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.

HISTORY LESSON: Man Enough? Part 2 - The Studio Era

Continued from Part 1 - Silents

William Powell represents the depression-era man in My Man Godfrey,
a film that showcased the struggle of masculinity through the dark age 
and, finally, his triumph: mind over matter, always with comedy.

... And then, the storm came. As the silent era dissipated like yesterday’s old dreams, the talkie revolution stepped in. Simultaneously, the Great Depression would hit. America would feel the full effects of both phenomena, but not immediately. Life continued on clumsily in the ignorance that tragedy could be averted while the movies tried to learn to speak. It would take man awhile to notice the desperation of the concurrent financial disaster, just as the cinematic medium used the period for experimentation, slowly trying to re-establish what exactly it was doing. As men, breadwinners, and former tough guys, started getting laid off, the male ego took a real blow. The movies valiantly saved the day, becoming one of the only successful businesses during this period. Why? They gave guys their guts back. The male archetype on film hollered, screamed, and took no prisoners. The early ‘30s were ruled by cavemen. With a finger on the slowing pulse of manhood, the leading men started to holler at the world and beat their chests, and the movies really started to scream...

The thirties introduced men with equal parts spit and polish, glamour and grit. They were dapper-- to counteract the cloud of poverty-- and dangerous-- to compensate for the national feeling of powerlessness. The Gangster took shape, introducing the era's only comprehensible form of the prosperous male: the criminal. If you couldn’t make an honest buck, you could make millions of them dishonestly. Crime was the only thing that paid. The world that slapped the populace in the face was, therefore, was about to get bitch-slapped right back. James Cagney (left in The Public Enemy) made his fierce entry into the medium alongside George Raft and Edward G. Robinson, birthing the contemporary embodiment of the American Dream turned Nightmare, while somehow inspiring hope. Mirroring the growing public desperation, these ultimate underdogs got scrappy. They would lie, cheat, or steal to get ahead, and somehow beat their own bad rap by getting “badder.” 

Iconic films like Angels with Dirty Faces and Little Caesar produced a new, unlikely hero. Suddenly, audiences were sympathizing with the bad guy, who indeed was (at least initially) morally irredeemable. These "gents" were not your token, attractive guys either. Robertson’s bull-dog face only made him fill the shoes more ably of his internally ugly characters. Paul Muni as the original Scarface used cosmetics and body padding to make himself look absolutely Cro-Magnon in the role (right). These were the internal beasts coming out to play who, in a time of deprivation, took any and everything they wanted on behalf of their viewers, who had little more than their theater tickets to give them solace. By screwing the system that screwed them and defying the law with every breath, these guys filled their pockets with cash, dressed to the nines, and bathed in champagne. 

George Brent manhandles Barbara Stanwyck's "tramp"
in The Purchase Price.

They also had any woman they wanted-- those who wouldn’t have given them the time of day under normal circumstances. Money bought happiness. These “dames,” who were only looking for the highest bidder, were purchased like posh gold watches and discarded instead of rewound when they became outdated. It was about building from the ground up, after all. You have to drop the dead weight on the way to better things. As each gangster ascended, he dropped the “sluts” he had picked up along the way as soon as a better one came along. Mobsters weren’t into emotional investment. They wanted the best-- now. They also made certain to show a woman who was boss. Who can forget Cagney pushing that grapefruit into Mae Clarke’s face? The message was clear, “Keep your mouth shut and your legs spread.” This pumped up the ego while humiliated men fell in stature down the familial food chain, their wives taking on jobs to help out the family finances. It reestablished their position as the patriarch.

Edward G. Robinson as "Little Caesar."

Why did the public respond so heartily to these guys? Aside from the obvious cathartic release for men who could watch and live vicariously, the acting and writing of the time was so superb that the villains were given astounding humanity, however corrupted. These men were complicated. As lascivious as they may have been, audiences also saw the little boys within them-- their "holy" spirits may have been broken after living in the gutter, but the stars were still in their eyes. They also lived in constant fear, however well hidden behind their tough guy facades. Constantly hunted by the feds or competing thugs, there was a big, red target on each of their backs. An enemy could take them out at any minute, even when they were simply doing all they could to survive. Nothing in life is free, and while they may have left a trail of blood behind them, they bore their own scars and took their own hits. It’s a dog eat dog life... The interesting and scandalous layers of their personas, peppered in the subtext of the writing, also enriched their stories. Robinson’s homoerotic friendship with Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. in Little Caesar or Paul Muni’s uncomfortable and possessive relationship with his sister (Ann Dvorak ) in Scarface illuminated the multiple cracks in the impenetrable male facade. They were fascinating, dark, disturbed, and disturbingly real.

Clark Gable's "Babe Stewart" checks
something out at the library- Carole
Lombard- representing a healthy,
male, sexual appetite and the
norm of objectification.

Clark Gable was also a hoodlum and racketeer, strong arming Norma Shearer in A Free Soul and scheming his way to the top in San Francisco or China Seas. He too was portrayed as a rough and tumble guy whose good fortune was his good looks. His cocky manner generally presented itself with more suavity than his super-mafia brothers. He was a disrespectful, respectable self-made man. He played a little dirty, but he often found absolution in the end, generally in the arms of a woman, whom he had cleaned himself up to properly protect. His masculinity was therefore defined both by his abilities to be a provider but also to "fly right." He acted a bit as the bridge between the depression’s beginning and its end, his characters always being a bit edgy and unattainable but still able to outgrow their selfishness to settle down in a modern way with an equally broken but secretly angelic woman. By the end of the roaring gangster era, he maintained his macho yet became more innately decent. Even "Rhett Butler" became a family man. Still, whether playing house with Myrna Loy in Wife vs. Secretary or bad guy made good in Hold Your Man opposite Jean Harlow or No Man of Her Own opposite Carole Lombard, he showcased a man whose hands were dirty but at heart was a well-hidden, good guy. His great victory was triumphing over his circumstances and shedding his bad boy skin to become a real man. His “manliness” and his eventual passion and responsibility for his chosen woman made him catnip to the ladies as well.

Man's man Bogie roughs up the effeminate Peter Lorre,
and puts the "bitch" in his place in The Maltese
Falcon.

Of course, there were different varieties of men in this period. Muni and Spencer Tracy were the symbolic martyrs of fallen men, churning out socially conscious pictures like I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang or Fury. Tracy's dominance in this particular field would continue throughout his career, portraying compelling figures battling changing sociopolitical tides. He remains a master in the craft, and his version of the American male would transcend and mature with the ever-changing world. Errol Flynn and Tyrone Power were the caution-be-damned, overgrown boy heroes (in tights) who maintained our optimism in the face of danger. Their spirits sharpened our belief systems and our personal quest for poetic justice, "with a little sex thrown in." Bogie led the noir revolution, establishing a man with his own definitions of morality and right and wrong. He was a bad guy who was a good guy, solving crimes with unnecessary roughness and street smarts. He also maintained his manhood by defeating the femme fatale, drawing a hard line between the sexual and the romantic. He saw to it that the man wore the pants and equally took it upon himself to take down the villain. His "Gal Friday," in contrast to the sexy succubus trying to drain him of his power, was protected purely because of her submission, even as she also took on harder edges like Lauren Bacall. The harsh world that had changed him had to accept him, warts and all, and this was exemplified by this attentive and never deterred Gal Friday. His damaged goods but wizened hero helped pave the way to fiscal and social “normalcy” as the depression eased up. However, the noir shadows he brought along with him would always indicate the ghosts of our past. He was the face of an aged America.

Captain America, Gary Cooper, in The Pride
of the Yankees, the morale boosting war-
time film that promoted wholesome
values through the great national
pastime of baseball.

There too were more romantic moral compasses, like James Stewart, Henry Fonda, or Gary Cooper, whose messages of righteousness started to increasingly transcend the domestic sphere and get political, particularly as the thirties became the forties. Their all-American heroes, by promoting “all-American ideals,” portrayed the prototypical male as one bound by duty, country, and integrity. Films like Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, The Ox-Bow Incident, etc, presented fighters for truth, justice, and the American way, even when the hero was a humble guy who bore less muscle than the formerly prosperous, gun-toting gangster. The interesting William Powell provided the ideal modern husband, as the often half-drunk but always charming "Nick Charles" of The Thin Man series. He solved crime and made love to his wife, triumphing over the horror of life by accepting it as the greatest gag ever played-- not to be taken seriously. In essence, he laughed in the face of danger. As WWII gained steam and our country’s participation in it became inevitable (after the Pearl Harbor horror), redefining America as something worth saving became the dominant concern. We needed unsung heroes to finally be heard. Their message-- that we were all going to be all right-- was vital to morale as our villains switched masks from the government, the Man, or the tax-man to the foreigner.

War heroes fighting for freedom, women, and country, filled theaters as men (including some of our stars) took to the skies and propaganda took wing. Mr. America himself led the way. John Wayne (right) had long been wearing the badge and toting the pistol of the unofficial Sheriff of the United States. His characters became increasingly rugged and uncompromising in their unbreakable defense of liberty. His cowboys and soldiers, whether at their most pure-hearted in his early career (Stagecoach, Flying Tigers) or bitter toward his later career (The Searchers, The Green Berets) were symptomatic of man’s need to hold onto his own patch of earth, fighting for it to the teeth. As the cowboy, he was more of a drifter, and a somewhat Godless one at that. His religion, always, was freedom. As the soldier, this religion became wider in scope-- from the open plain to the entirety of the country-- as he guided men abroad, defending his personal definition of human rights and taking down whatever foreigner was threatening his sense of safety. Increasingly politically incorrect and thick-skinned as the years progressed, he was the Uncle Sam holding onto ideals that remain cemented in our culture. He made the United States feel safe to contemporary audiences. His unmannerly, unforgiving and, by modern standards, skewed perception of reality, was consistently saved by the palpable sadness he carried within him, again creating for men a man with a hidden depth. Buried emotions-- the refusal to be interpreted as a “sissy”-- were the glue that held America together. This submergence may harden the man, but it saved his brothers. So, the gangster became the soldier, still pointing a gun, the ultimate symbol of masculine power, to create and maintain the intimidating fortress of the United States. 

Jimmy Stewart made a career representing and fighting for the little guy. An
average looking and awkward sounding fellow, he was an underdog who
somehow made a home for himself as a bona fide leading man. The
messages in his films-- fighting passionately for truth and mankind
in general-- left people with the pleasing sensation that integrity
would win out in the end, no matter the circumstances.

Thanks in part to these films, America would entertain this necessarily self-centered focus for some time. Men were never as large as they were in the Studio Era. While the United States quaked under the pressures of the economy and then the second World War, we created larger than life heroes to bear the brunt of our desperation and rescue us from Hell on earth. Our men got dirtier, a little nastier, but they too became a little more authentic. There was truth-telling going on beneath the studio finessed perfection. While Hollywood was already veering toward its reliance on handsome faces, the cracks and flaws of man were becoming more visible, all of their howling, shooting, and manhandling covering up the paranoia they experienced at the loss of their livelihood and therefore their manhood. The variations of these different male prototypes has solidified them in history as the ultimate personality stars. None will ever be as famous as these guys, nor so important to upholding the mirage of Americana. However, as times changed, and as new threats appeared in the apple blossom gardens of American Eden-- the brief quiet following the war-- new movies with new heroes would lead us into another chapter. The biggest threat to man's sacrosanct structuring and exhibiting of the domestic bliss of the nuclear family would be one Hell of an atomic bomb: the "method" actor.

To Be Continued in the Final Chapter-- Method to the Modern

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. 

MORE

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)

HISTORY LESSON: TV Movie [Stars] - Part 1

Olivia De Havilland contributed to Bette Davis's surprise when the latter lady

 was a special guest on the popular television program "This Is Your Life." 

Laurel and Hardy, Johnny Cash, and Jayne Mansfield were 

also participants, although not always gladly!

The transition of dull civilian life to devoted cinema spectatorship was not an overnight process. It started as a tingle and grew into an earthquake that left many a movie theater but nary a vaudeville circuit in its wake. In 40 years, we went from ogling the naughty motion photography of hopping, bathing, and leapfrogging male and female nudes (oh, Eadweard Muybridge, you rapscallion you!) to staring in thunderstruck admiration at the Oberammergau Passion Play of 1898, which was the first commercially produced motion picture, (thank you German Cinema professor of 2003), to being hysterically enraptured by the intricate comic wizardry of Charlie Chaplin in The Circus. The year 1928 would be another big one in film, for this year proved that our artistic and technological innovation was growing at just as rapid a speed as our increasing appetite for entertainment. Fittingly, sound brought the boom that turned the industry on its head. Talkies made Silents a thing of the past in less than two years. As in the first "box office" crash with the advent of film-- does Digby Bell ring any bells today?-- it was only the members of the entertainment community that suffered. Some evolved and some didn't, wouldn't, or couldn't. 

Eadweard Muybridge's studies in motion photography did much to further the process of
 turning still photographs to motion pictures. He later used his expertise to do popular
"motion studies" regarding the naked form. There doesn't seem to be any record
of male audiences reacting negatively to bounding breasts in motion. 

To be fair, Eadweard featured  men too, including himself-- 

naked as a jay bird.

Following Hollywood's golden age, history would repeat itself yet again with the next great innovation, the birth of the television set, which-- like film itself-- started slowly in the late forties and found itself in half of all households by the mid-fifties. The celebrity reaction was the same as ever. Some denied; some jumped on the gravy train. Some bowed out of the biz gracefully; others fell on their faces. Some disappeared; others found a new generation of viewers and a second run at fame. We are arguably going through another cycle of media reconstruction as the computer increasingly takes the place of both film and television by offering a new medium for both options-- often for free. As per usual, the stars are suffering, in that there aren't really any left-- at least none who rule with as much magnitude as their predecessors (see old article here). When a God becomes too accessible, He transforms from a golden idol into last year's fad-- what once was as exciting as the invention of the light bulb thus becomes as ridiculous in retrospect as the slap bracelet.

In any case, the following Movie Gods and Goddesses were able to make the transition from big-screen to small-screen-- some with dignity, others with... humdingery, but fortunately for all, their great cinematic reputations were big enough to maintain their lost luster, and history has mostly forgotten their fruitless televised efforts. Gable perhaps remains untouched, if only because he never sold in his "King" stature to become a Prince of Pabst Blue Ribbon or the Baron of Brylcreem, but as you will see, the following pack of experimental pals did all right for themselves too, even if the big gamble of the small screen wasn't always worth it.

Son, switch the dial!

Sadly, of the many who made the jump to Television, the majority were duds. Character actors often had a better shot of maintaining their careers as their sinister, comical, or otherwise malleable characterizations could easily be plugged into various series, occasional episodes, or even a permanent supporting role on TV. In some cases, smaller names were able to transcend their former B-status to become huge stars of the boob tube, some playing the lead in their own series, as in Clayton Moore aka "The Lone Ranger" (left) and George Reeves aka "Superman." Conversely, some film stars who had enjoyed a glorious hey day in the cinematic stratosphere found themselves floating into oblivion after their attempts at broadcast success. Some dipped in a toe only to gracefully retire from show-business; others made a bold attempt to board the gravy train only to be left behind. There too was a stigma attached to some stars who wandered over to TV town, for just as Television became both a welcoming place of refuge for aging movie icons-- where studios would gladly profit off their notoriety-- TV debuts could also be seen as their fall from grace: "This guy, he used to be big! Now look at him..."

One of the biggest celebs to give television a go was Judy Garland. Judy, whom Fred Astaire once dubbed "the greatest entertainer who ever lived," endured a very public series of ups and downs in her career. Overworked and doped at MGM, everyone's favorite little girl matured into a very nervous and high-strung woman. Her addictions to drugs and alcohol would remain a constant throughout her life, and it was only her love of singing that could at times propel her through her personal haze of confusion, lethargy, and man-handling, to the place where she truly shined brightest--the stage! While her (occasionally canceled) live performances kept her busy for the majority of her adulthood, she also was an always welcome surprise as a guest on various television programs. With her witty humor and hammy storytelling, Judy's reminiscences on her many interviews with TV personalities like Jack Paar (right) were consistently and thoroughly entertaining, especially to nostalgic viewers who still remembered her trip down the yellow brick road. Judy was also a notorious bull-sh*tter, and one could never be certain whether she was being honest, embellishing, or completely fabricating a grand story on the spot, but that was part of her charm-- as was her sharp but slightly naughty repartee.

Soon enough, CBS offered Judy her own show, during which she would, of course, perform songs and chat it up, as only she could, with random guests. This could have been a huge turning point in Judy's life. Looking for a chance to rebuild herself, she was ecstatic at the opportunity and, after getting healthy, was looking better than ever by the time shooting began. Fueled by optimism, she was also more cooperative than she had been in years and collaborated well with the entire production team. Fittingly, her first guest was Mickey Rooney (left)! Unfortunately, the show bit the dust when the network changed management, and suddenly Judy's natural style was not considered "suitable." To her dismay, her team was dissembled, the format was altered, and instead of being devious, genius, glamorous Judy, she was supposed to play the fallen idol who was the butt of America's joke. Her stalled career, her weight fluctuation, and her failed marriages, were regularly used to mock her on the air, to which she always brilliantly played along, but the ploy didn't work. Judy was expected to be Judy, and audiences didn't like her being brought down to earth with the mortals. As such, they stopped tuning in. As for Judy, she became severely depressed and fell back on her old patterns. It was a huge opportunity lost purely from bad business.

The good news, at least in Judy's case, though she certainly had trouble seeing it at the time, was that it wasn't her that was rejected by viewers but the show's style. A few other sufferers fell into this category, including Robert Mitchum. Bob had performed on television in various miniseries, such as "North and South," as well as in a fairly successful 1990 TV movie called "A Family for Joe" (right). The latter plot involved the coalition of four orphans who, in fear of being separated, elected a crotchety homeless man to pose as their "grandfather." Chaos, as expected, ensued. The network decided to adapt the film into a show, but as it turned out, people weren't interested in seeing Bob every week, particularly when playing an old buffoon with a heart of gold. Audiences liked his edgy versatility and reacted negatively and confusedly to his turn as a diluted, family-friendly archetype. As such, "Joe" was again rendered homeless after nine episodes. However, the show did spark the career of one Juliette Lewis. Bob and Juliette would re-team in a mere year for the Cape Fear re-make.

Errol Flynn (right) enjoyed a little more success in 1956 when he started "The Errol Flynn Theatre" anthology series-- a popular format of the time that produced weekly, unrelated stories and rotating performers. Filmed in London but aired in the United States, Errol hosted the series casually with the same, utter lack of pretension that made his small screen personality as charming as his big screen characters. He would perform in several of the episodes himself, which he also produced, and various other stars made appearances, including Christopher Lee, Paulette Goddard, Mrs. Flynn- Patrice Wymore- and even Errol's son, Sean. Always uncertain of his talents but eager to explore his range, the diverse plotlines and character roles allowed Errol to do some of his most interesting acting, which was more fitting to his years. However, Flynn was getting older, and it was perhaps for this reason that audiences didn't respond to the series. They preferred him in tights, forever young, and swashbuckling to victory. The show only lasted one season.

Jean Arthur, the Class Frown, also took a stab at the tube. After retiring from film and spending the majority of her later life on the stage-- that is, when she could muster up the courage and keep it together enough to perform-- Jean had only performed on one episode of "Gunsmoke" when she decided to go for it with her own series in 1966: "The Jean Arthur Show" (left). Always an intensely anxious and temperamental woman, Jean's inferiority complex caused problems from the very beginning. However, working against her even more was the show itself. The plot revolved around a female lawyer and her battle with a weekly case. She would always win the verdict, of course, but the style was that of heavy-handed comedy, and a little too much so. Jean's true brand of humor never derived from slap-stick nor from her being the butt of the joke. In her classic films, the laughs were much more situational wherein her wide-eyed reactions, dry humor, and iconic voice filled in the charm. As such, the context of the show and its jokes, which were far too on the nose and ridiculous, didn't work. (I said class frown, not clown, remember)? After the apparently always dependable Mickey Rooney made an appearance and upstaged Jean, she totally lost confidence, and a slew of other guest stars couldn't save her nor her show. She abandoned ship and left TV for good!

Hey, look who it is!

Changing stations, the next crew of TV trespassers were actually able to find mild success. More career-conscious entertainers and business-minded actors/actresses saw television as an opportunity as opposed to a death knell. As such, a lot of former and current stars broadened their fan base and bulked up their resumes by making the lucrative decision to join the realm of the telly. The reasons for this were both tactical and professional, examples of which can be seen in the cases of divas Barbara Stanwyck and Ann Sheridan. Neither woman opted to insult the "idiot box" with diversion, as clearly said 'box' was smart enough to get people across the nation to stare at it transfixed for hours on end. Babs was drawn to the TV-experiment more for her passionate need to work-- the all consuming drive in her life-- while Ann was just a practical and easy-going lady who was up for anything. Both of their gambles were relatively successful. Ann participated quite a bit in various shows, like "Wagon Train," or "The Lux (as in Soap) Theatre," which showcased abbreviated movies with guest stars and introduced such up and comers as Grace Kelly and James Dean to the world. An open fan of television, Ann also proudly proclaimed her love of soap operas, which she found absolutely addictive. This eventually led to her one season participation on "Another World." Her greatest success was appearing on her own series, "Pistols 'n' Petticoats" (right), though cancer would sadly claim her before the first season finished. Reviews weren't particularly friendly, unfortunately, so it is questionable whether it would have continued had she survived.

For her part, Babs-- as per usual-- hit one out of the park when she appeared on the hit television show "The Big Valley" (left) in the latter part of the sixties. Lasting four years, this show gave her a comfortable income, provided her with her favorite brand of storytelling-- the Western-- and earned her a place in broadcast history. While the show wasn't a huge sensation, it had a good run, and generations not familiar with her film work got to know her through this program. Babs continued seeking out opportunities, taking jobs here and there in the rare TV movie, but she hit her stride again with some coups in the '80s, including a guest spot on "Charlie's Angels." There was even talk of doing a male version of "Angels" with Barbara taking the role of their female Bosley! No dice (fortunately), but Babs had success with her powerful performance in the controversial mini-series "The Thorn Birds" and her participation in everyone's favorite guilty pleasure: "Dynasty." In fact, Aaron Spelling gave her her own spin-off, "The Colbys," but pro though she was, Babs found the material so ridiculous that she bailed out early. As she was aging and in poor health, she sadly would not make any more contributions. This was a painful thing for the always feisty Barbara, who became quite despondent in her last years. Her need to build and craft was denied her by her frail condition. She would confide to a friend that she had always hoped to "go out" in some wild or heroic fashion. Thus, ending her days helpless in bed was, to her, the ultimate of life's cruelties.

STAY TUNED FOR NEXT WEEK'S EXCITING CONCLUSION!!!