THE REEL REALS: Alan Hale

Alan Hale

Alan Hale, Sr. (not to be confused with his son, the Skipper of "Gilligan's Island") was a very unique personality in both silent and studio era cinema. A big lug, generally mustached, he would become familiar with audiences by portraying the befuddled man's man with a loud, raucous laugh, clumsy yet aggressive physicality, and his very expressive eyes-- usually twinkling. Appearing in nearly 250 films (that we know of) in a less the 40-year career, his energy, comic skill, and integral depth allowed him to easily traverse multiple genres and play the bad guy, the good guy, the drunk guy, the oaf, the clown, the tough, and most often, the best friend.

Alan's big voice encouraged him to pursue a career in the opera, which makes it interesting that he found a home for himself in silent cinema. However, the creativity and curiosity of his ever-spinning mind-- which led him to an initial career as an inventor (of foldable theater seats among others)-- also instilled within him a natural penchant for unique characterizations. For a man constantly tinkering with objects to see how they worked, cracking a fictional character open and making it tick was an easily adapted talent. His hammy, fun-loving personality only bolstered his appeal, giving him an unlikely charisma onscreen, which made him one of the most popular and beloved character actors of his generation.

 While as a fresh-faced 20-year-old he was able to land the lead in several pictures, it was his uncanny knack at supporting parts, those that added flavor and drove the plot of the story, which would provide for him a comfy position on the Warner Brothers roster. As such, he moved from a series of short film appearances to playing opposite  Rudolph Valentino in The Four Horseman of the Apocalypse, Lon Chaney in The Trap, and Douglas Fairbanks in the epic Robin Hood. His role in the latter was that of Little John, one that he would repeat sixteen years later opposite his good friend Errol Flynn in the 1938 version, The Adventures of Robin Hood.

In fact, it is with Errol that Alan is most associated, as these hard-living, boisterous boys in cahoots got along swimmingly both on and off screen. They appeared in several features together, including The Prince and the Pauper, Dodge City, and The Sea Hawk. Alan's success at WB after the talkie revolution is beyond impressive. He was an uncouth buffoon in Stella Dallas, the notoriously flagged down driver (or should I say "legged") in It Happened One Night, and the ne'er-do-well married lover of Bette Davis in Of Human Bondage. He appeared in Great Expectations, Imitation of Life, They Drive By Night, Algiers, The Man in the Iron Mask, The Strawberry Blonde, etc, etc, etc, always lending the lead players his support and improving their performances with his own reliable and inspirational characterizations. One might even say that he was a bit of a scene stealer. He created a natural effect in his scenes, locking them in reality and adding nuance and complication to even the most saccharine or melodramatic plots. 

Alan passed away at the age of 57 far too soon. His talents could have easily translated to television had he more time to continue his thespian explorations. However, problems with his liver and a viral infection led to his untimely, premature passing, leaving behind his wife of 35 years and 3 children-- including his equally famous, doppleganger son Alan Hale, Jr. Less recognized than his contemporaries for his contribution to the cinematic arts, his presence in retrospect seems so fundamental to the success of so many classic films that is hard to imagine Hollywood history without him. When he appeared on screen, audiences knew a little something extra was coming their way. That 'something' was usually just having a more thoroughly entertaining and enjoyable night at the movies. At the very least, it meant life was about to get interesting.

THE REEL REALS: Charles Stevens

Charles Stevens

Little is known about Charles Stevens. Despite his anglicized name, the actor was half Mexican/half-Apache  and the great grandson of none other than the notorious Geronimo himself. (Charles even portrayed his great grandfather on the screen a couple of times). Few are familiar with his face, though true movie aficionados have probably ignorantly scanned over him many times as a periphery player, particularly in the silent films of Douglas Fairbanks-- a close friend to Charles. The duo probably met while filming The Lamb, Doug's first feature. Immediately fascinated by Charles's roots, Doug would become his great champion, and after his own gravy train came in, he insisted on having his pal cast in nearly all his films. 

As a non-caucasian, the possibility for career advancement or stardom was incredibly difficult for Charles. This was a time when racism edged non-caucasians out of the market and different races could barely interact at all on-screen, let alone in romantic leading roles. As such, white actors simply used cosmetics or painted their skin to resemble other races when a non-white character had a more prominent part in a the film, and blacks, Asians, Mexicans, etc, were relegated to doing extra work or possibly winning some screen time as a mildly featured player. It makes Charles all the more impressive, therefore-- although lesser remembered-- for boasting such an impressive resume. With his distinctive, sinister look and the proper connections, Charles was able to work steadily for nearly his entire adulthood, and due to his silent short film participation, he completed more than 200 projects. Sadly, his mixed race left him almost consistently uncredited. Look for him in The Mark of Zorro, The Gaucho, and The Mummy's Curse.

THE REEL REALS: Cedric Gibbons

Cedric Gibbons

One would be hard pressed to find an MGM feature film in the 1920s-1950s bracket that doesn't have Cedric Gibbons listed as "Art Director" in the opening credits. This guy got around the Lot, his work in design and aesthetic composition-- from set dressing to architectural conception-- almost single-handedly defining the Golden Era of the studio's look. With an eye for detail and a gift for creating a visual texture befitting each project's subliminal and environmental realities, he quickly built up a reputation as the head honcho of MGM's art department. 

So totally had Cedric ingratiated himself to the studio's function and reputation, that he was given a contractual stipulation crediting his name to every MGM feature release. This explains why he has over 1000 projects on his resume, though he may have merely supervised or signed off on a great many of them. He primarily got his crafty hands dirty during the beginning of his career. Yet, during his reign, he was such a staple of the Hollywood elite, that he was just as popular and well-known around town as any of the stars, many of whom would call him friend. Indeed, he was even married to Dolores del Rio for a time, a woman so beautiful that he probably wished that he had designed her himself.  

As well as being an instrumental figure in giving credence to cinema as an art form through his steadfast work, he also saw to it that honor would be forever bestowed upon this burgeoning industry, its innovations, and its talents, by signing up with other fellow soldiers like Douglas Fairbanks to create The Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences. In fact, he designed the trophy that would later be labeled "Oscar." This Irish lad passed away in Hollywood after his many decades of loyal service at the age of 67, leaving a legacy behind him that all cinematic artists continue to build upon and re-envision every generation.

HISTORY LESSON: Man Enough? Part 1 - The Silents

In order to save his love interest (Virginia Cherrill) in City Lights, Chaplin has
to put up his dukes and "be a man."

While a lot of focus is given to interpreting the repression and liberation of women in film, that of the male archetype seems to be less thoroughly examined, at least in terms the facets of masculinity as reflections of/on society. The reason for this could very well be the lazy perception that "a man, is a man, is a man," which is a theory many may humorously, and perhaps correctly (to a certain extent), agree with. It is not the "male mystique" that continues to plague and baffle the opposite sex, yet this does not mean that the more "predictable" sex is any less complicated and nuanced than his fairer opposite. As such, his presentation on the silver screen and its metamorphosis over the years creates quite a broad portrait of just what it means to be a man. What makes a good man? A bad man? An attractive man? And what on earth is masculinity? Are the depictions of the different shades of the complex male conundrum-- the lover, the fighter, the cave man, the villain, the hero-- influenced by or influential of contemporary society? Probably a little bit of both.

Eugene Sandow gives good bicep in an early silent clip. A famous
Austrian body builder, he was Schwarzenegger before anyone
knew what a Schwarzenegger was.

During the initial stages of silent cinema, men were, quite simply, just men. They weren't polished, they weren't pristine, they weren't products. They weren't, in fact, even acting. The more studied performers of the stage rebuffed the hackneyed gimmick of the "motion picture" as it groped its fledgling way into a fully grown, full-fledged business. Thus, the gratuitous appeal of the original flicker shows, which portrayed human beings naturally, as they really were, whether the image of the man projected was sneezing, boxing, flexing his muscles, or kissing May Irwin, was the documentary style of the medium. It was simple: point and shoot. Then, point and shoot with costumes on. The storytellers on the screen were regular guys looking for work. As movies became shorts, which became features, as 1 reel lengthened to 8, as plot lines became more complicated, so too did the requirements of the leading men become more intricate. Trained actors, who had performed on the stage and in vaudeville, soon began migrating toward the cinema, less to achieve fame-- as it didn't exist yet-- then to make ends meet and take the jobs that their contemporaries still poo-pooed. Many were innovators that saw the potential others overlooked, and some were merely wooed by the opportunity its opportunists. As a result, some of the great personalities of the 20th century would present themselves on the silver screen-- Chaplin, Keaton, Chaney, Fairbanks, Reid-- and the words "movie star" would be born. 

The interesting thing about these personalities is that, while they were better trained than the initial rookie actors of cinematic minor leagues, they were still fairly regular guys, the prettiest of them belonging to the Wallace Reid (left) variety, who with his boyish good looks and overgrown child charms was both the son and lover to his leading ladies. He and Douglas Fairbanks both presented a masculine archetype that was bristling with the energy of immaturity-- Wally with his speed racing, and Doug with his nonchalant embrace of danger. In these cases, the women and romantic interests were always secondary to the major action within the story, with both men more invested in being "wild and wooly" than responsible. Meanwhile, the leading ladies performing opposite them tried their best to domesticate them, all while accepting that they never really could. "Boys will be boys..." Wally was, admittedly, much more sexual, which is why he could easily vacillate between the daredevil driver of  The Roaring Road and the smitten love interest of The Golden Chance with ease.

Doug defends all of mankind's honor with the mightiest of phalluses,
his saber! (The Black Pirate)

Doug was never "in it" for love. Ever. His heroes, like D'Artagnan of The Three Musketeers and his Robin Hood were more enthralled with the opportunity for adventure than the sentimental pull of romance. Therefore, as an unspoken "hit 'em and quit 'em type"-- however optimistically he portrayed himself-- he wasn't about putting down roots but exploring man's liberty. The message both figures presented was that men weren't meant to be chained. They must be able to exercise their need for freedom. Women just had to be ready to catch them when they wore themselves out. Most of their stories possessed a wink at the female audience of, "Yeah, we don't need you, but we really do." The little lady in an apron was always the true brains behind the operation, running the man's life, all while he thought he was indeed running wild. This perpetuated the paternal society's definitions of gender roles within a marriage: women, keep the home fires burning, men... burn rubber!

Gilbert succumbs to the succubus, Garbo, in
Flesh and the Devil.

This isn't to say that there were no men with emotive eloquence. Two Romeos with such all consuming passion were John Gilbert and Rudolph Valentino, both of whom were inhumanly handsome and intensely virile. While inheriting in some ways the fairly adolescent charisma of the aforementioned brand of man-boy, the inciting incident in their lover storylines was not that which would attract them to adventure or the fight of good over evil. The inciting incident was the appearance of Eve in their Edens. Whatever extraneous business was happening otherwise was pure background noise. Each man followed only the beating of his heart, or perhaps better yet, the compulsion of his loins. These guys were victims to their passion. However selfishly they may have behaved in the past, meeting the girl was enough to instantly change them from selfish boys to helpless fools for love, and consequently drive them insane with desire. Gilbert was most memorably paired with Garbo in his romantic career. His intoxicated devotion to her, which nearly destroyed him every time (and sometimes did), portrayed for women the man of their dreams. He gave his undivided attention to his muse, for whom he would do anything, and he would not rest until he possessed her. This was enough to leave ladies fanning themselves in their seats, if not passing out in the aisles. 

Interestingly, it was Garbo who usually suffered in the end (at least in the silent era), being punished for her erotic witchcraft in Flesh and Love, for example. After escaping the soul-sucking power of the vamp, who sought only to bleed a man dry of his potent juices, the man was supposed to reclaim his soul, embrace his manhood, curse the bitch, and settle into a relationship that would place him back in a position of power. Gilbert's characters, therefore, would find solace in more dependable women who would be faithful, loyal, and submissive, and also allow him to peaceably engage in the boyish hijink's he'd temporarily forgotten while under the spell of forbidden sex. Though, it should be noted, that when Gilbert fell for a "good girl," such as Eleanor Boardman's heroine in Bardelys the Magnificent, the romance was indeed consummated. His more worldly character having already certainly experienced the ego and heart bruising of a Garbo-like woman in the past, this guy was out for an innocent wife to protect with his well-situated manliness. He had come of age before the storyline started.

Valentino's gents were very similar in their romantic addictions. Rudy had no problem becoming the putty in the hands of Alla Nazimova's Camille or Nita Naldi's vamp in Blood and Sand. The same action ensued, with the woman generally paying the price for her forbidden, unbridled sexual nature, and the man reasserting his final dominance, either shaming her in Camille's case or foolishly allowing himself to be destroyed in the vamp case, the latter being a lesson to all men. However, Valentino's heroes possessed more danger than Gilbert's. The is partially due to the scintillating allure of the foreigner-- xenophoberotica?-- and his animalistic assertion over his prey. In both Sheik films, Rudy shamelessly kidnaps Agnes Ayres and Vilma Banky until they accept their stations as his sex slaves, with him resorting to what can only be described as rape in the second film, Son of the Sheik (see right). Naturally, he feels bad for his carnal crimes afterward and learns his lesson, thereby clinging the soiled woman to his muscled chest-- again, the "good girl"-- and reforming himself into a more civilized man (undoing his foreignness) in the process. With his dark(er), Italian appeal, he also offered more fantasy, as Rudy wasn't a real American but a strange figure from a strange land. His heroes could be tamed but not domesticated, and after his capture of chosen female, it is assumed that he would take her to a fantasy world of happily monogamous "ever afters" and over-sexed oblivion. In whichever case, the macho man had to conquer to become the King of his own identity. He must be a slave to no one and the ultimate one in charge. This begets the plague of the necessarily more submissive female. 

Keaton battles the elements in Steamboat Bill, Jr.

In truth, the only true lovers of the silent era came from the fools and clowns-- sometimes literally. When looking at the selfless devotion of Chaplin or the innocent but maladministered and attracted pursuit of Keaton, one witnesses some of the greatest examples of romance in all of cinema, period. The Tramp would send himself into further despair, isolation, or poverty to rescue the woman he loved from even minor devastation (The Circus, City Lights), while Keaton's many lovable but bumbling wooers would do anything to impress a potential bride only to fail-- as in his refused enlistment in the army in The General. Neither was reaching for the moon. They just wanted nice girls to settle down with and have an ordinary life. They also always had competition: bigger men, stronger men, better looking men, and richer men. The Tramp was undeserving, because he was poor; Keaton, because he wasn't macho. The latter would only accidentally become a worthy hero when presented with the challenges of extreme circumstances, be they wartime, weather affected, or even hallucinatory. The notion was that these men were, indeed, good guys. But good guys rarely get the girl, which is why the majority of the time, these two did nothing but suffer. The image of the man as the strong provider and savior still continues to be the divisive factor in what makes a man a man. 

Chaplin continues his voyage as the loner, lovelorn loser in
The Circus-- a telling title.

Unlike Fatty Arbuckle, who was able to win the day almost totally due to his imposing size and the clever swiftness of his actions and schemes, he was a bit of the selfish prankster that Fairbank and Reid represented but in the comic genre. Contrastingly, Chaplin and Keaton were diminutive, sensitive, emotionally aware, but mostly uncomfortable with themselves. Confidence is key, and they guys didn't have it. Thus, Chaplin's victory was primarily only ever the reward of selfless love-- sending the girl of his dreams off to live with the man of hers-- while Keaton was more often allowed to end in wedded bliss because, despite his size and social ignorance, he was able to prove his masculinity through his unbelievable, life-saving acts of prowess. He had thus earned his place in man-dom. Chaplin's silent hero never received applause for the secret aid he gave to his lovers in need. These comic gems were the underdogs of society, who thus gave such equally aching, hidden Lotharios a voice. However, they were still the butt of their own jokes; not real men, but men in training. They weren't what any woman was looking for, and furthermore, they were holding the steam engine of the growing American powerhouse back by begging on street corners instead of getting "real jobs." In a capitalist society, one who isn't chasing coin or engaging in the game of business is looked upon as a chump, just another sad cog in the wheel of the money machine. Invisible heroes aren't heroes.

Lon Chaney also belongs in this category, which is further complicated by identifying these ardent, bleeding heart lovers as a fools simply for loving at all. Chaney's twisted, heartbroken soldiers were literal mutations of the male sex. The fact that he wore love on his sleeve made him a monster. "This is not what a man is supposed to be," his movies unconsciously seemed to say. This too is why he is constantly left loveless by the final reels. The Phantom of the Opera is, forgive me, "cock-blocked" by Norman Kerry's more virile Raoul when vying for Christine (Mary Philbin). The Hunchback of Notre Dame is, again, intercepted by Kerry's Phoebus when vying for the heart of Esmerelda (Patsy Ruth Miller). Even when not physically misshapen, Chaney's desire and pure-hearted emotion for the women he desired sealed his fate as one who would forever do without such love's return. His obsession with Joan Crawford in The Unknown leads him to mutilate himself. His devious fixation in The Unholy Three, his love for Mae Busch/Lila Leed, is why he fails in his caper and is punished for his crimes. He is crippled by and in love in The Shock, West of Zanzibar (left), and The Penalty. He is a dunce in love in The Trap and Mockery. And, just as Chaplin, his selflessness goes unrewarded with loneliness in Tell It to the Marines and While the City Sleeps.

Chaney's depiction of the ultimate man's man in Tell It to the Marines is
pretty much the definitive portrait of masculinity. Hard-broiled, weather-
worn, and built of discipline and duty, he is the man all new enlistees
are meant to emulate. His one error is the depth and honesty of his feelings,
which is why he loses the girl to the less emotionally and more erotically
focused William Haines (boy-man). His heart is read as a flaw, yet his 
surrendering of it in the end makes him a hero. Real men don't fall for 
that love stuff. They get the job done.

The absolute torment of bearing such a full, martyred heart, one so desperate to love, made Lon's heroes immediate victims. When playing a purely sexual avenger in Victory or The Wicked Darling, he still didn't get the girl, but he represented more fully the man's man that could at least get a tramp and could make it in society, even if by the skin of his corrupt teeth. His predators with their ulterior motives and potent sex drives spoke to the beast in male viewers. He was their dark side, something immediately relatable, just as in his opposing roles he represented their good side-- strangely an even darker, dirtier secret. In either case, as the extreme in both contrasting levels of the internal, male, emotional world, he rarely walked away the winner-- literally and figuratively. His sinister villains had to be destroyed for the sake of order in society as well as in the protection of virginal women, and his hideous poets had to be eliminated in some fashion so that the virgins could be defiled by more righteous men-- less emotive, good looking, and not from the dregs of society. 

Thomas Meighan as the bored husband in Why Change Your Wife?

Perhaps the best representative of the silent movie, "regular" man would be Thomas Meighan. Handsome but not pretty, masculine but not action oriented, his characters were generally average guys, which is to say that they held down jobs, were crossed and sometimes victorious in love, and were composites of flaws and virtues. He was sexual and desirous of love but not overly emotive about it. He had feelings, but he played them close to his chest. He may have started out a con man in The Miracle Man, but he cleaned up his act and went straight by the end. When watching his performance in Male and Female, we see that he is indeed a man of character with both primal and romantic desires-- directed at Gloria Swanson-- but these qualities are only exhibited after the characters are stranded on a desert isle, and he is allowed to indulge his instincts without fear of social scrutiny. When he returns to life, so too do these instincts become buttoned up and forgotten. A real man knows how to walk a straight line, keep his romance a secret, keep sex in the bedroom, and pay his taxes. The sturdy and reliable Meighan, in all the varieties of his characterizations, provided such a portrait, still while allowing light to be cast on different aspects of man's character that the actual average man would never have allowed to be seen.

Love's a gag, something that Fatty Arbuckle showcased best-- here
alongside constant co-star Marbel Normand in Fatty's Married Life.
Fatty cared for his women, but womanhood was something he
generally had to put up with while out getting into more interesting 
trouble or making it. Marriage is a drag, but the ball and chain was
never going to stop Fatty from being Fatty!

These actors were favorites during the silent era for all that they represented, whether their stories made them winners or losers. The interesting thing to note is how intrinsically different they were from one another. No two were the same. Each had his own fashion, his own style, his own art, and each depicted his own version of masculinity, even while all portrayals may have eventually led society down the same path of acceptable male behavior-- the best version of his gender. Perhaps because screen identities were not yet firmly established, ergo there were no cliches or gender staples to adhere to, men were allowed to step before the camera in all shapes and sizes, modes and behaviors. The early days were an incredibly diverse and liberating era for the actor/performer, and viewers were consequently introduced to a wide array of talents and depictions of what it then meant to be a man in contemporary America. While the thread of necessary male dominance always held sway, never again would the characters in the male tapestry be as mixed nor as interesting as in the silent period. At the time, it would have been more fitting to say, a man is a man in any way he can...

To Be Continued in The Studio era and Method to Modern Times...

THE REEL REALS: Anna May Wong

Anna May Wong

Anna May Wong was a Hollywood deviant in every sense of the word. She defied the preconceived movie star prototype and surprised studios and the public alike with her automatic allure. However, she forever was forced to balance herself upon a tenuous beam of acceptance, both socially and personally. Shunned by prejudice in her home country of America, she was also slandered by the Chinese for being a "whore," otherwise known as an actress. Upon a visit to the nation of her forefathers, she was once pummeled with stones by an angry crowd. While she fortunately had more fans worldwide than villains, her choice to define her own life in her own terms would forever make her an outcast. The price of her independence would strangely be her liberty.

Anna's entry in film would be in the role of the featured servant girl or concubine. Naturally, her heritage would keep her from receiving leading roles or top billing in her projects. However, slowly but surely, her performances in larger supporting roles opposite big time stars like Lon Chaney and Douglas Fairbanks, and her alliance with director/lovers like Tod Browning and Marshall Neilan, would give her the opportunity to showcase her talents. The Toll of the Sea, The Thief of Bagdad, Peter Pan, Mr. Wu, and Piccadilly gave her increasing exposure to the audiences who fell in love with her almost spiritual essence. Her beauty was marked with an intelligence and profound depth that made her utterly fascinating to watch. As an outsider, she was able to move about as a free agent, deemed independent and often dangerous. She had a wisdom that was effective and even spellbinding, often distracting from her more popular Caucasian co-stars. 

She went to Europe to seek more opportunities and had some luck, returning to the states for talkies like the classic Shanghai Express, but despite her magnetic personality, she would always hit a brick wall of bigotry. She was never allowed to fulfill her total potential because of her race. Roles, like that of "O'Lan" in The Good Earth, went to white actresses like Luise Rainer, and censorship kept her from being given leading roles of her own. A failed attempt at TV and an attraction to alcohol-- a popular tool for many in burying sorry-- would prematurely end her career and her life. She passed away from a heart-attack at 56. Now looking back on her performances, she looked even then like a ghost-- a beautiful, haunting image from another place, another plain of consciousness, whispering tales and truths that many of us are still not open-minded enough to absorb.

THE REEL REALS: Allan Dwan

Allan Dwan

Allan Dwan was a director extraordinaire during the silent era. While the Canadian (born Joseph Aloysius Dwan) had mild plans to enter the world of film, it is more justified to say that the movies came looking for him. His expertise as a lighting technician got him unceremoniously poached by Essanay, and after he made the transition to story-editor/writer, another twist of fate would put him in the director's chair-- or so the story goes. (Allegedly, he had to take the reins on a shoot when the original director disappeared on a bender). Well, thank Heavens for booze, because without any of these serendipitous events, one of cinema's greatest innovators never would have been!

During his career, one of Allan's many accomplishments was leading the Flying A Film Corp, one of the earliest and most important California film studios. Throughout his career, he worked with everyone from soon-to-be wife/ex-wife Pauline Bush, Wallace Reid, John Wayne, Shirley Temple, and Gloria Swanson. He also made an impression on the powerhouse couple Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, the latter with whom he made the iconic Robin Hood and The Iron Mask. Through a career that spanned 50 years, Allan allegedly lost count of how many shorts and features he was responsible for, but we know his stamp is on at least 400. His ability to use the camera as an extension of himself, the storyteller-- capturing the greatest source of action, inspiration, and intrigue possible-- kept him at the top of his game for this unprecedented breadth of time. Indeed, he is even responsible for devising something that all directors and cinematographers take for granted today: the Dolly Shot. 

Allan passed away a few years shy of his own centennial, leaving a profound level of accomplishment behind him. While less remembered than names like Griffith, Chaplin, or DeMille, he is an essential part of filmdom's backbone, his contributions laying the ground work for upon which all future directors would more easily tread.

THE REEL REALS: Errol Flynn

Errol Leslie Thomson Flynn: June 20, 1909 - October14, 1959

Errol Flynn: swashbuckler, scalawag, and smirking, swaggering screen star with a sinful dose of sex-appeal. I incorporated a lot of S's into that description in order to produce the steaming hot alliteration that this actor deserves: "Tsssssssssssssssssss... Ouch!" (Don't get burned, ladies). During Errol's reign as the pinnacle action star in Tinsel Town, having inherited the sword from silent hero Douglas Fairbanks, he powered Hollywood with enough electric charisma to solve the entire nation's energy problems. However, his glamorous, alluring, and death-defying persona of light-hearted nonchalance, while widely accepted by fans, was both true and false. He was promoted as a handsome devil, lady killer, and man's man (albeit in an occasional pair of tights) who always got the bad guy and could-- and for the most part did-- have any woman he wanted. Indeed, Errol was an adorable bad boy, and debates continue to wage about just how naughty he really was.

Permanently emotionally scarred by the childhood abuse he suffered from his mother, Errol also lived with unresolved feelings of neglect. All but abandoned by both parents at school while they went abroad, he spent most Christmas breaks alone in an empty schoolhouse, which in his own mind, felt like a penitentiary. His rebellion against this isolation built him into a troublemaking adolescent, begging for both attention and discipline. He loved to push buttons, but he circumnavigated anyone who sought control over his life. Errol would continue to both seek and avoid the company and demands of others. He lacked the necessary trust and support demanded of obedience. As such, the teen who got kicked out of school would grow into the movie star who consistently irked and disobeyed Jack Warner in business and loathed all authority figures in general. His quest for affection can too be interpreted in his sexual indulgences. Errol had (and boasted of) many lovers, made many conquests, but he sadly had little experience or understanding of love. Flings were pleasurable distractions that never satiated the need he had to find something more. His life was an eternal adventure for some mysterious, missing thing-- his own personal El Dorado. What he truly sought-- acceptance, enduring love, and happiness-- were within arm's reach, but his itchy feet and lack of trust compelled him to seek beyond the horizon. After all, if one keeps moving, he has no time to be hurt. 

Errol plays the soldier and valiant hero with his usual vigor in Charge 

of the Light Brigade. This was the first film in which he donned his 

signature mustache, and Jack Warner told him to keep it!

Needless to say, Errol had a way of... overdoing it-- maniacally burning the candle at both ends in the hopes of quelling the inner madness and despair that had and would never find safe harbor. He wandered the world, spending his youth voyaging from place to place and country to country on almost ludicrously unrelated business ventures--  from journalism to running a tobacco plantation in New Guinea! He would also spend his later years literally adrift. Aboard his yacht, the Zaca, he found a sense of quiet away from the pain of the past and the superficiality of his Hollywood life, but this was a sorry substitute for the merciful sensation of peace that comes with the true satisfaction of one's happiness. The closest he came to joy was Jamaica. Spending time with equally conflicted friends throughout his life, those that unfortunately exacerbated and influenced his darker tendencies ("Jack" Barrymore, Bruce Cabot, etc), Errol drank too much, smoked too much, and eventually suffered from morphine addiction, which weathered his initially exquisite, God-given form into a prematurely old body, a reflection of his broken spirit.


The great shame of his life was the tagline "In Like Flynn," an unfortunate leftover from the statutory rape scandal that forever ruined Errol's personal reputation and perpetuated his debaucherous public image. Found innocent of the accusations made against him by Betty Hansen and Peggy Satterlee in the early forties, the court case under modern investigation bears all the tell-tale signs of a set-up, and it is often hypothesized that politicos with a vendetta against the less than financially generous Jack Warner decided to take down his biggest star to teach the mogul a "lesson." Whether or not Errol had earthly fun with either of these ladies, whether or not he knew their true ages if so, remains debatable. In any case, both Betty and Peggy, who had once enthusiastically volunteered for a place in the movie star's bed, mysteriously changed their tunes when the prospect of money was dangled before in their faces.

Errol "pokes fun" at his pal Patric Knowles while cozying up to constant 

co-star Olivia De Havilland in their lesser known collaboration,

 Four's a Crowd (Rosalind Russell being #4).

While the contradictory evidence produced in court ended in a mercifully "not guilty" verdict,  the event itself had a devastating effect upon Errol, who grievously felt a slight against his personal character. He had already endured the shame of receiving a 4F classification, which kept him out of WWII and insulted both his bravery and masculinity, but this was worse.  His popularity had been boosted, but he found himself lampooned as a distasteful, sexual joke. This was a grave personal disappointment, as he idolized his educated, scientist father. His desire to prove himself as an honorable and intelligent man-- being impressively self-taught for the most part-- revealed itself in his love of writing books, studying any and everything, and approaching more mature cinematic material with a talent that had only improved and aged with him. Unfortunately, Errol found himself locked into the inflexible Hollywood system-- a disaster for someone with his need for freedom-- and he was never fully able to exercise the personal depth and desire he had for his art. He felt that his gifts were purely superficial and considered himself a laughing stock. In keeping with his mistrustful mindset, while he desired respect for his work, he brushed off all compliments, never believing that his efforts had been worthy. This is the true tragedy, because they absolutely were! 

This Irish lad and "Tasmanian Devil" had only done some modest theatrical work and had completed a meager handful of films, including Australia's The Wake of the Bounty (playing Fletcher Christian, under whose leadership one of his own descendants had mutinied!), when he achieved his breakthrough performance in Captain Blood-- with ultimate leading lady Olivia De Havilland, no less. In the demanding, starring role, Errol would prove himself a clear natural before the camera, and this unexpected cinematic success, accomplished by an unknown nobody, consequently initiated an unparalleled career in the movies. His simple delivery of daunting lines, which would leave a lesser actor feeling foolish or tongue tied, and his assertive, graceful movements on the screen-- in whatever costume, from whatever era, holding whatever prop-- revealed a man who exuded the confidence of an overgrown boy. He presented himself as a brazen acrobat, completely disinterested in consequences and desirous only of living with relished abandon. His love interests were always of secondary importance to the rush of battle-- a parallel with his own life. From pirate (The Sea Hawk), to cowboy (Dodge City), to war pilot (The Dawn Patrol), to sad anti-hero (That Forsyte Woman), to martyr (Uncertain Glory), to icon (Robin Hood), Errol was always excitingly up to any challenge, and as a result, he continuously succeeded in getting his audiences to believe in and cheer for him in whatever rogue battle he fought from film to film. What's more, he also looked damn good doing it.

Errol on his beloved Sirocco, which he owned

prior to the Zaca.

They don't make Errol Flynns anymore, not that "they" could if they tried. So many filmmakers and performers try to duplicate the magic that Errol naturally possessed, but Hollywood's current offerings of reconstituted leading men lack the elegance, spirit, and sincerity of Flynn. His characters, with their mortal vanity and foolhardy embrace of danger, exist at a level of liberty that today's action heroes, with pecs but no personality, cannot understand. No... No one will ever be "in like Flynn" again. But that is only because Flynn is forever. 

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Relationships:

• Wife Lili Damita (1935-1942) - son Sean
• Wife Nora Eddington (1944-1948) - daughters Diedre and Rory 
• Wife Patrice Wymore (1950-1959) - daughter Arnella

Pros:

• Boyish sense of fun and an outlandish prankster.
• Vibrant energy and charismatic presence.
• Loving father to his children.

Cons:

• Alcoholism
• Drug Addiction
• Probable Sex Addiction

Fun Facts:

• Director Michael Curtiz was wed to his first wife, Lili Damita. The two collaborated often, including Errol's big break in Captain Blood, but the men loathed each other.
• Author of  Beam Ends, Showdown, and My Wicked, Wicked Ways (with Earl Conrad).
• Was known as The Baron of Mulholland due to his infamous home in the hills.

Scandals:

• Statutory rape trial - Not guilty (1942)
• Falsely accused of being a Nazi sympathizer by author Charles Higham. Higham was later proven to have shamefully forged government documents to implicate the innocent Flynn. (See Errol Flynn: The Spy Who Never Was).
• Questionable rumors of bisexual affairs with, among others, Ross Alexander and Tyrone Power.

L.A.La's Top Film Picks:

• Captain Blood (1935)
• The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938)
• The Dawn Patrol (1938)

PERSONAL NOTE: I Heart L.A.

Crowds gather at a Cinespia screening of The Shining at Hollywood 

Forever Cemetery, where films are projected onto the mausoleum

wall behind the Fairbanks tomb. Like nowhere else...

There tends to be a harsh divide between West coasters and East coasters, and for that matter the Midwest, Central U.S, South, etc. As they say, home is where your heart is, so that piece of land that maybe didn't raise you but somehow fits you like a glove seems to be the only place on earth that makes sense. The outside world views Los Angeles and thusly Hollywood as being artificial, narcissistic, immoral, and oblivious. Smoothie shots of rutabaga and bi-annual botox visits rightfully appear absurd to the "normal" inhabitants of such bread and butter places as Oklahoma, Mississippi, or Ohio (can I get a what-what for the Buckeyes?!). Likewise, the jaded urban hustle of New York and the liberated and more earthy metropolis of San Francisco find Los Angelenos to be pretty much full of... shitake mushrooms, (or perhaps just "on" them, if you know what I mean). I admit, I can whole-heartedly relate to these outsider perspectives or escapee conclusions regarding my new home state.

Indeed, to live here and survive, you must have a BA in BS; there are no two ways about it. L.A. is gross in so many ways. Living here, you are overloaded with overly aggressive billboards, film land flim flam, and giant tools who are ironically lacking in... ball bearings. Everyone seems to look and act the same. The glamour soon disappears within and sometimes before a year of living here: "Isn't that that guy from that show?" / "Who cares? One large snifter of oxygen please!" Despite this, because of this, there are many who migrate here and many more who immediately migrate back to a place that feels less offensive. Strangely, for all the macabre mimicry of human beings, for all the traffic, for all the smog and walking Barbie Dolls (on crack), this place-- this devious, despicable, delicious place-- still feels more like home for this Midwestern girl than her youthful world of Cincinnati (which basically encapsulates the entire tri-state area as far as anyone there is concerned). I have shared this thought, analogy, what-have-you, before... but Hollywood is the only place on earth that openly lies and tells the truth at once. That's why I love it. That's why I remain shackled to it. It is the only place I have ever been that isn't tight-lipped about its own monstrosity. It is a liar who doesn't lie.

"Hollywoodland" wasn't the only Los Angeles community marked with a hillside sign. There 

were several growing neighborhoods that used this propaganda tactic, including 

the "Outpost" development, which blasted its neon red lights from the area

now known as Runyon Canyon. It's remains can still be found there.

Unarguably, my attraction to the Golden State was instigated by my obsession with Golden Era Hollywood. From a young age, I wanted to be where that magic was; I wanted to be where insane levels of absolutely anything were possible. I'm constantly teased for my movie collection, and I take it like the woman I am, but a movie has never been just a movie to me. They are art-- even the bad ones. There is always something new to notice, to appreciate, to learn, be it studying the performance of a particular actor, the style of the fashion and settings, the technological/psychological innovations, or the dissection of human history right before your very eyes. As a lover of history and a perpetual, self-taught student, there are few things more perfect to me than discovering a new film to love, a new actor to appreciate, or a new piece of a former beloved flicker coming together and making more sense to a mind that thought it already had it all figured out. My love for film is the same as a young artist's devotion to Van Gogh or Magritte; a writer's love for Proust or Hemingway. An athlete's love for Babe Ruth or Karl Malone. I understand and love the world of cinema in a way that those who do not cannot understand, just as I can't understand people who waste hours watching football. But, I respect that. There is beauty there too. There is passion. Everyone has her niche; mine is here. I fit here, because I just do.

Dennis Hopper works the camera... sort of.

Hollywood itself is a fascination if only because it is the most recognized geographical place in America, and perhaps the world, where good and evil so gracefully converge-- on screen and off. Everyone has an opinion, everyone's a critic. You may have hated the last Adam Sandler movie (can't blame you), but you're talking about it, aren't you? You love that damn beautiful and talented Leonardo DiCaprio, but you liked his performance in this so much better than in that. You're talking about it. And that latest, controversial war movie? You thought it was totally misdirected, while every other schmo accepted it as the God's honest truth. You're talking about it. You're all thinking about it. You can feast on the occasional thoughtless movie when you need a break from the tired cranking of your mental wheels, but more than we realize, the movies don't entertain us, they prompt us to think. That is their beauty, even when they're ugly.

The other Jekyll and Hyde in this scenario is the artistic, impassioned face of the finished product contrasted with the beastly bitch of hard work, seemingly unimaginative studio big wigs who rehash for cash, and the spiritual and physical casualties that go into and result from show business. As someone who has witnessed this first hand, there is no more astounding conundrum than trying to be an "artiste" in a system that runs on numbers and figures. It is incongruous, yet one hand must always wash the other. For those that make it, a little of themselves must be sold, because the reality of this situation is that show business is just business. It is just another job. The erotic pose on the silver screen isn't felt on the soundstage when the boom guy is hovering over your carefully covered extremeties so he can record your synthesized moans appropriately. The smiling faces in interviews are literally gritting their teeth, because they are so tired of going through the grind and being marched before the commercial camera to promote promote promote their latest film or show, which it turns out, is just a product, as are they.

When the sometimes critical but mostly white-washed gossip of Hedda

Hopper and Louella Parsons was interrupted by scandalous rag mags

like Confidential... the pillars of Mt. Olympus started shaking.

But we know this, because we see the self destruction. We "ooh" and "aah" at how beautiful Julianne Moore looks this year at the Oscars, but we do this while flipping through the article regarding Lindsay Lohan's latest arrest. The former is a train wreck, but my God, she didn't get there in one breath. A child star pushed before the camera too young, used by her two inept parents, and far too easily introduced to the ever available valley of drugs practically sold here by street vendors, she didn't stand a chance. So few do. This town is a heart eater. As Marilyn Monroe, the undisputed authority on the subject, said: "Hollywood is a place where they'll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul." It's true. People are used for profit and discarded the minute their box-office loses value. It is a place where one is constantly judged, where your job is always on the line no matter how famous you are at the moment, and where the timeline of your career is not something you ride until your retirement but a rapidly spilling hourglass. Will it be turned over for another cycle? The temptations of easy sex, comforting highs, and erratic, violent lows are much more understandable and easier to empathize with when viewed from this angle. Yet from the outside looking in, the vantage point is always low, looking down, judging, and never comprehending how easy it is for an actor, director, writer's spirit to be broken. The industry professionals aren't champions or Gods; they are hamsters on a wheel running for their lives. Anyone who emerges from the end of this rabid, Wonderland rabbit hole in tact deserves an honorary Oscar just for surviving.

For all these contradictions, I remain mystefied and enthralled with Hollywood. It has a texture like nowhere else. Every street, every alley, every vacant lot, is brimming with tales of both life and death. I find solace at a cemetery walking among the stones and paying respect to the people who contributed to making cinema what it is. They are dead and gone, but the marked graves that confirm their previous existence somehow make them more vividly alive and seemingly still here. It draws the curtain back and reveals the flesh and bone behind the silver screen image. In every neighborhood, you will find remembrances of celebrities past (and present). I can drive past Lupe Velez's former home in Beverly Hills, and just by knowing that she once inhabited those walls, I am touched, and moved, and saddened, and invigorated. The Roosevelt, The Beverly Hills Hotel, Grauman's Chinese Theatre, The Million Dollar Theatre downtown... They are all standing tombs of history filled with the energies of ghosts, film fans, and the secret histories of so many people in so many eras-- all sandwiched together and somehow entwining and creating the collective soul that makes this town truly great. All of these inhuman artifacts are fossils of humanity, there to be laid bare and investigated, to tell us truths and teach us lessons about ourselves, just as the films this city produces.

Former Abode of Lupe Velez at 732 North Rodeo Drive. The home has been little changed

since her occupancy, but the more protective gate was added.

Of course, no other city pays such tribute to the art it forms. Only in Hollywood can you go to a screening at the Egyptian Theater and see living legend Kirk Douglas in the flesh. Only in Hollywood can you attend a Q&A session with Eva Marie-Saint. Only in Hollywood are there such dedicated and bold stage productions about Judy Garland or Marilyn Monroe by actors that are so good, you believe that you and a room of people are the in the presence of a ghost. Only in Hollywood can you attend plays starring modern celebrated performers carrying on a devotion to the craft laid down before us at the turn of the 20th Century and now taken for granted due to its availability. Ed Harris, Richard Attenborough, and John Goodman rarely make appearances in small town theaters, but here, actors who love acting continue to seek out their creativity despite the fame and fortune they've already accrued. They tread the boards where expression began before there was a camera to capture it; a place that gave birth to their initial thirst for storytelling.

Here, just as much as the industry feeds itself, the public celebrates its product. Screenings of new films, old films, silent films, forgotten films, B-films, cult classics, and film students' final projects are attended by lovers of celluloid. Hollywood may have gone commercial, it may cater to tourists in a way that is not as grandly hospitable and self-respecting as the gallant South, but at its core there is still the beating heart of is pure phenomenon. Directly on the pavement upon which you tread, there are etched reminders: Griffith was here, Garbo was here, DeMille was here, Hayworth was here. The same engine of pure drive, desire, and passion to create that brought legions of auteurs to these once barely inhabited hills still chug beneath the skin of cracked sidewalks, graffiti covered slums, and oceans of people who have forgotten the sources of magnificence at which they still marvel.

Orson Welles directs Citizen Kane and makes history.

I guess you could say that I came to Hollywood for its beauty and stayed for its soul. You know how they say, "You are attracted to a person's perfections, and you fall in love with his flaws?" That is the love I have for La La Land, which is coincidentally the same love we all have for it. Our fascination may have been instigated by the initial excitement of technological gimmickry and the glossy finish of pretty people in motion, but our loyalty has remained because of the vulnerable and dangerous underbelly and profound honesty we slowly discovered both on the screen and behind the camera. Once the initial sheen faded, which it did, we would have stopped believing in Hollywood and its tall tales had they not become true. We continue our mutually co-dependent relationship with show-business like shameless addicts. We are at the mercy of what it feeds us, but it is at the mercy of our ticket purchases. Los Angeles, Hollywood, or "Tinsel Town," is the sad dog in the pound that you choose to adopt, because it is adorable in its pitiful sadness. It nurtures us, we nurture it. Thus, despite the constant, holier-than-thou critiques of outsiders or under-appreciators, I remain convinced of and fascinated with the integrity and debauchery of this town. To know it, to truly know it, is to love it. And to me, at peace in the present chaos and the painful memories surging through the veins of this naughty metropolis and powering electric lights, I can say with utter certainty that Dorothy was right: "There's no place like home."