TAKE ONE, TWO, THREE: Yen's "Sin" - [Part 2]

... continued from Part 1's focus on Broken Blossoms-- an examination of the Chinese lover in classic cinema.

Some very daring poster art for the provocative classic,
The Bitter Tea of General Yen.

Everyone's favorite American sentimentalist, Frank Capra, left his small town ways to enter the big leagues when he pushed the themes of interracial romance to the brink in The Bitter Tea of General Yen (1933). The plot of this film is not too far removed from Broken Blossoms-- the white woman comes under the Chinaman's care-- though this time the woman is a passionate missionary out to rescue orphans, and the man is an uncompromising warlord who essentially orchestrates her abduction so he can make her his concubine. Despite appearances, the attraction between "Megan Davis" (Barbara Stanwyck) and "Gen. Yen" (Nils Asther) is mutual, but the racist ideologies that Megan possesses make it just as equally brutal. Her shame over her attraction to the "dirty Chinaman" is hidden behind her cutting, prejudicial denial of Yen's own scintillating desires. In his case, his insecurities are compensated for by his strange blend of stoic and sensual tyranny. The initial effect Yen s on Megan is shock. She seems utterly confused by the fact that he actually appears civilized-- aka  "white" in behavior-- when she and Yen meet by happenstance in an automotive collision that locks them fatalistically together. Under Capra's direction, the story is a near visual portrait of S&M.

Who else but "Stany" could portray a heroine with equal parts smoldering pleasure and pain? An actress of boiling intensity and sensual confidence, she gives Megan a depth and curiosity that slowly seeks to overcome her own misunderstandings coupled with an increasingly volcanic sexual appetite. An adventuress on her way to a boring life as a missionary's wife, it seems that Megan's only reason for choosing her fiancé was the proximity a life with him might bring her to danger and excitement-- foreign places, existential exposure, intense exploration. Dressed essentially as a wolf in lamb's clothing, Megan's thirst for life could easily lead her to a dangerous addiction, and her struggle becomes on of concealing her passion for propriety's sake. She would be labeled a perverse whore  and social disgrace were she to admit her fetish for her mysterious captor. Megan knows that her emotions, or more honestly her primal urges, are viewed as "wrong." It is incorrect to want a member of the other race. She has been taught this all her life, and she spouts the rules of decent behavior even as her eyes and body language communicate that she doesn't believe them.

Babs draws her silken robe closer to her body in Yen's presence, but
she also always looks like she's 3 seconds from ripping it off.

Nils Asther brings an interesting twist to his take on Yen. In his career, he was often chosen to play the "other" foreigner, because of his exotic, almost androgynous features and Swedish accent, which I suppose sounded Asian to  studio producers (???). He played the part of the tempting Indonesian with fellow Swede Greta Garbo in Wild Orchids (1929) and the Turkish police chief "Kadar-Pasha" in Abdul the Damned (1935) to name but two examples. His slithers into his role as the sadistic Yen well, who uses his poise and confidence to cover his learned feelings of inferiority to the white race. However, through  his over-eagerness to please Megan, Yen occasionally shows his hand, his vulnerabilities, and equally masochistic tendencies. These breadcrumbs leading to the torrent of his desire emerge in moments of desperation. Still, Yen is a mystery-- a man difficult to make out. He is part calculating, emotional strategist and part little boy who has just had his hand slapped. He is secretly intimidated by Megan just as much as he is drawn to her, thus he presents himself as an unapologetic, compassionless, and sinister beast, utterly confident in the fact that he will conquer her without having to force himself upon her. This, in turn, arouses the suppressed sex-kitten in Megan, just as her superiority and refusals arouse him.

Yen's still waters are kept calculatingly cool in order to camouflage the intensity
of his underlying passions. He appears as the token "dragon man," but he has
incredible class and patience. His mind games are traps that are impossible
to escape, because one doesn't realize she's in one until it's too late.

The sexual chess game of clean, white beauty vs. dark foreigner is one of worthless resistance. Both players refuse to be the submissive victim, and both are too tough to admit their true desire for each other. It is becomes a taut "wait out the clock" situation to see who will break first; who will first kneel to kiss the foot of the victor. As compared to Lillian Gish, Stanwyck is no girl; she's a woman, and a tough one. She may not be totally aware that her unconscious decisions have led her here, to the place of her unspoken pleasure, but she's not a fool. While she feels her fortifications falling to Yen's curious hold over her, she too knows the repercussions such an affair would bring her, and as a worldly dame she's not about to surrender her reputation for one night of objectification. With a piece of the bigotry chip on her shoulder, she is also a bit disgusted by Yen, but his strange spiritualism and mind-boggling philosophies-- which both adhere to and contradict his actions-- slowly reveal the flesh and blood man beneath the fetish. He is the dark knight of fairy tales, and it is by touching her mind and exposing it to the open world she craves as a human being that he starts winding his way around her heart.

The win of Megan's desire over her prejudice is brilliantly evidenced in the infamous dream sequence. Yen approaches her as a hideous creature of racist stereotypes-- a rat-like face, long nails, a hunched walk-- creating a terrifying, nightmarish blend of xenophobic horror. Moving like a twitching insect, he comes to her bed and puts his claw-like hands upon her. She shrinks away, but she is just as sexually fueled by the indefinite polluting of her body as she is disturbed. Her acceptance of what has been described to her as utterly filthy will actually be her ticket out of the life she finds so bland and constraining.  She partially wants to destroy herself. But, before this happens, a savior arrives as if on the apocryphal white horse to save her. Indeed, he is even dressed in white-- the pure color. The masked hero defeats the Yen sub-creature and then tosses off his own mask, which reveals Yen the man. Truth has defeated stereotype. In her fantasy, Megan abolishes all bigotry, enfolds herself in Yen's arms, and thus acknowledges the fact that He is Man, She is Woman, and the only line between them is that which she draws herself.

The Yen creature accosts Megan in her bed, a representative of all her disgusting
prejudices about the "yellow" sexual villain.

The duo are never permitted to kiss, but thanks to the films release prior to the 1934 production code, the implications of this scene are pretty damn bold and certainly made contemporary audiences of the time... uncomfortable. Though Asther is a Caucasian in make-up, stating a blatant message that a biracial relationship was A-Ok was not yet to be. Thus, the total fusion of these two very representative characters-- the Yen and the Yang (bad pun)-- had to be halted. The road block to their union is, of course, death. After Megan's eventual supplication before Yen, the reality of the game hits home. She comes to him dressed as one of his heavily make-uped and bejeweled concubines, and Stanwyck's tearfully broken performance as she applies these goods to her body, as opposed to washing herself clean, delivers perhaps the most obvious message of all. Yen, at the end of the day, is still a thing, whose touch will contaminate and make her a thing. Megan gives herself up to this. Yen, surprisingly, does not. He fixes himself the titled 'bitter' cocktail that takes his life and ends his beloved's suffering.

In truth, the story never really feels like one of love. This could be because the chemistry between Stanwyck and Asther does not have much fire, the source of the heat coming only from the independent tortures that both are suffering alone. (Hate and love are very closely linked). More particularly, it is a story about man's sexual nature. It is a tale of primal eroticism and pure lust, not romance. Human affection and human desire are too very different things, which is perhaps why Yen sacrifices himself to keep from damaging the girl he respects but who he can't be certain will ever give him her heart.

Yen drinks a toast to his 'bitter' end.

The end is complicated, however. Yen may decide to destroy himself to release his lover, but he may also do so because he has conquered her willpower by earning her submission, and the mental destruction of her is more important than the physical. This could have been the entire goal: to prove through this victory that his manhood is just as potent and effective, if not more so, than a white man's. Therefor, he has justified himself above his level as an 'other' and can now die a man. Still, one is unsettled, as if this film is an incomplete thought whose true fulfillment is not hampered by the director nor the actors but by the time within which it was made. In the end, whether he chooses to or not, Yen must die because he must not touch a white woman. Death is his punishment. for even considering the idea. The fact that he is the one to drink from the well of death is loaded with the implications of his own lingering feelings of inferiority over his heritage. Megan, meanwhile, returns to life as if waking from a dream and entering a nightmare-- forever haunted by a lost and unfulfilled passage to ecstasy.

~     ~     ~

Anna May Wong dances dangerously close to the edge of acceptable, interracial
behavior in Piccadilly.

The final chapter of this (overly long) analysis is a bit different, for in Piccadilly (1929), the punished, exotic Chinese character is a female. Anna May Wong herself could represent the Asian prototype in American cinema, both in terms of her onscreen presence and the way she endured and overcame the constraints of the industry as implied by her race. A Chinese laundryman's daughter, Wong was very much the modern, "American girl" in every way-- minus her parents' heritage. Rebellious, ambitious, sexual, prone to slang, and thrilled by the invigorating changes enjoyed by young men and women of the roaring twenties, had Anna been born white, she could have been one of the biggest leading ladies in film. Being of Chinese descent, her triumph of reaching stardom is not only remarkably impressive, it was unprecedented. This is a testament to her talent and charisma, which broke barriers in the industry. Unfortunately, successes like The Toll of the Sea and Shanghai Express are evenly matched by the never-ending slaps in the face she was to receives. Caucasians actresses were consistently given the roles that should have gone to her. Her place in cinema was that of the perpetual, exotic harlot-- always the concubine, never the bride.

Hence, Anna May's escape to Europe, where life and art were a little more liberal and accepting of varying cultures, perhaps because so many diverse peoples were and are more closely clumped together on the continent. Piccadilly was an incredible success for Anna in Britain. The unarguable star of the film, the story that could very well have revolved around the Piccadilly Club owner "Valentine Wilmot" (Jameson Thomas) and his dancer lover "Mabel Greenfield" (Gilda Gray), is totally usurped by and overshadowed by Anna's performance as "Shosho." A washerwoman at Piccadilly, Shosho is witnessed dancing on a tabletop in the kitchen and entertaining her friends when Valentine walks in and sees her. It is perhaps one of the most beautiful character reveals of all time. Valentine is immediately smitten by Shosho-- the graceful movements of her body seem to glide through the air like the literal steam surrounding her. She instantly intoxicates both him and the audience. 




Valentine selects Shosho as his next concubine, but she will prove to be much
more than the complacent, delicate flower he expected. It will be he
who is tamed by her. 

Naturally, after firing her, Valentine makes her a conquest. This time, however, the shame of the affair will all be on him. While a man is more generally forgiven for his sexual deviances, the idea that Valentine has totally fallen under the spell of a member of an "inferior race" is humiliating to him. Thus, he keeps it a secret, particularly from his public paramour, Mabel. Had Mabel merely been replaced by a new, white lover, Valentine would have easily cast her off; however, as Shosho is the living embodiment of the ultimate sin, his attraction to her is dehumanizing to him. She is his dark side, his 'other,' other lover, so Mabel will be kept on as the dutiful beard of sorts for his social self while he indulges his fantasies otherwise.

 

The dangerous but desired perception Valentine has of Shosho is at first the product of his own superficial invention, but later Shosho adopts this false characterization and wears it as armor to both conquer him and trump Mabel. The instigation behind Shosho's transference to a villainess is a both financial and vengeful. She is poor and wants the financial support of Valentine, and she is also aware of her inferior standing in society. Her early efforts to rise above both her situation and the social stigma attached to her are later become insufficient. She later craves more than equality-- she wants domination. Thus, when Valentine offers her a chance to perform at the club, Shosho doesn't foolishly grab at the offer nor fall into his sexual trap. She sets one of her own. Before she surrenders to him bodily, she must possess his soul. Longevity will give her a stranglehold over him, and she does not want to be brushed aside as any of the many previous women he has surely gone through like cigarettes.

Shosho takes a fatal swing at the mass of salivating men around her and
makes them her willing suppliants. 

Her winning play is her initial performance, for which she has managed to custom order a gorgeous, expensive outfit for the show, already revealing the power she has gained over her patron. The dance sequence itself is a breathtaking number in which Shosho acknowledges the power of her sexuality and uses it to her advantage. In this moment on stage, with her entrancing, ghostlike movements, she doesn't just own Valentine; she owns all of London. As Shosho continues to spin Valentine into her seductive web, Mabel inevitably catches on and confronts her enemy with a gun. To steal a man from a white woman, the same one who once looked down on her as a mere peasant, is the true jewel in Shosho's crown. Unfortunately, her scandalous ladder-climb ends the only place it can: in death. When she is shot, it is assumed that jealous lover Mabel pulled the trigger, however-- shocker of shockers-- Shosho's friend "Jim" (King Hou Chang) steps up to admit his own guilt and saves Mabel from blame.

Jim's heroism in this act of defending Mabel is also the ultimate insult to his race, as he chooses the protection not only of the white woman but the white race's superiority over the life of Shosho, the woman he loves. However, his murder of her-- a disturbing and gloriously shot sequence-- was one committed less out of jealousy and more as that ever necessary racial punishment. Using the white man to "get by" is something he for which he could forgive Shosho, but she became too greedy. She tried to escape her place in the caste system. Had she become but another one of Valentine's submissive whores, her actions could have been forgiven, but her refusal to obey the laws of alleged modest Asian attitude and social acquiescence was not to be borne. She dared to cross racial lines, and even her brain-washed brethren believed that she had to be stopped. 

Shosho's single eye communicates her sheer shock and terror at witnessing her
friend take aim. One can see how Anna May's performance as a sexual
infection influenced the Asian horror villainesses to come in later films
like Ju-on, Audition, and Ringu.

Despite the dismal ending, this film is spectacular. Beyond the resonating thematic questions it poses, the photography by Werner Brandes and smooth direction by filmmaker/producer Ewald Andre Dupont, are still impressive and transcend the majority of the over-packaged visual stimuli that we're met with on the modern screen. (There is also a surprise Charles Laughton appearance-- never anything to sniff at). Best of all, the film is all Anna, and even as the moderately innocent girl metamorphoses into the Tiger Woman she becomes, you don't blame her. You empathize. In fact, you envy. The success of Piccadilly rests on the fact that the audience is rooting for the villainess because, beneath it all, the villainess is the true victim of the scenario.

~     ~     ~

Lon Chaney as "Yen Sen" in Shadows. The plot of the film concerned the
Christianizing "the heathen," yet Chaney's depiction of the moral and
strong-hearted laundryman did more to reveal the prejudice and
cruelty of the white race and their unjust, uncivilized natures.

All three films depict the societal imposed fate of the Chinese race to be one of inescapable servitude. The culture of the times in which these films were made, particularly the silents, were pleased with and un-intimidated by the people whom they viewed as automatically inferior. The Caucasian majority treasured this minority's modest ways, strict customs, and unobtrusiveness. They did not want these images to change in reality, so they made films perpetuating and perhaps even enforcing them, however subconsciously. Unlike other racial groups, Chinese characters in film were often allowed certain liberties, despite the derogatory way in which they were portrayed. In part, these films project our fascination with them and their beliefs, which we find strange and unusual, yet we simultaneously envy. They are seen as a "simple people" in touch with another, purer level of existence, and they also seem to know something that we do not. Perhaps for this reason alone-- for the questions they raise about our own morality, our values, and our own idols (from movie stars to Jesus Christ)-- the Caucasian ruled industry punished them cinematically. The line in the sand was therefore drawn, and the warning given. While we may live in an multi-racial world, at least in the old days of cinema, there was no room for interracial romance.

MENTAL MONTAGE: The Direct-ators Part I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lon makes history as Erik the Phantom. Burn Rupert!

To Be Continued...

STAR OF THE MONTH: Barbara Stanwyck

Ruby Catherine Stevens

I'm going to be totally honest: I don't know anything about Barbara Stanwyck. The good news, for my self-esteem at least, is that no one else seems to either. As many bios as I read, as much investigating as I do, the general consensus seems to be that this woman remains unknowable-- a compelling, talented, provocative, damn mystery. The one thing that I do know about Barbara Stanwyck is that she stood apart. Apart. Above. Beyond. Far and away, head and shoulders over everyone else. She was separate somehow-- within, while without. She was a movie star, but she was more finitely an actress. More concerned with delivering passionate, dedicated, and shameless performances than being glamorous, she endeared herself to depression era audiences by more fully representing them as a true working girl and not a beauty queen. With her small eyes, large nose, and tiny mouth, she too falls into the category of unlikely celebre fatales-- a slot also occupied by the pop-eyed Bette Davis and the over-angular Katharine Hepburn. While not remembered as the most gorgeous of the silver screen's offerings, an honor belonging to perhaps Ava Gardner and Lana Turner-- both of whom had affairs with her 2nd husband, Robert Taylor-- Barbara seems sexier, more dangerous, and more interesting. While beauty tends to cripple certain actresses, Barbara's natural attractiveness-- sometimes soft and sometimes threatening-- was elevated by her smarts. She was intriguing, dominating, and indecipherable. While she wore her emotions out unapologetically in her film roles, still she remained evasive-- a question mark forever inviting our curiosity. Barbara was a Hollywood starlet, but she was not of Hollywood. She stood apart. Perhaps this is because little Ruby Stevens always stood apart from Barbara Stanwyck.


Ruby Stevens was born on July 16, 1907 to Byron Stevens and Catherine McGee in Brooklyn, NY. The youngest child, Ruby 'stood apart' even then, being the only one of her siblings to have a name not beginning with the letter "M." Her isolation would only be increased when she lost her mother in a tragic accident-- Catherine was knocked off a streetcar by a drunk. Not long after, Ruby's father took off, allegedly to find work digging the Panama Canal. Soon, the family received word that he too had died, although it remains debatable whether he passed away or merely passed on his family. In any case, he never returned. Thus, the children were shuffled between foster homes and each other, with Ruby remaining closest to her brother Malcolm (called Byron). She would often run away from whatever home she was currently occupying to the front stoop of her old house, where she would stubbornly and forlornly await her mother's return. The feisty fighter the world would remember was herein beginning to take shape. Ruby's saving grace through every harmful hard-knock she would take was her fortitude: her iron will. True, she may have been dealt a dirty hand, but she was going to win the pot even if she had to flat out bluff to get it. This she did by putting on a controlled, tough exterior. She would wear a series of masks-- whatever best suited the occasion-- in order to get past the BS and get to what she wanted: freedom. It is a testament to her inner spirit that she was able to emerge from this maelstrom as gracious, grounded, and dignified as she did.

The young ingenue, showing her soft, delicate side.

God knows, it wasn't easy. After Ruby came to live with her sister, Millie, who was a chorus girl, she too took up the craft. It was easy money, and anyway it was as close as she could get to her real dream-- acting. Ruby adored Pearl White, and when the world of poverty and hunger began to crowd her, she would push aside the negativity by indulging in cinematic dreams. She too would enjoy going to the zoo and studying the cats, whose steely, controlled strut she would mimic in order to put on an exaggerated confidence. She would need these happy thoughts and tricks, especially as life around her grew increasingly dark. While she would recall her showgirl days with fondness-- happy times of youth and high-kicks, when anything seemed possible-- this was mostly the work of a woman who refused even in retrospect to play the victim. The truth was that days in Texas Guinan's nightclubs and the Ziegfeld Follies, particularly as a fifteen-year-old, had been hard, even violent. Women were pinched, prodded, manhandled, and sexually manipulated. How far Ruby went to maintain her ambition, and perhaps even safety, remains a mystery, but there are hints at the pain she suffered. Many friends would catch a glimpse of the cigarette burns she had on her chest-- unwanted trophies of her survivalism. There is rumor that she received these war wounds from Al Jolson himself, though this has never been proven.

The young bride and her husband, comedian Frank Fay-- 

their marriage witnessed little funny business.

Ruby found a champion in Willard Mack who cast her in his new show, "The Noose," giving her her first real chance at acting. Her performance was so moving that fellow actor Elisha Cook, Jr. would have to excuse himself so he could vomit. Ruby soon found herself in the arms of Frank Fay, the vaudeville comedian of his day and a performance hero to up-and-comers like James Cagney. The marriage of Ruby and Frank remains an eye-brow raiser, but the impetus behind Ruby's decision to wed the rough, older man is not difficult to decipher. He was successful, and he was powerful, at least in the showbiz world. She hoped to find a protector, perhaps a father figure. Since she latched onto him shortly after the death of another lover-- "Noose" co-star Rex Cherryman-- it is also understandable that in her vulnerable state she grasped blindly onto someone for comfort, even knowing that she could never fully give him her heart. After fighting and failing to get stage roles and enduring several disastrous screen tests and auditions, Ruby was ready for a change of scenery. Fay went West to Warner Bros, and she followed. The odds were against her, yet, strangely, after having been a small fish in a big pond, she would indeed become a great white in Tinsel Town. She would call Hollywood her home for the rest of her life.

The dangerous, blonde Stanwyck, as she appeared in her 

pre-code days as Baby Face et al.

Barbara Stanwyck, as she was now called, would come to define a generation of women. They trusted her on the big screen, because she was one of them: no pretension, no frills, no fallacy. She was the real thing-- grit, gumption, and guts; pain, fragility, and love. In the tales of many Hollywood heroes, it appears that most of these Golden Gods just got lucky. Not Babs. No way. She got where she was going through sheer determination. But she did have some help. Her career really took off when Frank Capra took her under his wing. When she auditioned for Ladies of Leisure, Capra was nonplussed. She was nervous, awkward, and unattractive, or as he put it: "a porcupine." Then, he saw a screen test she had done in color from "The Noose." He did a complete 180, and as he directed her and realized the depth of her talent, his tune would change: "She doesn't act a scene. She lives it." He would also fall madly in love with her in the process. His treatment of her in their films together would establish her future screen presence-- that of the authentic, American female. She was complicated, sexual, strong, emotional, vengeful, and vulnerable all at once. After tickling America's fancy in the naughty Forbidden and provoking their hypocrisy in the interracial romance of The Bitter Tea of General Yen, she continued free-lancing and landed the role of Baby Face-- a film which in itself represents the debauchery and daring of pre-code cinema and its women. As Barbara's Lily Powers sleeps her way to the top, taking no prisoners and showing no mercy, she maintains audience sympathy, because they have seen the slums from which she came and to which she refuses to return. She too possesses the heart of a woman, which despite all her efforts, can still break. This was the Babs epitome: tough on the outside with a soft and creamy center.


In life, Barbara's heart too broke. Her relationship with Fay became-- if it had not always been-- abusive. As her fame and status grew, so too did she outgrow Fay, who became jealous, possessive, and malevolent. Babs probably would have endured his cruelty longer, in her typical martyr-like fashion, had she not her adopted son, Dion, to protect. After Fay showed signs of redirecting his anger at the small boy, Babs pulled the plug on the marriage and said "adios" to Frank. In truth, Babs wasn't cut out for marriage or motherhood, a lesson that she would learn too late. She wanted desperately to create the illusion of the happy home that she had always craved, but having no knowledge or experience of it herself, she was ill-equipped to maintain it. Furthermore, she was far too independent and too self-protective to let any man too deeply into her life, even her son-- with whom she suffered an increasingly estranged relationship as he grew. Her deepest sadness was perhaps not being able to find a soul mate who could meet her eye to eye, who could both dominate her resistant emotional nature and still nurture and protect the little girl inside. After escaping the overpowering menace of Fay, Babs set her sights on a fairer member of the opposing sex, Robert Taylor-- who, like Tyrone Power, was the masculine answer to cinematic objectification. Since jokes ensued that Babs wore the pants in this relationship, it is reasonable to assume that she purposely chose a weaker partner this time around so that for once she would be the one in control and not the doormat. Neither extreme worked. This marriage too ended in divorce.

The early erotic charge of the Taylor-Stanwyck affair would quickly cool once the

 publicity of the notorious "Unmarried Husbands and Wives" 

article scared them into matrimony.

Another wrench thrown into the Babs romance debacle is her controversial sexuality. Some allege that she was a strict homosexual and that both of her marriages were frauds. But this doesn't seem completely acceptable. It is known that she had sexual relationships with men, including Taylor-- which provoked the cataclysmic "Hollywood's Unmarried Husbands and Wives" Photoplay article on 1939-- and even a scandalous affair with the much younger Robert Wagner-- which makes her eyeballing of him in that initial Titanic elevator scene quite telling and hilarious. It seems she had an eye for the "pretty boys," which is too evident in her friendships with men like Gary Cooper (with whom she may too have had a tryst) and the devoted William Holden, whom may have been the only man she ever truly loved, albeit in a completely platonic way. She too was so deeply grieved by her divorce from Taylor that she remained bitter about it for the remainder of her life, claiming alimony even though she could most certainly have maintained herself financially. 


It too is assumed that the mysterious cuts that appeared on her wrists were not the result of a mishap with a broken window, as she claimed, but rather self-inflicted wounds that she administered after learning of Taylor's affair with Lana Turner. Was she that deeply in love with him, or-- if this story is indeed true-- were these damaging mutilations more emblematic of her own insecurity and her anger that yet another man had betrayed her: that the dream life was indeed just a dream? Then, one cannot completely ignore the many questionable rumors about love affairs or sexual relationships she may have had with members of her own sex, including Joan Crawford-- who was a close friend and a woman with whom she had much in common. But are these merely rumors? Or was Barbara a bi-sexual who occasionally took sensual comfort in the arms of a female friend? Since her nature was to evade, it would make sense that she refuse to "take a side," as it were. Her inability to settle down and open up emotionally may have manifested itself in multiple, inconclusive sexual relationships with both men and women. Since she grew defensive, then silent, whenever the subject of her sexual nature was raised, it appears that the world will never know.

Her dangerous, protective gaze in Stella Dallas-- the character's ambition 

mirrored her own, but Stella lacked Barbara's determination.

As conflicted, painful, and lonesome as her personal life was, her work never varied. Because she did not place herself above her characters, she would inhabit them fully and richly-- whether playing the sadistic femme fatale of Double Indemnity or the con-artist with second thoughts in The Lady Eve. Over time, she came to prove that she could play anything and play anything truthfully. For this, her audiences worshipped her. Her co-stars did too, particularly the men. Coop, Joel McCrea, Cecil B. DeMille... They were all enchanted and a bit hypnotized by her talent. Her commitment, wherein she would heedlessly perform her own stunts and proudly show off the bruises, endeared her to her co-workers and the crewmen, who adored her and greeted her warmly each day on the set. She was earthy, not an artiste nor a stuck-up prima donna. And she was gifted. The only thing she couldn't play was "dumb." Her filmography, though filled with the occasional clunker, is so overridden with memorable performances that she remains the envy of every wannabe ingenue in Hollywood. Golden Boy, Remember the Night, Ball of Fire, Clash by Night, Sorry Wrong Number, and Stella Dallas. Oh, Stella Dallas... Does acting get any better than this? Babs's turn as an inept social climber turned sacrificial mother is one of few films that turns me into a blubbering idiot every time. Yet, due to the political processes of the Hollywood studio system, she never won an Oscar for Best Actress. As a free-lancer, she was without studio protection and thus without studio pull. She would settle for a Lifetime Achievement Award.

Babs reduces Henry Fonda to a sexually intoxicated buffoon stuttering about 

"a b-b-burglar" in The Lady Eve.

As Babs aged and times changed, she maintained her work ethic. She made the transfer to television easily, starring in her own show and later in "The Big Valley." Despite being a city girl, Barbara always loved Westerns, and even had a ranch of her own. After a life of struggle, the peace and serenity of a simpler life of roping horses on the open plains probably came like a wave of welcome relief. Despite her continuing desire to create, it could not be denied that her services were not requested as much as they had been in her hey-day. Though still luminously beautiful in her old age and just as riveting, Hollywood has always been about youth. At the end of her life, Barbara thus became melancholy, yearning for the work of her younger days and admitting to close friends that she felt like she had been "forgotten." After strong television performances in the likes of "The Thorn Birds" and silly but necessary contributions in "Charlie's Angels," Barbara Stanwyck passed away on January 20, 1990 at the age of 82. Her ashes were scattered upon land that had once served as the location for many of her Western shoots. Ruby Stevens had fought her way through one hell of a life, and her ultimate success had been accomplished: she had died a legend.

From Ladies They Talk About... of which she certainly

still is one.

Barbara Stanwyck remains just as enticing to modern audiences as she did to her contemporary fans. Her talent is still envied; her private life is still much gossiped about. Her allure compels almost tactically from beyond the grave, as if she too made a Chaney or Garbo-like decision the pull a great, impenetrable curtain between her work and her true identity, forever inviting fascination. When one goes searching for Barbara's secret self, one is destined to emerge from his mental travels just as perplexed as ever. It is her great humanity that draws us, for in the end, what else is there? She seemed so tough, so strong, so self-assured... When you start to break through the mask and see the fragile person inside, it leaves you a bit dumbfounded. She reveals herself as a small child. As a woman, you want to mother and nurture her; as a man, you want to kiss her tears. But just as quickly as the revelatory, big screen, emotional moment occurs, she throws out more smoke and mirrors and disappears behind her husky, assertive drawl and her sharp, snake-eyed stare. In her work, she inspired people to live fully, affectionately, dangerously, romantically... to enjoy the life that she never did. It is only in her work that she lives and breathes with total honesty; with no secrets. It is in her work that you find Barbara Stanwyck... and sometimes even the little girl she began as: Ruby Stevens.