HOT SPOTS in CA: The American Cinematheque (and the "Dark Blood" of River Phoenix)

Exterior wall of The Egyptian Theatre, home #1 to the American Cinematheque.

The benefit of living in Los Angeles is the access to all things cinema. Hollywood, as the home of the Movies, honors the industry like nowhere else. It's the perfect landing place for movie hounds, as it has countless venues for junkies to choose from when selecting where and when they want to see what. Grauman's Chinese (now TLC-- the learning channel???), the Egyptian, the Silent Movie Theater, Old Town Music Hall, the Laemmle chain, LACMA, AMPAS, Fairfax Regency, Cinespia at the cemetery, etc, are some of the community's darlings. They screen the classics, the forgotten jewels, the restored, the cult favorites, whatever your flavor is. Each locale has its own personality and generally cheaper seats than the average movie chain, which only plays the latest block-bruiser. Depending on the monthly menu or retrospective that's happening, one can pretty much spread herself around like a celluloid slut (Oh, I get mine, trust me) and take advantage of experiencing films on the big screen-- the way they were meant to be seen and increasingly aren't.

The American Cinematheque has been in operation since 1981 and is a non-profit organization that presents films, historical or cinematically related lectures, and guest appearances at both the Egyptian and Aero Theatres. The Egyptian is much more notorious (and right in the center of Hollywood), as it was one of Sid Grauman's many over-embellished movie palaces. Renovated and technologically modernized, the interior has changed quite a bit. For example, the seats used to stretch from the screen all the way to the entry door, as there was no popcorn and thus no concession stands in the early days. However, remnants of the former glory remain, and much of the original artwork has been restored. The hieroglyphics outside and ornate pattern detail on the entry ceiling, as well as the still impressive ceiling décor in the theater itself, provide a bit of forgotten ambiance, though the result is nowhere near the original splendor. The Egyptian typically gives tours of the theater and screens a brief documentary called "Forever Hollywood" at least once a month on Saturday, if not every other Saturday, in addition to its many other screenings and programs.

The Egyptian Theatre ~ 6712 Hollywood Blvd. ~ Los Angeles, CA 90028

As its sister theater, the Aero directs its focus into honoring all the different filmmakers, performers, and genres by featuring varying retrospectives, whether these reference the cinema of various countries, time periods, movements, what-have-you. The look of the theater is less exciting and historically relevant than the Egyptian. Aside from the brightly lit marquee, the building is thoroughly contemporary. It's charm lies in the unlikely films it presents, as well as the plethora of celebrity guests it hosts for Q&A sessions regarding particular films. Anyone from Eva Marie Saint to Jane Campion and the Cast of Bright Star may show up, and the movie house plays everything from The Unknown (1927) to The Harder They Come (1972). Located between Brentwood and Santa Monica, it's a bit of a hidden treasure on the West side, and the intimate attendance at most screenings makes one (#me) feel like a member of a very select club-- the Cinemat 'Pack, huzzah!

The Aero Theatre ~ 1328 Montana Avenue ~ Santa Monica, CA 90403

Most recently, just prior to the 20th anniversary of River Phoenix's death, I was fortunate enough to attend a screening at the Aero of his last, uncompleted film with director George Sluizer: Dark Blood. The "lost film" is always a dagger in the heart to flicker aficionados, and-- similarly to James Dean-- River's premature death certainly makes every product of his work more precious. (He would pass away due to a drug overdose in the early morning hours of Halloween, collapsing on the street outside The Viper Room). As the film was left 10 filming days short, there are missing scenes from the finished project, as well as some that Sluizer had to remove due to their lack of coherence within the limited final product. Working with what he had, the director was able to save the film from destruction when the members of the Phoenix family tried to seize it and Ted Turner, the studio, et al refused to refinance further shooting/editing. It took the director some time to face this past demon, but he used the money from his own pocket to put the piece together, restoring the film himself, adding voiceover dialogue where needed to explain missing sequences, and editing the remaining images into a fluid and somehow fittingly detached but provocative story.

Poster handed out at the October 29th screening.

The plot follows a vacationing couple as they travel through the deserts of Arizona (actually Utah, I believe-- the cinematography alone is enough to make the film worth seeing). The brash and irreverent Buffy (Judy Davis) and her stoic but silently boiling actor-husband Harry (Jonathan Pryce) wind up stranded in the middle of nowhere after their vintage car breaks down. The playful tension between the couple quickly takes on a more sinister edge in this isolation, revealing the truth behind their disintegrating marriage. When Buffy spots and hikes toward a distant light in the hills, she finds the small cabin/tee-pee of a character known only as Boy (Phoenix), who takes the couple in and promises to fix their car and see them safely to their next destination. Unfortunately, their three lives become violently entangled as Boy's attraction to Buffy becomes not only threateningly potent but fearfully dominating, his obsession over her creating an oppressive atmosphere, which is only fueled by the sinister history of their surroundings...

The story takes place in the space formerly used as a nuclear testing site by the U.S. government. Many people, including Boy's young wife, died of cancer as a result of the contamination. Certain areas remain condemned-- sad, dusty ghost towns with the lingering stench of death upon them. This stain of history is echoed by the stain in Boy's blood. He is a quarter Native American-- his grandfather married a white woman. Additionally, said grandfather was allegedly an incredibly unbalanced and depressive personality. As such, Boy carries on this "dark blood." Proud of his heritage and unapologetically bitter against the yuppies who destroyed and forgot this wasted land, he frequently bursts out venomous torrents of his own invented wisdom. Crafting Kachina dolls to adorn his handmade bomb shelter-- complete with an extensive candelabra that doubles as a library (you have to see it to believe it)-- he knows that the great wave of man's error will come again. When it does, he wishes to go underground, taking Buffy with him to create a new age of man-- one totally pure and within his control.

Judy Davis and River in Boy's romanticized fall-out shelter of delusion. As she stares
at his altar of hand-made Kachina dolls, she is mesmerized by the deep focus and 
care he has put into this creation and turned on by his deepening fixation on her.
Allegedly, Davis was a nightmare to work with, and she and River were mutually
intimidated by each other, but there is a depth to their love
scenes that is quite compelling.

River is amazing in the role. Wavering between a raging, crazy old man in a 22-year-old's body and an innocent and vulnerable child, he uses his spiritual conspiracy theories to protect him from the loneliness of his isolation and status as an existential cast-away. He believes that he has willed Buffy to him, and when he delivers this information to her, you believe it. Judy Davis, as his increasingly willing and then terrified prey, is equally remarkable, providing layers of sexual tension and surprising softness that escalate into moments of sheer panic. Pryce, for his part, is the frustrated "white man," lost in the maze of his country's past poisons, cleverly exemplified as he literally wanders in the canyons of the desert, desperate to be freed of this collective residual guilt, but unable to escape it until it has had its vengeance on him. The film truly is something 'dark.' Mysterious, poetic, jarring, unexpected... It takes the viewer to places he or she perhaps doesn't want to go, but the voyage of this macabre Odyssey somehow rings so true that one can't help but be on the side of its surprising anti-hero, even when he rattles your bones.

In addition to watching the film, the Q&A with the now 90-year-old Sluizer proved very informative and equally soul-fulfilling, as his recollections, struggles, and triumphs revealed a lot about the process of bringing the film to the screen and additionally honored his departed friend. Also in attendance was author Gavin Edwards, who was signing copies of his recently released biography Last Night at the Viper Room: River Phoenix and the Hollywood He Left Behind. This, as with most awesome Hollywood book related events-- including another past Kirk Douglas one I attended at the Egyptian-- was provided by the Larry Edmunds Bookshop. (Keep your eye on these guys. They host cool things all the time). 

Oh this? This is Kirk Douglas' autograph. On my book. That I own.
This is why AC and LEB are awesome.

So, for those living in the area or those hoping to visit, you can add this to your list of things to do in Hollywood. This city can be as annoying as the traffic jams are long, but as my depictions of the aforementioned theaters hopefully prove, there is this one great condolence: there is absolutely no reason one should ever, ever be bored in L.A. La Land.

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."

MENTAL MONTAGE: Say what???

All they needed was a good father figure: the Dead End Kids pose during  

Angels with Dirty Faces. Jim Cagney rarely played family guy roles, and

his relationship with these characters is perhaps the closest he ever

came.

As much as we love our dear stars, they too make mistakes. Despite their grand, seemingly impenetrable reputations, they are in fact fallible, flawed, dare I say, "human." Even some of the celebrities I adore the most have at times exhibited such uncharacteristic and "off" behavior that it sort of left me doing the dumb dog look-- the ol' head tilted, one eyebrow up, "huh?" kinda thing. While occassional, deviant star behavior hasn't turned me against anyone, the consternation at the discrepancy between the perfect individual I had imagined and their imperfect actions does make an impact. At the very least, it reveals another level to the idol, which in turn only makes him or her more fascinating. Just when you think you have someone figured out, you realize you don't. Here is a cluster of out-of-character moves some of my favorite screen stars have made. After getting over the original irked feeling I received upon these discoveries, I was left trying to wrap my brain around them, and eventually I was able to conclude what I felt to be the source of their surprising, quirky moves. To err is devine...


JAMES CAGNEY & HIS CHILDREN

Perhaps of all the guffaws I've encountered, this one most particularly made me go, "Who? What? Why?!" James Cagney (right) came from a big, gregarious and supportive family. A warm and nurturing man himself, it only made sense that he want to become a father and pass on the same familial tidings to his own young brood. Well, apparently the will was there but the follow-through was weak. Jim had wanted children for some time, but discovered that he was sterile, so to fulfill his parental destiny he and wife Frances adopted two children, son Jim, Jr. in 1940, followed shortly by daughter Casey. While the outcome is not as notorious as the Joan Crawford/Mommie Dearest episode, it was far from a happy ending. See, Junior and Casey didn't even live in the same house as Jim and Frances! They had their own cottage out back, where they were mostly looked after by their own housekeeper. Jim was always kind to them and saw them when he could, but since he was a busy man focused on his work, he rarely had time to indulge full-time in a father-child relationship. Frances would claim that they built the house simply so the children would not be in the way while Jim learned his lines and prepared for the next day's shoot. He needed quiet and the space to focus and craft his characters. Obviously, one can understand that Jim was a busy man who was very dedicated to his art, but he too was a homebody. He never really went out unless to meet his buddies in the "Irish Mafia," so a normal domestic style would seem in keeping with his personality. It doesn't add up. So, what's the deal Jimbo? Why even adopt the kids if you don't want a real family?


DIAGNOSIS: The jury is still out on this one, but there are hints into the peculiar nature of Jim's home life. The only apparent glitch in the Cagney family system that raised a red flag was the relationship between his mother and siblings vs. his wife. Apparently, Frances aka "Willie" never fully got along with the rest of the Cagney clan. One suspects that this was because she and matriarch Carrie Cagney were both strong women vying for Jim's attention. When family get-togethers were had, Jim was always happy to go, but Willie was rarely invited, and when she was, she still didn't attend. Being the driving force behind Jim and his career, on paper it seems like Willie was a controlling, dominating woman-- albeit a devoted one. There is no argument that she deeply loved Jim, and indeed it was her suggestion that they even adopt in the first place. Unfortunately, she soon found that parenting wasn't her style. It is remembered by friends that Jim was always closer to the children than Willie. It is also recalled that Willie had a bit of a temper-- a trait which neighbors would witness from time to time-- while Jim always remained level and calm. For Willie, Jim came first, and clearly, the kids were a distant second. Perhaps, it was truly Willie who liked her space? Perhaps she convinced Jim that it would be better if the kids lived out back in their own house and left them to themselves? But then, it seems cruel to simply blame "the wife." Who knows... Since Jim was always kind to neighborhood kids and his pals' children, he clearly wasn't some emotionless monster. Whatever the cause of the odd decision, the result was not good. Both Junior and Casey became emotionally estranged from their adoptive parents as a result of their detached upbringing.


LON CHANEY & HIS FAN MAIL

Every movie lover has their number one favorite: the star that he or she thinks hung the moon. If one lives outside of Hollywood, the chances of seeing this personality in person are slim to none, so there are very few places one can turn for fanatic satisfaction: the theater, the movie magazine, or... the fan letter. As film personalities in the early days of cinema slowly turned into those glowing figures that we now know as movie stars, the desire to reach out and touch one became, well, Paramount in an avid viewer's mind. The need to make contact with or forge a connection with someone valued as larger than life could be an obsession to some, and soon enough random guys and gals began picking up their pens to write gushing letters to all the Gods and Goddesses on Mt. Olympus. Some were ridiculous, others erotic, some crazy, but most were just honest indications from a grateful public that one's screen work was affecting lives. It is always difficult to go out on a limb and open your heart to someone, especially someone you admire, but every day hundreds of people took the chance and crossed their fingers that their favorite "One" would respond to them with some token of him or herself: a photo, an autograph, or even a reply! In all his years, Lon Chaney (left in The Blackbird), who was one of the biggest and most worshipped of all film personalities, rarely ever answered his fan mail. He could often be seen toting his latest large bag of fan letters to the nearest dumpster bin, thus depositing numerous broken hearts into his "high-priced secretary." Why the cold shoulder Lon? Don't you love the fans that love you?


DIAGNOSIS: This one is fairly understandable when you break it down. Considering the number of fan letters Lon was certain to have gotten in a week, plus the amount of time he spent working, it is doubtful that he had any real time to go through his numerous letters. Nor did any other star for that matter. Taking exception to people like Mae West, Joan Crawford, or John Wayne, who lived for their fans, very few celebrities actually took the time to sit down and sift through their fan mail and send personal responses. Occassionally, one may respond to a letter here or there, but let's face it: the majority of autographed pictures sent from the studios were signed by an assistant, not the star himself. In addition, Lon was never in the business for the adulation. It was a job. Pure and simple. He publicly stated that he believed performers should pay more attention to their work and less to their fan mail, which he considered an inaccurate measuring stick for one's popularity. While he certainly respected the fans that kept food on his table, he was always uncomfortable with fantaticism. His dark brown eyes were notorious for boring holes into strangers with a pondering, "All right bub, what's the agenda?" He didn't want to either feed into the idea that he was extraordinary nor play the celebrity game of inflated egos begging for attention. He wanted too to maintain his station as the man of mystery, not just as a publicity coup, but because he sincerely wished for a private life away from the set. When the director yelled "cut," that's just what he did: cut and run. So, while it may make one chafe that he wasn't more attentive to his fans, you can't really blame him either. In person, he was always warm and pleasant, but he didn't suffer fools gladly and he even moreso tried to prevent himself from looking like one.


CARY GRANT & HIS AUTOGRAPH

In the same vein as Lon and his fan mail was Cary Grant's (right) reaction to his live fans. A strange phenomenon occurred later in Cary's career when he was accosted by a salivating worshiper. When asked for his John Hancock, he would ask for 25 cents. Eh? What's that? Yeah, I know. I had the same reaction. Why in God's name would a man who had more money than God ask for 25 God darned cents? It seems inconceivable that the man who was so light-hearted, charismatic, and often goofy in his films could be such a miser. In fact, it became a bit of a running joke in Hollywood that he was, for lack of a better word, a cheapskate. In effect, he was in life what comedian Jack Benny played on screen. Of course, there is no harm in knowing the value of a dollar, and in fact it's an admirable quality, but the whole concept of charging fans seems to be a bit overkill. One wonders what happened to the people that didn't happen to have a quarter on them. Did they just glumly skulk away? Were there revolts? Tears? Tirades?! The contrast between the witty, warm and caring pal that Hollywood friends recall and the man who would make such a demand of his fans-- who equally adored him-- seems a pill too hard to swallow. What's the deal Cary? Are you as cold-hearted as all that? Should we change your name to Ebenezer Grant?

DIAGNOSIS: From the lips of Eva Marie Saint: "He felt if you put a price tag around your neck, people appreciated you more." What few seem to realize about Cary is that he wasn't born the suave, polished dominant male force he appeared to be on the screen. His childhood memories were as bleak and cold as the chilly British air that used to freeze him to his bones. Little Archie Leach would lose his mother when she was placed in a mental facility for her chronic depression. He was then abandoned by his father when he found a new wife and family. Lonely, hungry and with no desire to finish school, Archie just wanted to escape, which he did when he joined a vaudeville troupe and hooked a ship to the US of A in 1920. After more struggles in the acting world, his determination to make something of himself and shake away the melancholy of his past paid off. After being handpicked by Mae West for a plum role in her first major film She Done Him Wrong, the new Cary Grant took off professionally and never looked back. But, his impoverished childhood always haunted him, and while he was secretly very charitable, he too had a reputation for being tight with a penny. Yet, while Eva's assessment can thus be considered accurate-- that Cary wanted to both maintain his position and prove his worth, while making a bit of a profit-- he too, I believe, used this tactic as a form of protection. Proud of his accomplishments, but always insecure of himself, he would once quip: "Everyone wants to be Cary Grant. I want to be Cary Grant." He wasn't joking. Public attention, while appreciated, also made him uncomfortable, as if sooner or later the fans were going to catch on that he was just a hack in a fancy suit. Thus, the 25 cent deversion tactic became a way to keep the wolves at bay. Hell, I woulda paid it. He was worth much more!



KATE HEPBURN VS. GINGER ROGERS

Katharine Hepburn (left) was considered by many in the film industry, and outside it as well, to be a person of considerable loyalty and strength. The number of times she was called upon to help a friend, a random acquaintance, or even a complete stranger are numerous, a fact that I have recorded in past blogs (see example here ). Her optimistic spirit and sturdy, level-head made her the typical Taurus-gal, which may explain why, while others came and went, lost their careers, or succumbed to mental or physical ailments, Kate always seemed to be as happy and healthy as a horse-- or rather stubborn bull. There too are accounts of her coming off a bit haughty, which is a characteristic she put to brilliant use in films such as Stage Door and The Philadelphia Story. She could rub a more sensitive person the wrong way, merely because she was a bit distant-- flinty. While on the screen she let her emotions unravel, in life she seemed to lead with her head not her heart. She was a woman of wit and gumption, not warmth and tears. Yet the lives she touched and the impact she made is extraordinary, which makes the memories of Ginger Rogers seem so peculiar. Apparently, the two had a bit of a competition going on, although both would deny it. As the top female stars at RKO during their mutual reign, the press made much of their alleged clash of egos, but how factual this rivalry was is debatable. However, while Kate kept mum, Ginger did let loose a couple tales of "off" Kate behavior. One episode recalled Kate kicking Ginger in the shin during a screen test for Mary of Scotland. Another account has Kate tossing a glass of water at Ginger's new mink coat to see whether or not it was "genuine" fur. Ginger expressed no hate at these deeds, but rather consternation. Why the hate, Kate? What did lil' Ginger Snapper ever do to you?

DIAGNOSIS: I think this one comes down to a simple and unfortunate misunderstanding. As Kate is one of my all time favorites, it is natural for me to want to jump to her defense, but I don't think such a inclination is unfounded. Proof in her past shows that she truly was a woman of good character and selflessness. Thus, the strange Ginger fiasco remains a pickle. However, I think it can be traced back to the original incident on Mary of Scotland. At the time, Ginger (right) was sick of playing the same roles over and over and wanted to prove that her talents went beyond her taps. So, she finagled a "fake" audition for the role of Elizabeth Tudor in the film opposite Kate. Ginger was known for her pranks, and with the help of director John Ford, she planned to come do the screen test in makeup under the alias Lady Ainsley in order to convince producer Pandro Berman that she was right for the part.When she hit the set, no one recognized her, except of course Ford and Kate-- who would be doing her "audition" scene with her and had been let in on the scheme. Ginger could sense that Kate wasn't happy, and when they started going through their dialogue, suddenly Kate let out: "Who do you think you're fooling?" and kicked Ginger beneath the table. As this came out of nowhere, I can only imagine that Kate felt that Ginger's shenanigan was devised merely to cause trouble and unnecessarily slow production. She probably thought the whole thing was a gag and was unaware that Ginger was serious about obtaining the role, a theory that Ginger's elaborate wardrobe and fake name encouraged. A pro, such a waste of time certainly miffed Kate, though perhaps she overreacted when showing Ginger where she stood. Ginger didn't get the role, needless to say, and Elizabeth was played by Florence Eldridge.

The RKO divas size each other up in Stage Door.

However, with this bad blood already between them, Kate must have formed the opinion that Ginger was an attention-hungry wise-ass, more interested in fame and games than doing good work. This would explain why she took pleasure in the second event. Ginger had stopped beneath George Stevens's office window on the lot to say "hello" and show off her new coat when Kate jokingly tossed out the water, probably thinking it funny that the superficial diva's silly new coat was in jeopardy-- though as a real mink it obviously went unharmed. The humor did not translate. Ginger made a few efforts over the years to get Kate to warm up to her, though the two would never be friends. Yet, over time, it appears that Kate did soften, perhaps finally realizing that Ginger was a good egg and not the miscreant she had originally thought her to be. When Ginger beat her out for the Oscar, winning for Kitty Foyle against Kate's comeback role in The Philadelphia Story, Kate sent a nice letter of congratulations, and publicly stated that she thought Ginger's performance had been great. Perhaps this event alone proved to her that Ginger was indeed a serious actress. Yet, it may just be a good, ol' fashioned cat fight, which, sadly, all females engage in at one time or another. After all, the two were polar opposites playing the same game: they both were engaged to Howard Hughes at different points, starred in films to equal acclaim, and perhaps just rubbed each other the wrong way. Since Kate never let us in on her side, and we only have Ginger's recollections to go by, it also leaves the question of how trustworthy our narrator is. After all, despite the fact that Ginger was a naturally sweet and well-liked person, no party is completely innocent in a feud. She quite possible could have done something equally out of character to peeve Kate off. In the end, it doesn't really matter since both women walked away equal winners, box office champions, and eternal film idols. The history of film would be lacking without either them, and at least their confrontations make said history more interesting.