gained a foothold in their own careers, used their newfound power to cement protective contracts and personally guide the direction of their business affairs. The success of these ladies was contingent upon the fact that what they had in bod', they possessed even moreso in brains. Thus, they would distract the man holding the check book with one delicate hand and slap him fiercely with the other. Their ambition gave them a killer instinct that made them impenetrable.

Not all women were so lucky. Not all were so shrewd. Clara Bow is a prime example. Clara's success was certainly aided by her extraordinary beauty and unapologetic sensuality. The carnal desire that she displayed in her films was the first of its kind-- at least coming from a woman. Girls were used to being hooted at, jeered over, propositioned, insulted, etc. Suddenly, with Clara in the driver's seat, it was the male sex that received this sultry level of objectification. In It, when Clara sets her sights on Antonio Moreno, her eyes light up in excited lust and she spouts out, "Sweet Santa, give me him!" In Dancing Mothers, she shamelessly pursues Conway Tearle, and won't take "no" for an answer, even when it means he has to carry her bodily out of his home. In Mantrap, Clara makes a sport of sex, attaching herself to any man-- and she appreciates all types-- who strikes her fancy. Clara's saving grace in portraying such sexually forward women was her warmth and depth. Her predatory nature was tempered by the humor she injected into her performances, as well as the pathos that-- when allowed time to shine-- revealed that she wasn't some over-sexed trollop, but a flesh and blood woman whose sexual nature was but one aspect of her invigorating and fully formed personality. Yet, Paramount didn't support her growth as an actress. Clara was the ace up the studio's sleeve, and they played the sex card where she was concerned over and over again, until fact and fiction began to collide. Clara's true self eventually merged with her screen self, which always possessed more confidence and power than the real her. Her popularity, it seemed, was dependent upon her appearance in sexy dresses, lingerie, or even less. The bare-backed shot of her in Wings was a big shocker in its day, which had no place in the wartime film other than to give the audience what it wanted: Clara nude (left).

In time, it would prove that Paramount had done its job too well. Clara's raucous private life became serialized scandal in the press, which had previously praised the former qualities that they now used to label her as a "slut." Never taking time to give Clara well-written material or to allow her roles to mature as she did, she maintained her onscreen presence as the fun-loving, good-time girl with a heart of gold buried beneath an erotic veneer. Like Theda, people tired of this. They didn't tire of Clara necessarily, and the success of her career and longevity can be attributed to both her talents as an actress and her charismatic and attractive personality. Her goodness always effected her audiences more than her skin. The failure of her career, exempting her personal stresses and the effect of the talkie revolution, is almost entirely dependent on the short-sightedness of the studio, who did not allow Clara to be more than a sex object, or do more than be sexy. It is a tribute to her that she was able to give so much with the shoddy material she received as to make it in the business at all. Any number of her films, without Clara Bow in the lead role, would have been quick-fix B-movies and footnotes in history and not the box-office sensations that she made them. Her downfall was in the fact that she was denied her identity and sold the idea that she was a sex-kitten and nothing more. As she wasn't the Hell Cat and ambitious diva that many others in the industry were, she didn't fight back but played along until she was played out. At least she had the glory of taking her final bow by choice.

Clara's career was echoed in that of Jean Harlow and Marilyn Monroe. Unlike Clara, neither of these ladies quit Hollywood. Their early exit was determined by their deaths. In both of their lives, Jean and Marilyn had moments of reflection and pain over the fact that they were looked upon as desirable fixtures for the male gaze and nothing more. Jean took a more light-hearted approach to it, her sexuality thus appearing accidental and just as comical in her films as it was enticing. Her screen presence was very much like Clara's, yet with more of a bitterness. Clara openly indulged in sex; Jean's girls mostly accepted sex as a means to an end, until a charmer like Clark Gable or Franchot Tone entered the frame and convinced her that there was still life to be had. Jean's heroines were strong and worldly, where Marilyn's, particularly earlier in her career, were oblivious, if not ignorant, if not completely vacant. Marilyn's form of sexual attack was, "Who, me?" rendering her, like Clara and Jean, as non-threatening. Yet, as a business-woman, there was nothing about her screen presence that was not carefully studied and constructed. Her lack of self-esteem and value as a child had only been quelled when she began receiving attention as a well-formed teen. Thus, she only believed her sexual self had the capability to gain, in essence, love. She learned how to use it to get what she wanted. Yet, when she tried to undo the damage, she could not completely let go of the only pleasing aspect of her character that she had ever had any confidence in-- her body-- in order to translate to an actress of any real repute. Even when critically acclaimed and recognized for her performances, the stigma of "bimbo" was always attached. Even after her death, her talents as an actress are recognized second to her reputation as a sex icon. She is recalled in still images-- her skirt blowing up in The Seven Year Itch-- or as as a joke-- the tramp that screwed the Kennedy brothers. (Jean pulls a Clara and reveals bare back in Hold Your Man, right).

Thus, the plight of the sexual woman is that she allegedly gets what she asks for, but she asks only for sexual recognition after she is initially denied her humanity. Beauty is both glorified and punished in the same breath-- the Virgin and the Whore scenario. I'm reminded of an image from Belle de Jour wherein Catherine Deneuve is pummeled with mud-- one of her sexual desires is to be debased. The audience watches with rapt attention, enjoying in her defamation as her character too relishes in it. Taking this moment and applying it more figuratively to women in the Clara-Jean-Marilyn chain of sexual heroines, a disturbing connection can be made. The director yells, "action," the woman rolls in the metaphorical mud for our amusement-- turning us on, debasing herself, and theoretically liking it-- and we watch. Yet, she is the only one who goes home dirty. The director is clean. The studio is clean. We're clean. Thus, the women that we eagerly watch pollute themselves for our amusement as sexual playthings and toys, are applauded for their eroticism but raped of common decency and mutual respect. When they take efforts to escape the sex bomb mold carefully created for them, they cannot ever wash themselves clean. When it comes to the Bond girls, topless horror actresses, Playboy bunnies, we salivate but we internally condemn. As such, when Marilyn Monroe died, Clara was intensely sympathetic, publicly stating that she understood the pressures of being a sex symbol and how they weigh on the soul. Her insinuation, of course, was that Marilyn's existence as a beautiful thing crippled her hopes of being a beloved woman. One wonders, since Jean Harlow passed away at the age of twenty-six, whether the same self-same burden too took its toll on her? She certainly bore similar stresses: she couldn't even win the commitment of William Powell in matrimony because he didn't want to be married to another bombshell-- Carole Lombard being the first. (Marilyn is cornered, left, and at our mercy, but does her duty in giving the impression that she likes being our prey).

There are a series of women that were fashioned to be sex-goddesses who crippled under the pressure. Some of them rebelled by sooner or later flipping Hollywood "the bird" and getting the hell out of town-- Greta Garbo, Veronica Lake, Kim Novak. Others suffered, simultaneously seeking to destroy their own beauty yet being equally distraught when it began disappearing, thus leaving them powerless-- Ava Gardner, Bridget Bardot, Lana Turner (right). Hollywood would thereby seem to teach us that you cannot be beautiful and a human being at the same time.  Those ladies who failed to calculatingly play "the game" found themselves unwitting members of a decadent menagerie-- a collection of butterflies pinned to the walls of Hollywood's sexual catacombs. Yes, 'sex is power,' but it is a heavy burden to carry. Like the bully on the playground robbed of his big stick, a sex object without her sexuality feels even more naked than she does in the buff. Colleen Moore, like Clara Bow, was a flapper, but her persona in Flaming Youth was more that of a quirky girl gone innocently haywire than that of a tramp on the loose. She possessed the spirit of the "flapper" generation, but was not one of its sexual prey. She had enough of a mogul mentality to make it in the business on her own terms. Louise Brooks, in her own retaliation, merely defected. She refused to trade her brains to make a buck, became disgusted with Hollywood, and simply left. Clara, in comparison, is thus a victim as much as she is her own villain, in that she let Hollywood do with her as it may with no resistance. Buried with her is a graveyard of women who listened in their youth when they were told to believe that they were no more than a pretty face: Rita Hayworth, Carole Landis, Barbara Payton, Linda Darnell, Hedy Lamarr, Jayne Mansfield...

Ava sits enticingly atop a phallic stick of dynamite because...

who they Hell knows why?

The "sexification" of daily life has only intensified. More and more it seems that Hollywood is selling nothing else, (yet they refuse to notice that we are buying fewer tickets). The audition process for females continues to escalate into total dehumanization and objectification. Women are measurements on a resume, they are types, they are placed into a category and when one doesn't fit, she is not allowed entre. Then there are the Frances Farmer's who try to make it on their own terms, refusing to just sit there and be pretty. Her sanity paid the forfeit. Those who obey the stereotypes and try to make it, often quickly fade into obscurity or are remembered as some bit of pop cultural trivia (Raquel Welch). The women that amazingly last are those in the Lillian Gish category, whose beauty never eclipsed her soul. Her talent was applicable at any age. Her longevity may be echoed by Nicole Kidman or Cate Blanchett or Reese Witherspoon, for their beauty and sensuality is secondary to their character. In whatever fashion, some manage to escape the sex label. Those ladies who do not, who compromise or are compromised, are never able to undo the stigma. It is their identification as beautiful, empty vessels by the public-- which demands such sexual props as constant visual stimuli-- that eradicates their chances at publicly recognized evolution. It would be too baffling to eliminate these erotic templates from society-- you can't stop the natural human reaction nor the mental signals that fire at the sight of a beautiful woman. Yet, is her victimization as an indicated "object" an unavoidable conclusion to this pulse of uncontrollable adrenaline? What is it in our natures that continually chooses to hate what we simultaneously love? Are we not responsible for the road of abandoned, once beautiful bodies?