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

Continued from Part 1 - Silents

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

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

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

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

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

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

Edward G. Robinson as "Little Caesar."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

STAR OF THE MONTH: Ann Sheridan - Biography

The "Oomph" Girl: Ann Sheridan

Before Ann Sheridan was a movie star in Hollywood, she was living in Denton, TX as lil’ Clara Lou, the youngest of five children, who possessed a surprising blend of Scottish, Irish, and even Cherokee blood. Clara Lou was one of those fortunate children born with a special gleam in her eye. Where she looked, she saw opportunity and a world for the taking. She was not greedy by any means, just enthusiastic about what each new day would bring. With her solid Southern roots and strict family morals, Clara Lou mixed in her own optimistic and loving attitude to mature into a young woman of great spirit and responsibility. Childhood friends would remember her as a girl always ready to pick a mop, broom, or hammer and help out.

She preferred male company from the beginning, if only because the gents' had more freedom in their fun. She liked riding horses, shooting tin cans, and working on cars (a hobby that would follow her to California). "Lulu" spent most of her time daydreaming about being a big band singer! People took life too seriously, she believed. All these standards for decent behavior or expected ways of life were a bore. Naturally, Clara Lou’s wishes to be a stage performer were not appreciated by her family, who was very religious. Though she maintained that she was always close to her family, one picks up on the veiled references to some unforgotten tensions in her past. In addition to lacking her parents’ support in her wishes, Ann would later remark again and again on the hypocrisy of religion and hypocritical people in general. Though, out of respect to her kin, she never went into specifics, she made no secret of the fact that finding a way out of Denton was a desire that had been burning in her belly from an early age. Though she was going to school to become a teacher-- majoring in art-- she longed for escape, for freedom, and a life without guilt or judgment. She wanted to be herself.

Ann gives good cheesecake

While the folks may have voted “No” on singing, at least one member of her family was pro-Clara Lou. In 1932, her sister, Kitty, learned that a little Paramount contest was in the works, searching for new talent. They were using the upcoming film Search for Beauty as a flimsy excuse to drum up publicity and interest in their studio. Clara Lou had heard of the "Search for Beauty" contest—young beauts with good gams looking for a chance in the spotlight. She thought it was ridiculous! Imagine her surprise when she learned that she was a finalist, because Kitty had secretly entered her in the contest! Not only did Clara Lou earn a part in the film, she got herself a contract too-- which was not something many of the other finalists could boast. After Clara Lou's ride to Tinsel Town, she never looked back. She had found her new home. It wasn’t all gravy, however. After her blink-and-you’ll-miss-it appearance on the screen, she worked hard to get somewhere in the business. While other winners of the contest faded into the back-drop, fell prey to Hollywood’s dangers, or packed it in and moved home, Clara Lou busted her tookus, taking any publicity photos asked of her, performing in whatever roles necessary, and building up her resume.

Despite her impressive, unlearned acting ability and out-of-this-world beauty, she couldn’t seem to get anywhere beyond silly supporting roles in B-pictures-- aside from her first leading role in Car 99. When she left Paramount in 1935, she was plucked by Warner Brothers. Nonetheless, after noticeable parts in The Great O'Malley with Pat O'Brien and San Quentin with O'Brien and Humphrey Bogart, her career still seemed to be going nowhere. "Ann"—who had officially changed her name at studio suggestion in 1934-- was mostly being used as a body double. She once cracked that she lined up to buy a ticket at the theater to see the back of her own head, her hands, or her legs on the big screen. Naturally, she started getting nostalgic, thinking that maybe Mom and Dad had had a little more sense than she had given them credit for. Maybe it was time to haul it in after all... Then, she got her big break!

Ann’s casting opposite James Cagney in Angels with Dirty Faces was a godsend! Not only was she working with the incredible Jim, a pro who took special care to teach her the ropes, but for the first time, her fast-talking wisecracks were on full display. Unlike other heroines—all sweet or all tough—Ann was a little of both. She was a woman, but she was a woman who could take care of herself. She didn’t need any guy for nuthin’, so if you want to make a move, Buster, you better have something better goin’ on than a nice suit of clothes. And she won’t take to lip, neither! Ann’s onscreen characters, who were reliable, sturdy girls were still not exactly "gal Fridays." She was there to lean on if she thought the cause was worthy, and only then would she give the hero her heart. She was a tough cookie, a quick thinker, and nobody’s fool—yet another strong female paving the way for pre-feminists. Despite this sudden burst in her career, she didn’t skyrocket the way she had hoped. BUT, she had made a great impression on the public, her co-stars, and everyone she had or would soon work with. Some directors initially thought that Ann didn’t give a damn about acting or the craft, because she was so easy-going, cracking up and playing pranks between takes. Then, they would see her at work and realize her incredible gift for simply being Ann unfiltered. Soon enough, she had several people fighting in her corner, and with her own right hook, she was about to take aim and knock the socks off Hollywood. In the case of Ann Sheridan, a little publicity gimmick went a long way.

George Hurrell became a great champion for Ann, using his

artistic eye to capture her beauty and personal texture

to put the "Ooooh" in her Oomph!

After Ann completed supporting roles as a naughty opportunist who blindsides John Garfield in They Made Me a Criminal and yet another naughty dance hall songstress in the Errol Flynn western Dodge City, notorious columnist Walter Winchell gave her an unexpected plug. While mentioning her underutilized talents, he chastised Warners for not giving her better roles with more "umph." That quip definitely got some eager corporate tails wagging, as they finally realized that they had a hot-cha-ching commodity on their hands! (It always amazes me when studio heads don't "know what to do" with pretty, talented actresses). Thus, publicity agent Bob Taplinger staged a rigged competition to decide who should bear the title of Hollywood's true "Oomph Girl"--which had a definite sexual connotation. To no one's surprise, Ann was crowned, though no one deserved it more. She, of course, took the label for what it was: a label indeed, one that would eventually become a stigma. After some advice from Paul Muni, an actor whom she respected, she took the joke in stride, determined to use the current media attention to improve her career, bargain for better roles, and hopefully show the world that she was more than just a "looker." In a nut shell, Ann took the biggest lemon of her life and made lemonade, but then that was just her style. What followed was a slew of some of the most beautiful studio portraits ever taken, magazine covers galore, and an incredible spike in her films' ticket sales as people lined up to see just what "Oomph" was.

Overcoming her "Oomph" was a hurdle, however. Ann seemed to be handed fairly ridiculous vehicles, which she was expected to sell based on her star power alone. It usually worked, but it was bad business to not give such a bankable star better writing and better scripts. Ann's laid-back demeanor didn't do her many favors either, as she initially didn't fight for the parts she should have had, (though she would show more gumption in business later). For the most part, she was handed hackneyed remakes of previous successes by Bette Davis, Joan Blondell, or Ann Harding. When she received the Harvard Lampoon Award for "the actress least likely to succeed," it fed her willful side but also put a chink in her confidence. She held her chin a little higher when Princeton claimed her as their own in retaliation, made her honorary editor of their own journal-- The Advocate-- and staged a picket outside the Lampoon! Great fans and solid, soulful performances in City for Conquest and King's Row earned her increasingly good reviews and critics became more and more impressed with her. Playing against type, she also showed her sharp, comic edge as a Hollywood diva opposite a surprisingly vanilla Bette in The Man Who Came to Dinner. 

With good pal Bogie in It All Came True.

With Ann's acting, it was all about timing. That was her gift, whether she was performing in a drama, screwball comedy, romance, or dark masterpiece. No one could spout off one-liners and comebacks like Ann, who gave sass with as much ease as she could shoot a pistol. She also knew when to let a moment land, playing with the emotions behind the words. Ann was never poetic about her art. She admired actresses of acclaim like Bette Davis (like everyone else), but she was both savvy and perhaps a bit too self-deprecating about her talent. She knew she wasn't a studied character thespian, and she knew she didn't have the exotic appeal of glamour goddesses like Garbo and Dietrich. She believed she was a capable lead who knew how to deliver her lines and did her best. This pure, unadulterated honesty of Ann's all-American appeal is exactly what singled her out from her contemporaries and made her a comfortable soul-mate for her fans. Additionally, she would consistently be on Hollywood's "best dressed" celebs lists. So, yet again, Ann played the star and enjoyed the act, but beneath it all, she was still the gap-toothed Clara Lou. She adhered to the rules, enjoyed the fame, but colored outside the lines by simply staying true to herself and never losing touch with what life was all about: happiness. 

Making beautiful, kooky music with Jack Benny in

George Washington Slept Here.

Meanwhile, Ann's un-teachable rhythm thrived when she was teamed with Jack Benny in George Washington Slept Here. As WWII raged on, Ann was very vocal in her support of the call to arms and very loyal to the men fighting the battles. She entertained troops overseas, danced with them at the Hollywood Canteen, and took part in the all-star war-morale film Thank Your Lucky Stars. Unlike other actresses, Ann wanted her roles to age as she did. Thus, in keeping with her own maturity, she continued turning heads with her dramatic performances in the films like the strange and fascinating noir, Nora Prentiss, or her "realistic and poignant interpretation," The Unfaithful. Still, there were many projects in which she was slated to appear that never took shape, mostly due her choice of daring material that made the censors sweat and were consequently scrapped. Though she finally won a long overdue pay bump with script approval, she was all but ignored by the studio and treated like an old, reliable mare who would loyally carry them to victory. She was not given the attention her career deserved. Finally, in 1949, Ann bought out the last remaining months of her Warners contract and began freelancing. And hallelujah, because she was teamed with Cary Grant in one of the funniest comedies of all time! I Was a Male War Bride turned out to be the perfect blend of chemistry and comic ping-pong. It was a slick casting decision, for what other woman could strong-arm the ever-dapper Cary into donning drag and get away with laughing at him at the same time!? It is unfortunate that the duo never made another film together. Unfortunately, it was while filming that Ann developed a chronic bronchial infection that would come back to haunt her.

With Cary Grant in the gender bender triumph, I Was a Male War Bride.



  Now pushing 40, Ann began to work primarily in radio and television. She also spent much time in her beloved Mexico and nonchalantly took a three year hiatus from work as if she were just out for a brief walk. The world of acting is cruel to women. The age of 41 is the unspoken beginning of the fade-out for most film actresses. Ann understood this and took it in stride. One might suspect that in this period of her life, Ann might slow down and start building a family, but Ann's private life was as atypical as her BS-detector was spot on. She had a brief marriage to actor Edward Norris in the '30s, which ended primarily due to his own jealousy over her rising career as his own stalled. (Ann probably told him to cut the crap then packed her bags). Interestingly, they remained friends, and Norris would hint at his silly regrets later. In the '40s, Ann had a lengthy love affair with her complete opposite: the ever-serious and properly tuxed George Brent. They wed... and were divorced a year later.

Perhaps Ann's most lasting relationship was that with elder press agent Steve Hanagan. They never married, and while some suggest that this was due to his surprisingly invested mother's interference, it is also more than possible that Ann had decided by then that she just wasn't the marrying kind. They eventually split, and Steve passed away not much later, bequeathing Ann the bulk of his estate-- which turned out to include more debt than anything else. As ever, Ann paid for everything without complaint. Hints at the source of Ann's relationship troubles can be gleaned from her early upbringing. Her resultant need for independence and a life without rules certainly clashed with the standard ideals of "wivelihood" (new word).  In theory, the idea of eternal love was alluring; in reality, Ann perhaps found it too difficult to entirely give herself to anyone, nor could she tolerate being a trophy wife. She wanted to be loved-- no one as warm and giving  as she could not but hope for some of the same in return-- but whatever secret fears or mistrusts she carried within, seemed to hamper all of her liaisons.

With soon-to-be real life husband in Honeymoon for Three.

Her friendships on the other hand... those were things that Ann did well!!! As in her childhood, her best buddies were always men. She and Errol Flynn were thick as thieves when working together during Dodge City, Edge of Darkness, and her last Warners film, Silver City. Most particularly, she was good friends with Humphrey Bogart, who was not the easiest guy to charm. The rapport that she was able to build with these rapscallions is revelatory of her true self. Ann was a straight-shooting, salt-of-the-earth gal. She cared more about her poodles, which she eventually raised in droves, than she did about anything that highfalutin Hollywood seemed to be interested in. She was simple, direct, and honest. There was no feigned innocence or diva tantrums or skirt chasing when she was around. More likely, there were pranks and laughs and the old eye roll, particularly when she started filming yet another stinker: "Well boys, this is gonna be a train wreck, but we may as well enjoy it!"

She had female pals, of course, but very few. She is often mentioned in the same breath as other notorious party girls like Ava Gardner and Lana Turner, and one can imagine that they were one Hell of a trio. With Ava's sad and bold sensuality and Lana's rebellious Hellion in Prima Donna poise, Ann was the more rational and practical one. It has been said that she could "toss back a few," but just how many is unknown. Suffice it to say, she was not the type to sip wine. Whiskey was probably more her speed. Yet, despite whatever late night appearances she may have made with whatever rag-tag pals that came into the picture, Ann never believed in the version of life that she was presenting to the public. She would go have fun, take the glitz for what it was, then go home and de-oomph. Unlike Lana, for whom celebrity was an ongoing performance, Ann never really gave a hoot about it all and didn't allow people who were caught up with the glam come into her inner space.

As Ann got older, she took parts as they came: a supporting role in the musical version of The Women-- retitled The Opposite Sex-- and acclaimed performances in Woman on the run, Steel Town, and Just Across the Street. Continuing radio and television work, she also met a new paramour, Scott McKay, while taking a stab at stage work. A fan of Soaps, which were a personal guilty pleasure, Ann worked for a season on "Another World"-- during which she married Scott, probably under studio pressure-- as her tendency to live with lovers "in sin" was not kosher with the public. Then, she received the great honor of being offered a series of her own: "Pistols 'n' Petticoats." Unfortunately, it was during this period that Ann became gravely ill. She learned that she was suffering from terminal cancer of the liver and esophagus. Suddenly, that nagging cough that wouldn't go away, her difficulty swallowing, and her increasing weight loss, made sense. Her past bronchial infection and years of chain smoking certainly hadn't helped matters. Still, Ann pressed on, continuing her role in the series despite the great pain it caused her. Shooting had a taxing and tiring effect on her body, yet she filmed 25 episodes under these dire circumstances-- without complaint and always with a smile on her face. Unfortunately, she would not live to finish the first season. While lying peacefully in bed in San Fernando, Ann passed away on Jan. 21, 1967. It is said that in her last words, she looked at her husband Scott and said, "I'm going to be all right." However, this may have been more of a good-bye than her mere stubborn gumption. Finally, the ever-fighting Texan girl was totally and completely free.

Ann resembles Clara Bow a great deal in her younger photos.

While she possessed Clara's sense of fun and adventure,

she also has the dangerous edge that makes her

vulnerability in photos like this fascinating.

Ann is one of those performers who is too rarely discussed. She isn't on the short list of cinematic heroes, where the Tracy and Hepburns' and Garlands and Hayworths hold center stage. Yet, Ann was all right with that. She didn't need the entire world; she just needed her own small piece of it. She still possesses a certain corner in the field of film with the usual tough, Warner dames, but her particular, impenetrable space is very unique. She commendably kept up with the gangsters, the crooners, and the hams, side-stepping, singing (beautifully, btw), and mugging with her own equal cocktail of guts and glamour. Her sleepy, heavily-lidded eyes still peep at you when flipping through the old, classic picture books, where she doesn't entice so much as make her own statement: "Here I am, like it or not." Her assertive photographs seem as equally erotic as they are visible shrugs. She is half in and half out, but she is still the one directing the camera's gaze. Whatever she's holding back remains undetected to the naked eye. Yet, this somehow makes her photos even more potent. Watching her performances is like meeting up with an old friend, whose cozy voice always makes you feel better. Life seems easier when Ann's around, even if watching a taut thriller. With "Annie," you're safe. At the very least, you're enjoying yourself. As she herself said, "What's the use of living if you can't have fun?"

DIDJA KNOW: Part VII

Norma Shearer and Norma Shearer star in Lady of the Night.

The world of technology continues to evolve, and visual effects in films these days grow increasingly impressive. There is, however, a consistent debate over just how progressive special effects have become. Those who grew up with Star Wars: Episodes 4-6 find Star Wars: Episodes 1-3 disastrous examples of how tech-savviness can heighten the imagination and destroy realism. Audience members were in awe of the presentation of a totally invented universe in Avatar, yet found it difficult to emotionally connect to the giant, blue protagonists. Despite the obvious kudos that the SpFx wizards deserve, there is much to be said for the efficiency and simplicity of early film, where creativity had to make due without computer assistance. Colorization was done by painting each individual frame of a printed film. The magic of "disappearance" and "reappearance" was performed with stop-motion photography. Slow motion? Just crank the camera faster. Frenetic pace of the Keystone Cops? Crank slower.

And what about double exposure? Countless actors and actresses in early film took their turns playing dual roles in motion pictures, such as Norma Shearer, Buster Keaton, and-- of course-- Mary Pickford. Turns out, it wasn't too simple of a process after all. Mary had to endure the lengthy procedure during the filming of both Stella Maris, wherein she played  both "Stella" and "Unity" (left) and Little Lord Fauntleroy, in which she played both mother "Dearest" and little "Cedric." Everything was "done by count," so Mary would have to perform a scene as one character, say her lines, then wait the appropriate number of seconds in which her other character was to respond, and then continue on. Speak, count, react, count, speak, etc. If she lost count, or if someone on the set caused a disturbance, she would have to start all over. It was excruciating! For example, DIDJA KNOW that it took a sum total of fifteen hours to film the sequence in Fauntleroy in which Mary, as both characters, had to kiss herself! Despite the arduous and irritating process, the result of splicing her two performances together was fascinating to audiences and remains very impressive to this day.

Another early innovation of the movies was not related to the filming of a picture but to the displaying of it. Peep-shows and Nickelodeons enticed viewers with the invention of photographed people in motion. Movie Theaters kicked it up a notch by using these images to draw audiences in with filmed narratives. Yet, DIDJA KNOW there was another venue that helped establish cinema not only as an amusement but as an amusement park ride? Mary Pickford would recall taking "Hale's Tours" when she was a little girl. Invented by a fireman, George C. Hale, the tour was presented as an actual train ride (see right). The converted theater was constructed of train cars, which possessed screens at both the front and back displaying various, alternating landscapes. Thus, the audience on board would feel as if they were truly traversing the beautiful or even hazardous examples of earth's geography, which were accompanied by the train's shaking and lurching about as if it were truly moving. A "conductor" completed the illusion, in addition to the typical sound effects of a moving train-- from the chugging engine to the toot of the whistle. Mary didn't take to the fake tours, falling prey to motion sickness, but others thought that it was a brilliant little gimmick, and it pressed on for quite awhile after its debut at the 1903 St. Louis Exposition. In fact, one could argue that the innovation is still in effect. Just think of the new King Kong ride at Universal Studios!

So many cinematic quotations forever merge with the national vernacular: "Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine" (Casablanca), "Why don't you come up some time and see me?" (She Done Him Wrong), or "Wax on... Wax off..!" (The Karate Kid). Often, we quote these lines without knowing or remembering where they come from. For example: "We have to stop meeting like this..." This line has been used, reused, recycled, and mocked in picture after picture and consequently in real life. But, DIDJA KNOW where the dickens it came from in the first place? The origin is said to be 1929's The Kiss, starring Greta Garbo. Ironically, this line was not spoken so much as read, since The Kiss was Greta's last silent film. The immortal words appeared in the opening title card as Conrad Nagel's "Andre" meets with his mistress, the philandering "Irene" (Garbo). He says: "Irene-- we can't go on meeting like this." Little did anyone involved know that this would soon become the token catchphrase of illicit lovers... and future romantic jokesters. In the film, Garbo took the advice, and soon began "meeting" the younger Lew Ayres to scandalous effects (left). Therefore, while The Kiss isn't the best remembered Garbo film, it certainly still found a way to make its mark on the public!

Speaking of origins, ever wonder why it was that Theda Bara and all subsequent, dangerous cinematic women in silent cinema were labeled as "Vamps?" Sure, the connection is there: vamp, vampire, blood sucker, i.e. a "woman of the night" who uses her sexual wiles to steal a man's... essence. It may seem like a common sense reaction to label these sultry femme fatales as devilish sisters of the vampire, yet one hopes that there are quite a few steps-- even long jumps-- between Nosferatu and a scandalous lady. DIDJA KNOW: The source of "vamp" is much more specific than people realize. The first lady of vampdom, Ms. Theodosia Goodman (right), made her first major appearance on film in A Fool There Was  in 1915. The film was based upon the Rudyard Kipling poem "The Vampire": 
  
A fool there was and he made his prayer/
(Even as you and I!)/
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair/
(We called her the woman who did not care),/
But the fool he called her his lady fair/(Even as you and I!). 

                              The cinematic translation followed the menacing theme of feminine deception in the poem and struck a chord with the public. Thus when Theda Bara was born, so too was her film's character-- the Vampire and Vamp-- immortalized. 

George Brent (left) is remembered as a suave, handsome, leading man of the golden studio era. He was never as big as Gable or Grant, but that's what his leading ladies loved about him. His presence in a film bolstered their own celebrity, because he wasn't quite as celebrated. Audiences came to the movies to see Bette Davis or Barbara Stanwyck, and Brent was the perfect, amiable, good-looking guy to perform as a strong, capable co-star without doing any scene stealing. Of course, a lot of this had to do with the fact that Brent, by nature, was an atypical guy. Certainly, he was a famous actor, but he was never as into the luxuries of stardom as some of his contemporaries. One of the reasons he gelled so well with Greta Garbo was because he was a fairly private person who liked his peace and quiet away from the noise of hectic, Hollywood life. Another thing that set him apart was his history. DIDJA KNOW: Orphaned at eleven years of age, the native Irishman took up with the rebellion as a mere teenager and wound up serving in the incredibly dangerous position of dispatch barrier for none other than Michael Collins!? In fact, after Collins was killed, George had to be smuggled to Canada aboard a freighter to escape the government officials who wanted him captured. He eventually landed in New York and traded in his risky, wayfaring ways to battle a more fatal foe: acting.

As Halloween is approaching, it seems appropriate to mention one of the most celebrated horror films of all time. The Phantom of the Opera could perhaps be labeled by many as the father of all horror cinema. My grandmother would love to tell me how terrified she was when Lon Chaney's mask was wrenched from his face and his "accursed ugliness" was revealed for all to see (right with Mary Philbin). Audiences today cannot even fathom the shock that moment held for 1920s audiences. My generation grew up with another family of masked and un-masked villains: Michael Myers, Jason Voorhees, Leatherface... The extent of the violence in their films and the cosmetic concoctions that now haunt our dreams (I personally was terrorized by visions of Freddy Krueger that kept me awake some nights) make Lon's Phantom "Erik" seem meek and unthreatening in retrospect. But then again, he was, as always, playing a mutilated man with a broken heart more than a monster turned murderer. His influence is still felt. He remains a hero even today to those entering the field of make-up, and he changed forever the barometer of fear in theater audiences: people could be scared to death and survive? Who knew?! For this reason, and because of Lon's lasting legacy and hold on the public, DIDJA KNOW that Phantom became the first film ever played on the "Sony Jumbo Tron Screen" in Times Square? It played on October 31-- of course-- in 1993, nearly seventy years after its original premiere to shocked audiences everywhere. Boo-yah!!!

STAR OF THE MONTH: Greta Garbo

The Great Garbo.

The camera will never love another face the way it did Greta Garbo's. The image of her pensive, vulnerable, yet aloof beauty has become synonymous with early cinema itself-- cinema at its peak, its most brilliant. A single utterance of "Garbo" draws forth even today a momentary pause, a brief second of awe, wherein the history of celluloid in its most perfect form flickers in the mind, the heart, the soul... then flickers out, leaving a feeling of palpable loss and nostalgia. So it was with Greta Gustafsson, who came to Hollywood, breathed more life and soul into it than any woman before or since, then ushered herself into a cloaked world of mystery. Had she not been a product of film, her legend would have lived only through word of mouth and broken recollections, such as acting contemporaries Sarah Bernhardt and Katharine Cornell. Instead, God invented Man, Man invented the Camera, and the Camera invented Garbo. Her allure, spirit, and talent continue to hypnotize; the enigma of her existence continues to draw our curiosity. But, unlike age old riddles, this Swedish Sphinx will never share her secrets nor tell her truths. This is the height of her irony, since history has made her one of our greatest and most trusted storytellers. While Greta herself is a fascinating creature, her makings are not as interesting as the way she made us, or rather, how she somehow accidentally made herself appeal to us so deeply. She seems superhuman, as if there are no dates, earmarks, or explanations in her personal timeline. There is no synopsis, no summary... There is only Garbo.

The greatest debacle in Greta Lovisa Gustafsson's character was her ignorance, or rather avoidance, of her own celebrity. One of the twentieth century's greatest artists, she never recognized her art, nor her talent, and hid in almost near terror of any reference to it. Within her beat the heart of a passionate collaborator in the world of human interpretation. She yearned to create, to share, to relate, to translate, but the equally humble and private part of her personality shunned the lifestyle demanded of such an auteur. In a perfect world, a world of her own invention, Greta would have acted her little heart out with abandon on the the sound stage, with nothing but herself and the camera, then gone home to a distant cottage to which no one else had access. There would be no magazine interviews, no ferocious fans, no prying eyes, no blood-suckers. The price of her fame, thus, was fame itself. Perhaps more than any other celebrity before or since, Greta-- who admitted that she wanted her work to be appreciated-- did not want the notoriety or attention that came along with it. She wanted peace. She wanted to be "left alone." Unfortunately, the cross that the greatest artists, poets, and performers have to bear is the over-eager jealousy of their most devoted fans. There is no peace in genius, only torment. Maudlin and ever-troubled Greta was always, therefore, in agony.

Greta Gustaffson would recall being a "big girl" who towered over her peers at 5'7".

While the world would see her after she lost her baby fat and fixed her teeth,

she just saw the same awkward girl of youth in the mirror.

The question remains, "Why?" In looking at her past, there is no overwhelming red flag that signals her transition from the average Swedish girl, growing up in Stockholm, to the socially ambivalent and hermetic woman she would become. If anything, her character is determined by sound common sense and strong principles. Greta's greatest blessing and greatest fault was her 100% effective bull-sh*t detector. Growing up impoverished, enduring cold winters, and knowing no comfort other than that afforded by family unity, the glamour of Hollywood never held any true allure. It didn't suit her character. A part of her European soul always yearned for the simplicity and material dearth of her earlier existence. A life of discipline and practicality, a life of order and modest happiness: that made sense. The movie stars of the 1920s-1930s, who lived extravagant lives of abundant joy and often obscenity, were nonsense to her. She could not interpret them. Instead, she would watch silently when forced, participate in conversation but rarely-- mostly due to her insecurity over her inferior education and poor English-- and wait for the moment when she could take off the ridiculous gowns and furs the studio adorned her with and traipse around in slacks and bare feet. Material things had no essence. Perhaps, for this reason alone, Greta always projected the epitome of essence in her performance. Whatever "it" is, whatever we human beings are, she got it. The essence of femininity and feminine yearning, of pain, of pleasure-- she communicated these things easily, effortlessly. Greta was not an actress of flash; she had substance. She was both the heavens and the earth.

Certainly, she was a quirky girl. There was a part of her innate personality that was not interested in frivolous things or frivolous people. She longed only for depth, meaning, and even childlike dreams. Insincere friendships, users, or hangers-on, had no chance with her. The protective barrier she built up, which left her isolated even in childhood-- albeit to a lesser degree-- was not easy to penetrate. She trusted few and withdrew her trust quickly at the slightest hint of betrayal. She was possessive of those she took into her sacred personal space, but refused to allow them to be possessive of her. Some postulate that the source of this was her father's early death, when she was but 14. As she was always closer with her father, she took the loss hard. Always the stoic child, she did not shed visible tears, but put her lanky foot forward, hid her emotions behind her impenetrable face, and moved on. Though the youngest of three children, including eldest brother Sven and sister Alva, Greta always took it upon herself to play the role of the oldest sibling. She was a leader. She made the plans, she designated the duties, she saw that they were carried out, and she lived the sort of distant and removed life that all rulers lead. The proof of her affection was seen not in an obvious tenderness but in the mere fact that she was always watching out the corner of her eye to see that those she loved were protected.

Greta's work in The Joyless Street would increase MGM's interest in her, 

(though Louis B. Mayer was already more than intrigued after seeing 

her work in The Saga of Gosta Berling.

In her father's death, a part of her remained stunted, and it is this part that can be seen in her moments of childlike innocence on the silver screen. A part of Greta never grew up. Another part of her did, and it was the same part that led her to adopt more typically masculine attributes, attitudes, and styles. Her legendary androgyny is the result of Greta stepping into her father's pants when he sadly left the earthly plain. This duality in Greta is the explanation for her amazing transformations on the silver screen. She is one moment the graceful, suffering lady in gowns of satin; the next she stands sternly with the look of a drill sergeant. She is both man and woman-- the mother earth of the silver screen. While she was beautiful and desired, while she conveyed great love and sexuality, there is very little sex identifiable in Greta. Greta was always more about the romance than the carnal act, which is perhaps why she spoke so well to and for her sisters. There was always a spiritual element to her sexuality, which heightened her performances above the erotically superficial. Whether you were consigning yourself to Heaven or Hell by mating with her, you were giving yourself up to a power greater than yourself-- as pure in its lust as in its devotion. This almost elevated expectation of sex on the screen is something she carried in her personal life, and it manifested itself in an almost asexual form. Whether she indulged her desires with men, women, or both, sex was the last thing on her mind and a messy and annoying side-effect of attraction that she didn't seem to enjoy too much. This is not to imply that she was completely frigid-- her demeanor and her actions at every instance implicate a depth and sensuality that was overpowering. On the other hand, it implicates more about her protective exterior. For a woman who feared scrutiny, judgment, and intimacy on any level, the act of love-making was never a question of soulful connection. In her fragile and fearful mind, no matter how tender the partner, it felt a lot more like rape.

Greta would find love with John Gilbert on and off screen, but the beautiful music

was not to last.

She did occasionally let her fierce guard down for temporary trysts, the most memorable being that between herself and John Gilbert. After her success in Mauritz Stiller's The Saga of Gosta Berling and G.W. Pabst's The Joyless Street, she and Stiller arrived at MGM and almost instantly she was partnered with "Jack." The two quickly fell in love before the eyes of the crew, and subsequently the eyes of America. Jack became at once lover, father figure, and friend, but his hopes that the passion of their on screen affair would translate into reality failed. Greta Garbo lacked one thing which is essential to all lovers: surrender. Her independence, her need to feel unbound and un-possessed, would forever cripple her chances at perfect love. With Jack, it is assumed, she came closest. While he was able to draw her out of her shell and bring her more into Hollywood society, high society meant little to her. The constant pull within her that at once beckoned her to her craft and begged her to return to her native soil made it impossible for her to compromise herself into the starlet, harlot, Goddess that Jack imagined her to be. He was too much the dreamer; she was too grounded in reality and all its unanswerable questions. She would embark on a steamy but brief affair with a more private actor, George Brent, during their teaming on The Painted Veil, but John remains her celebrity soul mate. Other rumored lovers range anywhere from good friend Mercedes de Acosta to Cecil Beaton to Louise Brooks. But all were temporary, and platonic friendship was always more favored in any case than romantic love. Many fell in love with her, or the idea of her, but none could get their hands on her. Garbo became an accidental Siren, pulling ardent wooers to her like moths to a flame, but she consistently failed to understand her power.

Greta had a natural command and nonthreatening ambiguity that allowed her to eclipse 

gender roles with ease. Whereas Marlene's cross-dressing is tongue in cheek or 

Katharine Hepburn's was defiant, Greta's androgyny was totally inoffensive. 

She just was.

Her power was mighty, nonetheless. What Garbo brought to the screen was something more than anyone had ever seen before. While she played temptresses, she was never quite the vamp; while she was new and fresh, she was far from a flapper. These two new female forms brought with them a scintillating sexuality, but while empowering women they too continued to objectify them. Garbo's mysterious sensuality alone set women free. Ever in control, she was also a woman at the mercy of her heart. Her beauty may have been her entre into romance, but it was her great depth and almost innocent passion that rendered her beauty nonthreatening and heightened her desirability. She was ethereal, impulsive, and also-- as Barry Paris pointed out-- "intelligent." This was not some woman simply sitting around yearning for a hubby, nor a street girl using her body to cling desperately to life-- or her next meal. Garbo was the master chess player, winning every game she played-- even if she lost. She made her move by not moving; by letting the other players rashly race around her to their own ruin. Meanwhile, she breezed past them all to a seamless victory. This could be said of her career as well as her self. Garbo had little to contribute to her success other than her performances. She did not choose her roles so much as not refuse them. Everyone around her would bargain, wheel and deal, make offers, and she would sit silently, ponder the opportunity, and if underwhelmed utter the now iconic: "I tink I go home now." Did she choose her most famous roles or did her most famous roles choose her? From Flesh and the Devil, to Anna Christie-- when she first spoke in that evasive yet familiar drawl-- to Ninotchka, Greta became the safety net of MGM. 'Garbo' was a continual promise of box-office success.

Until she wasn't. It took only one flop for the always uncertain and second-guessing girl of Stockholm to pack it in and remove herself from the world she had both loved and hated in the same breath. After Two-Faced Woman failed  to draw in ticket sales, Greta's insecurity got the better of her. She quit. Always doubtful and uncomprehending of her own talent, it took legions of compliments and confidantes to build her up and but one flickering, negative thought in her own mind to send her crashing to the ground. In the back of her mind too was this un-toppable image that she had somehow created-- Garbo-- that she could never live up to. The strain between fact and fiction was too difficult to uphold. Yet, by withdrawing into the shadows, she forever cemented the fiction, making it only more compelling by living a curious and secretive life for the next 50 years. She never returned to the screen, no matter how much the people and various collaborators begged her. A part of her yearned for a return, but self-doubt and the painful damages of time ruined any possible will she had to make such a move. Instead, she hid, saw a bit more of the world with trusted friends like Salka Viertel, Aristotle Onassis, Gayelord Hauser, and Sam Green, then passed away into the darkness. But celebrity death is never death. The darkness they dwell in is simply a waiting room-- inadmissible to the layman-- where they lay in wait for the great projector, the television, or the NetFlix instant player to roll their film again and bring them to life. Garbo thus continues to wake from a dream, perform her dreams before our eyes, then pass into that mystical dream land again. 

Greta rarely played for comedy, but when she did, she nailed it. This scene in Ninotchka, 

the film in which she played to and against her own universally recognized 

taciturnity, is one of her funniest: "Suppress it." Her humor in life 

was rather dry and rarely understood.

The events of her life, while fascinating and curious, are not as important as the work that she completed in her brief time on the silver screen, nor as important as the legacy she left behind. This is a truth she believed in most of all. She once quipped in one of her rare interviews that it should not matter who she was, where she was from, what she did, who she knew... Who cared? Well... everyone, but she had a point. People didn't want the true her, because the true Greta was very plain. They wanted Garbo. Her smartest move was maintaining her independence, was drawing the shade so that people could enjoy the illusion, and she could enjoy the tranquility of her privacy. She gave so much of her soul to Hollywood that she refused to let us have all of her. There had to be something left over for herself. She would not be caged. And so, she remains unreachable, untouchable, unknowable. She is a Wonder who encourages the human mind to wonder. Like the child she once was-- who put on breeches and performed plays with her friends-- she continues to indulge in this wonder of life. What is concrete is reassuring but uninteresting. Thus, she like the intangible questions of the universe, remains provocative, dangerous, desired, and feared. God created Garbo. Garbo created cinema. Her religion endures.

Not bad to look at. Greta's slightly hunched walk and awkward postures would

 influence the very definition of beauty. One looks at the broken angles

 of today's models and still sees a world of "posers."