THE REEL REALS: Gail Patrick

Gail Patrick

Gail Patrick is known for her performances as the snide, straight gal in classic films like My Favorite Wife. As a result, her roles throughout the Golden Studio Era pretty much label her as 'My Favorite Bitch.' Gail was kind of fantastic. She was the catty female on the outside that all girl secretly were on the inside-- the villainous Yang to the Yin of the more sterling leading ladies of the time, like Carole Lombard, Ginger Rogers, and Irene Dunne. While Gail did play the good girl sometimes, in films like the cult classic Murders at the Zoo for example, she hit her stride by playing the dame who's trying to elbow her way to the prize-- generally the man. Gail was an atypical star. Not just because her height, intelligence, and countenance communicated an intimidating inner strength, but because she, as a general rule, wasn't an overly emotive actress. Much more cerebral and business savvy than many of her contemporaries, acting for Gail seemed more like a calculated investment that paid off. She was serious about it, but didn't take it seriously. The glamour was nothing, the fame was nothing, and her integrity and character reacted to these things irreverently. She considered them mere tools of the business and not the self-obsessive realities that too many celebrities get caught up in.

Gail lived a fascinating and multi-faceted life, one in which she attacked her many ambitions-- studying law, starting a children's clothing line, becoming an executive producer for "Perry Mason," (WHAT?!)-- and refused to settle for anything less than everything of which she was capable. Ambitious, beautiful, and well-educated, Gail was a force to be reckoned with, a feminist before her time, and her independent nature is probably partially responsible for her multiple marriages and divorces. I mean, who was really man enough to go toe-to-toe with this diva? While in cinema she remains the girl you hate, in reality she is the girl you love to hate. In the end, at least her characters were honest. They weren't sugar-coated goody-two-shoes with saccharine personalities and fairy tale endings. Gail was the real thing-- a tough broad holding it together and determined to survive this maelstrom of life no matter what it took. What would My Man Godfrey or Stage Door have been without her? Every good story needs a good, bad girl.

THE REEL REALS: Donald O'Connor

Donald O'Connor

Donald O'Connor was a wiry, rubber-faced, exuberant motherfu... Fudge. Fudger... Motherfudger. You know what I mean. This guy wasn't human. He was like a super-jolt of positivity personified, a wholesome humdinger, a jitterbuggin' razzmatazz madman! Like his fellow cinematic, dancing legends-- Astaire, Kelly, Charisse, Rogers-- he had a talent that was hypnotic in its effect. However, while Astaire & Rogers led with romance and Kelly & Charisse led with sex, O'Connor led with humor. He did the most heavenly and obscene things with his body, stretching and projecting himself like both a slingshot and its missile across the screen-- a trick he'd learned on the vaudeville stage, where he'd gotten his start. What he created looked natural, and even painful, but it was always flawlessly executed. His work and craftsmanship, the dedication to his artistry as the physical buffoon, are often still underappreciated. No Gods are born; they are made. Respect.

Descended from a family of circus performers-- acrobats and bareback riders-- Donald grew up with the same daredevil masochism that made fellow clowns like Chaplin and Keaton greats. The game from day one was "entertainment." He'd go as far as you can to "Make 'Em Laugh," even if he needed several days of recuperation afterward-- which was indeed the case in the infamous Singin' in the Rain sequence. Equal to these comics, his hilarity was born of his tragedy. He survived the car crash that claimed his sister and also witnessed his father die from a heart attack while the elder man was dancing on stage. The ceaseless inner motor that churned was one of escapism, pushing the pain of circumstance outward to overcome it. However, the result of such constant, vigorous exorcism certainly took its toll, especially after Paramount and later Universal-- his main home-- began using him as one of its most trusted workhorses. Starting his career at the age of 12, he barely stopped to breathe for the next 40 years of his career. The constant stress led to alcoholism-- another trend among his peers, including good friend Judy Garland who shared a similar energizer-actor frustration. Eventually, Donald was fortunately able to overcome this disease and come out swinging, as he always did.

Needless to say, audiences never saw these demons on the screen, though they were witnessing their energy-- the buoyancy with which Donald tried to out-act, out-dance, out-sing, and out-maneuver them. His filmography is nothing to sniff at: Beau Geste, Mister Big, Francis (and its sequels), Anything Goes, There's No Business Like Show Business, and, of course, Singin' in the Rain. In addition, he performed on his own briefly lived television series, made quest appearances on everything from "The Love Boat" to "Tales from the Crypt," and had a brief cinematic re-emergence in the '90s in Toys among other films. He would pass away at the age of 78 in 2003 leaving those that loved him with a song in their hearts and an indescribable fondness for a one of a kind character. A fascinating figure with his own particular and admirable touch, he kept things interesting on the screen and took audiences to places they had never been before. But hey, ya' know... Anything for a laugh.

BITS OF COINCIDENCE: Part XIII

"Two of these girl are not like the others": This picture depicts 6 starlets

labeled as Paramount's upcoming ingenues. Four of them got

to Hollywood with a publicity lift. (Clockwise from top left:

Grace Bradley, Ann Sheridan, Katherine DeMille,

Wendy Barrie, Gertrude Michael, & Gail Patrick).

Ann Sheridan (left) had a little unexpected help getting to Hollywood-- unexpected because it was totally indirect. You see, the genesis of the "Contest to Fame" ploy goes back much further than today's "So You Think You Can Dance" and "The Voice" competitions, (give me a high-five if you think my pal Jessica Childress was totally robbed on the latter. For example, long before Clara Lou Sheridan's "Search for Beauty" win, another Paramount leading lady used a similar contest to get her ticket West: Clara Bow. Movie lover Clara won the Movie Picture Classics "Fame and Fortune Contest" of 1921, and many others would follow in her "Well, it's worth a shot" wake (see here). More importantly, it was because of the later, highly publicized contest for the casting of the "Panther Woman" in Island of Lost Souls that Paramount almost immediately instigated the next year's "Search for Beauty" contest. The amount of lovely talent that the studio was able to pick up from the "Panther Woman of America" hopefuls turned out to be a real coup!

Though only one woman could win, of course, the Lost Souls gag introduced Paramount to Grace Bradley, Gertrude Michael, and perhaps the most familiar, Gail Patrick-- known for her cleverly bitchy love-to-hate-her roles in My Man Godfrey and My Favorite Wife. All of the gals earned contracts due to their entries. Yet, the woman now forever known as the Panther Woman was Kathleen Burke (right), who would enjoy a fairly brief but memorable career-- in addition to her initial prize of a free five-week stay at the Ambassador Hotel-- because of her fortunate feline fame. Her sleek figure and large eyes definitely fit the bill for her first film role in Lost Souls. Another of her memorable works was the bizarre and iconic early horror film Murders at the Zoo. As a direct result of this pulchritudinous recruitment, Paramount stable initiatied the "Search for Beauty" contest, Ann's sister-- Kitty-- entered her photo into the mix, and Ann was chosen as a finalist and eventually became the only member of her pack of winners to obtain not only moderately successful but full-blown, movie star career. But, the joke was on Paramount, because it was Warner Brothers that would give that to her. Of course, Gail, Kathleen, and the girls had actually helped a bit too.

Discoveries are strange things. Some actors work for years or even decades before they attain a sliver of notoriety (or money) for their "cinespian" efforts. Then, there are those regular, every day people who are just minding their own business when show-business taps them on the shoulder-- see Lana Turner. Carole Lombard (left) was something in-between. She was "discovered" early, forgotten for some years, and finally able to force her way back into the industry. The almighty finger of fate that chose her future for her was attached to none other than director Allan Dwan, one of the biggest silent filmmakers in history. He just so happened to spot the 12-year-old Carole in her usual, tomboyish get-up playing pick-up baseball with her brother Stuart and some of the other neighborhood boys. It was serendipitous, because Allan was struggling to find a character just like Carole-- then called Jean Peters-- to play the role Monte Blue's kid sister in The Perfect Crime. As Allan watched Carole "knocking the Hell out of the other kids," he knew that he had found his girl. Carole was cast, much to her surprise and enjoyment, and though she only worked two days on the film, she considered the experience a blast. In fact, she decided then and there that an actress was just what she wanted to be! She had taken acting classes before, but it had only been in fun. Now, it was serious. After three years of nothin', Carole would re-enter the film biz-- first as Jane, then as Carol, then as Carole-- and after a lot of extra work and due paying, she got what she wanted: superstardom. Had Allan picked another girl that day, Carole might not have known that she was born to crack us up!

Joel McCrea (right) was one guy who got around. In addition to being William S. Hart's paper boy and good friend of fellow rodeo rider and future actor/governor Rex Bell (otherwise known as Mr. Bow), he also rubbed elbows with one of the most famous women in the history of film: Greta Garbo. It seems an unlikely pairing, if only because Garbo rarely rubbed anything with anyone, so much did she value her space and privacy. Joel's luck was catching an up-close glimpse of the Swedish Sphinx before she had become an American sensation and forever turned inward. In other words, he found her pre-jaded. At the age of fourteen, Joel was working as an extra and stunt double at MGM, and it just so happened that he was able to get a gig on the film that would be Greta's first American release-- Torrent. Interestingly enough, Joel was getting paid to be Greta's double on the film, which at the time,  he probably didn't see as too monumental, since no one really knew who Garbo was yet. If anything, it probably hurt his pride that he was playing a girl!

In any event, Jeol put his equal love of horses to work on the job, which was to "ride a horse onto the seen and pull him up so sharply that he would slide through the mud on his hind legs." This, Joel dutifully performed twice, but then, the surprisingly maternal and youthful Greta (left) insisted that she replace him. The stunt was too dangerous; he might be hurt! Joel was touched by her concern and dashing heroics, but he and the rest of the cast and crew were nonplussed with her resulting stunt work. It was Joel's performance in that sequence that made the final cut. Though Greta had tried to come to his aid, I guess you could say that it was actually Joel who helped her get her start in the American movie industry.

Myrna Loy also had some unexpected help from a Knight in Shining Armor-- or should I say, "Amour?" Myrna's dreams had not always been geared specifically toward film. In truth, she longed to be a dancer and had filled her childhood days by designing elaborate costumes and performing shows in her yard. Yet, by the time she was in her late teens, her dreams and her fate were starting to merge. She was working then as a dancer at the Egyptian Theatre when it hosted big premieres with live pre-shows and scenes. Then, in 1925, her grace and unusual features, which made the intelligent and well-bred girl from Montana look quite exotic (right), earned her a sitting with photographer Henry Waxmen, leading to her alluring figure and visage being on two-dimensional display on the Egyptian walls. 

Henry also kept these shots at his studio, of course, which is where heartthrob Rudolph Valentino (left) saw them. He knew in his heart that he had spotted a star! Myrna's misleading, vixen looks made Rudy think that she was perfect for the role of "Mary Drake" in his upcoming project, Cobra with Nita Naldi. He got her a screen test, which the untrained novice unfortunately bombed, and the role went to Gertrude Olmstead instead. Yet, Myrna had obviously made enough of an impression on both Rudy and his wife, Natacha Rambova, to earn herself a small role in the latter's pet project What Price Beauty?-- a satire on the cosmetics industry. Unfortunately, Rudy didn't turn out to be much of a Pygmalion, due to his shocking and early death the following year, but his small invitation to another world opened a door to the career Myrna was born for, and she did all right by herself-- from extra girl, to bit player, to supporting lead, to leading lady extraordinaire. (Interestingly, Myrna would remember Rudy as a happy-go-lucky, friendly guy while  she though Natacha seemed a bit of a slave-driver. Their marriage seemed more child-parent than husband-wife).

Ginger Rogers (right) was also the kind of person to help someone out, particularly family. This explains the brief cinematic career of her maternal cousin Helen Brown Nichols of Kansas City. Almost as soon as Ginger starting working steadily in feature films, she called on Helen and suggested that she try her hat at the acting biz too. Ginger offered more than entre, for she was the one who also suggested Helen's stage name, which was to be Phyllis Fraser. Phyllis didn't tarry in the biz too long, but the experience was certainly a stepping stone to other things, including her literary aspirations. However, there is another pseudo-relative of Ginger's in the famous Hollywood pool. 

You see, Ginger's aunt Jean Owens  was married to actor Vinton Hayworth. Vinton began working in films in the mid '30s and his impressive career extended to the end of his life in 1970. His most memorable work was on television, which included appearances on "Alfred Hitchcock Presents," "Green Acres," and "I Dream of Jeannie." Coincidentally, his natural niece was Rita Hayworth, his sister Volga's daughter! When Margarita Cansino made it big (see left), she took her mother's last name as part of her stage name, and Vinton, who up to this point had been performing as "Jack Arnold," made a lucrative decision and followed suit. While this doesn't make Rita and Ginger blood relatives, the matrimony of Vinton and Jean did unite these two ladies as cousins-in-law. Makes you wonder if they ever chit-chatted at family reunions...

Speaking of relations, Anne Baxter (right) sort of had art in her blood. The maternal granddaughter of Frank Lloyd Wright, the legendary architect, little Anne grew up with expectations for greatness and the notion that utilizing and sharing one's talents was a necessity. Anne saw her way to contribute to the family glory when she attended a play starring the always remarkable Helen Hayes. That was that. Acting was the thing. Of course, those acting classes with Maria Ouspenskaya also helped her along past the point of sheer willpower.  By the age of thirteen, the ambitious youth had appeared on Broadway! By the age of fifteen, she was auditioning for the role of "Becky Thatcher" in a cinematic adaptation of Tom Sawyer. Making this moment even more exciting to the wannabe ingenue was her scene partner in the screen test-- the eighteen-year-old Montgomery Clift! 

While Anne would recall that his perfect beauty was marked with a few pimples, she would admit that the blemishes did not detract from his already breath-taking handsomeness. Of course, Monty (left) was not to be outdone by Anne's resume. He had performed very successfully onstage, including his recent praised-- albeit brief-- performance in "Yr. Obedient Husband" as 'Lord Finch.' Coincidentally, the leading man in this play was Fredric March, who reflected years later that he knew right away that the hypnotic Monty was "going places." But, back to Anne... The duo got along swimmingly during the audition process, but unfortunately were not cast as Tom and Becky. Who was??? Exactly. Big mistake, casting directors. BIG. Anywho, Monty-- whom Anne recalled as being both "hyperactive" and "hypersincere"-- very courteously invited her to a show at Carnegie Hall to take the burn off the harsh slap in the face that they had both received. No matter, they would team up later with none other than Alfred Hitchcock in I Confess! Some years had passed, but both got where they were going, separately but together.

BITS OF COINCIDENCE: Part XII

Clara Bow enjoys spreading her wings in the glowing light of her celebrity.

Who knew??

Clara Bow wasn't always the "it" girl. In fact, during her youth, she probably felt more like the "ain't" girl. No money, no affection, no reason to keep going... All she had were her dreams. Her only fuel was her love of the movies and her hopes of one day being a movie star. As such, some of the celebrities that kept her mentally and emotionally nourished during her harsh, tender years became heroes in her mind and heart.

Movie stars quickly learn of their unnatural appeal to the public. Fan letters, autograph hounds, screaming pedestrians, et al, tip an actor off that he has accrued some level of worship. There is no way of calculating the number of fans that Wallace Reid, for example, encountered during his life. Certainly, he would give a smile and a handshake, offer his John Hancock, wave his hand, and move on his merry way when meeting a fan. These moments were touching, of course, but they were also frequent, and thus anonymous, drops in the bucket-- too many faces to recall. Therefore, Wally had no way of knowing that one of the gushing girls waiting for him outside a Brooklyn theater during one of his publicity tours was none other than a thirteen-year-old Clara Bow, who had stood for eight hours just to catch a glimpse of him! This would have made a great story, had Clara ever had the chance to tell him after she became famous herself. Unfortunately, right as Clara was hitting Hollywood, Wally was drowning in his morphine addiction, which would claim his life within a year of her arrival. Ironically, Clara's future husband Rex Bell (George Beldam) would know Wally well, since the former caddied for him during his high school years. Of course, Rex had easier access to the star, since he grew up in California. He also started a charity rodeo with his classmate and future star: Joel McCrea. (Clara avidly read star publications, like the left example with her idol Wally gracing the cover).

Needless to say, when Clara hit it big, she took advantage of her resources. She was never a pushy nor selfish person, but she was incredibly warm and loved to make new friends. Being in close proximity to people that were so illustrious, after a life of living in the slums, must have made her feel like a very grateful sore thumb. Naturally, some movie stars were a bit too snobbish for her taste, and considered her earthiness and lack of pretension far too "low class" for their high-fallutin' ways. Her fans would still adore her and do almost anything to get a piece of her. One up and coming actor was very pleased when Clara showed an interest. The play "Dracula" was all the rage in the late '20s. As such, when Clara had a chance to catch a show, she grabbed her pals and high-tailed it to the Biltmore Theatre. She was particularly intrigued by the atypically handsome leading man, Bela Lugosi (right). The Hungarian actor barely spoke English but had somehow found a way to memorize his lines for the devilish role and would consequently sink his teeth into the American audience. After seeing him onstage, Clara was smitten. She used her clout to go straight to his dressing room and extend her praise for his performance. After some half-hearted and broken conversations, which neither probably understood, Clara invited the blushing actor over. Bela appreciated her kindness, and became an occasional visitor to her cottage, although in this case there was no funny business-- Clara gave him the spare room and shared her bed with BFF Tui Lorraine. Yet, there was a tryst of sorts at some point, for Bela, the world's most famous vampire, would sometimes pull a friend aside, lift up his shirt, and indicate a series of love bites on his body. He would then smile and utter one of the few English words in his vocabulary for clarification: "Clara... Clara..." Their love affair was short lived, but the starlet definitely left her mark.

Greta Garbo (left) could certainly relate to the strange disassociation that the foreign Bela must have felt on American soil. Being outside of one's native language and familiar territory can induce definite feelings of melancholy and loneliness. When Greta first started working at MGM, she struggled emotionally. She missed Sweden, and strangely, she missed the cold. New York was preferable to California, but she went where the contract was. Things hadn't much improved by the time she began filming The Temptress, her second American made movie. Her first film had not yet been released, no one knew who she was, she still hadn't made any real friends, and when she received word that her elder sister, Alva, had died, she was absolutely devastated. To her surprise, she received a consolatory bouquet of flowers from an unlikely source: Lillian Gish. Somehow, the senior screen phenom had caught wind of Greta's misfortune, and being an innately intuitive woman, she probably gleaned from all she knew of the strange young woman that she was feeling pretty lonesome, out of place, and could use a friend. In her vulnerability, Greta-- who was still the shy Greta and not yet the aloof Garbo-- approached Lillian on the set to offer her gratitude. As Greta was still uneasy with English, she and Lillian had trouble communicating, but they seemed to understand each other and soon were sobbing in each other's arms! Greta was eternally grateful, and she even hung around several times to watch Lillian work. Lillian taught Greta the ropes, and may have done too good a job. After Greta was nursed back to emotional health, her first release, Torrent, would totally overtake Lillian's La Boheme at the box office! Perhaps Lillian knew it was time to pass the torch.

Lillian's big heart and depth won her many friends in life and

many fans through her work.

Louise Brooks's (right) first love in life was to dance. As a teen, she signed up with the most prestigious dancing instructors of her time, Ruth St. Denis and Ted Shawn, who ran the Denishawn dancing company. Her talent, grace, and intensity, quickly moved her up the ranks in the troupe and got her noticed by her instructors. Ted adored her unique gift; Ruth was annoyed by her obstinacy. In any case, after finishing up a tour, the group of dancers settled down for a summer session at the infamous Meriarden arts colony in Peterborough, NH. There, Louise made her first real friend on the road. Barbara Bennett had been sent to Mariarden because her artistic family deemed her unfocused and undisciplined. Naturally, she and Louise gelled. Louise enjoyed Barbara's lack of phoniness. In fact, the first time Barbara spoke to Louise it was while Lulu was stuffing her face with pie: "Hello, pie face," Barbara quipped. They became thick as thieves. After the summer ended, Barbara and Louise both returned to New York, and Louise quickly found herself kicked out of Denishawn after she and Ruth locked horns in a final confrontation. As such, she turned to Barbara, who invited her into her posh family's life. Louise from Kansas absorbed all of their cultured, manicured ways, learning diction and table manners from them. They were happy tutors and she an apt pupil. Of course, she knew all of the Bennett family by reputation: Parents Richard and Adrienne were both big actors. Barbara's eldest sister, Constance (18), was already making waves with her acting talent as well, though her younger sister, Joan (13), hadn't yet had time to hit her stride. In time, both would enjoy fame that would eclipse their parents'. Barbara, the unruly middle child, never caught the entertainment boat, but Louise still liked her the best. She thought Joan was sweet too, but, to speak plainly, she thought Constance was a total b*tch.

Hollywood royalty: acting sisters Joan and Constance Bennett.

Ginger Rogers (left) was riding high after her stage success "Girl Crazy." The musical had earned her multiple kudos and also a contract in Hollywood with Pathe Studios. Things were certainly looking good! When she and mother Lela boarded the Twentieth Century Limited at Grand Central Station, neither believed that life could get any better. It could. No sooner had they arrived, than friend Harold Ross alerted them that the two most famous performers of the American stage were to be aboard with them: Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne. Ginger couldn't believe it! Of course, as she was an up-and-coming song and dance gal, she didn't think that she would have much to offer the acclaimed duo in the way of conversation. After all, she was just a newbie going to the low level Pathe, while they were signed at the OMG MGM! Yet, Harold still managed to set up a dinner for the two parties. Ginger was intimidated of course, but she found the husband and wife team delightful, and even felt that they were more nervous about their latest Hollywood venture than she was about hers. They were prepping to film their stage hit, The Guardsman, for the screen. They started asking her advice! What directors did she like, what kind of make-up tricks was she using, etc? Ginger offered whatever help she could, but admittedly, she knew little. Perhaps the Lunts had sensed her upcoming genius. Their talents would never translate to cinema, while Ginger was about to take the world by storm!

Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne: acting dynamos and soul mates.

Few would peg Clark Gable (right) as the sensitive type, but he had much more going on inside than he ever let his carefully crafted, macho image indicate. Many would assert that he based his future characterizations on his personal hero, tough guy Victor Fleming. On the screen, he tried to be the man he wanted to be. In life, he was much more insecure. For example, he had a love of poetry and literature that he kept a secret, because he didn't want it to tarnish his hard-edged demeanor. When "Clark Gable" was born on the screen, he was born big. After A Free Soul, his cocky bad boy with a side of charm was golden at the box-office. But Rome wasn't built in a day, and the struggling, self-doubting actor had had to work his way to the top like everyone else. Sometimes, progress didn't seem to come fast enough, and he would give up on himself. For example, he landed the lead role in the play "Scars" and received positive reviews for his performance in the boy to man story of a war draftee-fighter-survivor. However, when the play itself got negative feedback, he dropped it like a bad habit. Always second-guessing, he didn't have the confidence to see it through. If it weren't for the women in his life, Clark probably wouldn't have gotten anywhere. In the end, he had good reason to quit the play: it was far too choppy and uneven. Still, another actor picked up where Clark had left off when the play hit New York. The new leading man who stepped up to the plate? Spencer Tracy. The play's title was changed to "Conflict," but although Spence put his guts into the part, earning even better reviews than Clark, the play still folded by April of 1929. He would move on to "The Last Mile," a jail-themed play, which luckily turned out to be a hit. (Clara Bow allegedly was in the audience for one of his powerhouse performances, but no love bites this time). Spence and Clark would later become BFFs in Hollywood, and probably --as part of their competitive hijinks-- would tease about their earlier shared stage experience.

Spencer Tracy, looking oddly dapper in one of his theater publicity shots.

NOW, THAT'S FUNNY: Part VIII

Edmund Gwenn and Clark Gable on the set of Parnell. Is it just me, or does

Clark seem underwhelmed by this experience???

 

Despite the fact that he won his only Oscar for a screwball comedy (It Happened One Night), Clark Gable hardly seems like the King of hee-haw. Yet, while his tough guy roles typically produced the ultimate identity of cocky male cynicism, he did have a good sense of humor in his private life, even when he was the butt of the joke. His dominating onscreen presence hid a sensitive and humble soul that had come up the hard way, and while he appreciated the benefits that came with his stature and movie star paycheck, he too was grateful when a kidding friend brought him back down to the earth he was much more comfortable in. Spencer Tracy was one of these guys. The two bonded almost immediately when they started filming on San Francisco, despite the fact that they had both just survived scandalous affairs with Loretta Young. Surprisingly, there was no competitive, macho energy about their former shared paramour. In fact, Spence once took a swat at a guy who had cracked about Loretta's "adopted" daughter's (Judy Lewis) "big ears," a jab at Gable, whom all Hollywood knew to be the true father. Over the course of a few movies, the duo got close. In fact, they once went off to lunch together and disappeared for two days. Even sober, neither could remember where they'd been. After Spence started the good fight to maintain his sobriety, his relationship with the still hard-drinking Gable grew less intense, but their sturdy respect and friendship remained. Clark admired Spence's talent, and Spence was envious of Clark's leading man power at the box office... which is why he so enjoyed bringing up Parnell.

Clark was no fool about his talent. He could do "intense." He could do "smoldering." But all of his characterizations were mere exaggerations of himself. He shied away from character roles or true life figures for fear that he wouldn't be able to carry them. When handed the role of Irish politician Charles Stuart Parnell in 1937, he was not surprisingly a nervous wreck. He had hoped that friend and lover Joan Crawford would too jump on board as a co-star in order to help him through it, but when she turned the role down, Clark read it as a betrayal. Joan would insist that this was the official end of their romance (though they would allegedly remain friends with benefits over the years). Joan wasn't wrong to back out. The film was a flop, Clark was panned, and his death scene was so thoroughly mocked that he would refuse to play dead again until 1958's Run Silent, Run Deep. But, while Clark was humiliated, Spence was thrilled! Spence had originally been offered the role of Parnell, but had turned it down, which made Clark's misery even funnier to him. While filming on Test Pilot in 1937 after Parnell's release, Spence continued to kid his friend about his failed venture in acting. When Clark and co-star Myrna Loy arrived to set one day, they were abruptly greeted with a coronation ceremony for the press regarding their recent status as the "King and Queen of Hollywood." Spence howled with laughter as publicity photos of Clark in a crown were taken. He then addressed his embarrassed friend as "Your Majesty." Clark got red in the face and retaliated by calling Spence a "Wisconsin ham." Spence stuck in the final pin with "What about Parnell?" End game. So it would continue over the years. Whenever Clark got a little boyishly cocky, Spence would shoot out a Parnell jab. In 1939, when Gone with the Wind went on to break box-office records, further cementing Clark's unbreakable reputation, Spence still wouldn't let it lie. He sent Clark the following telegram: "Gone with the Wind may be this year's greatest picture, but I still remember Parnell." Clark, as always, laughed. (The chums perform in their undergarments in Boom Town left).

Clark's lady love Carole Lombard (right) too had a hand in the Parnell gags. As with Spence, Clark latched onto Carole's down to earth demeanor and humor, finding her better company than the majority of the pretentious hangers-on in Hollywood. The multiple ways that this romantic pair kidded each other over the years is, in itself, legendary. Carole too had no qualms about taking Clark down a peg or two when he started getting a little high on his pedestal or ornery, but her gags were mostly just an effect of her kooky sense of humor and meant to cheer people up, not poke fun. Carole understood Clark, and beneath his front-- where he was able to freeze people out and shut off internal emotions-- she knew that he was deeply upset by the Parnell blunder. Insecure about his acting in general, to have his performance universally panned was a hard thing for him to endure, especially after being crowned the "King." The King of what? With apparently no talent, it made him feel like a phony. So, one day, Carole decided to earn back a few points for Clark's self esteem. Thus followed what became known as Carole's "Rain" of Terror: Carole paid a pilot to fly over MGM and drop thousands of fliers over the studio with the following text: "Fifty Million Chinamen Can't Be Wrong!" You see, regardless of America's reception of Clark's Irish hero, his performance as Parnell was hailed as genius in China. When Clark-- and everyone in Culver City-- got the message, he flashed his old grin. The boy was back!

Moving backward a few years to that business between Spencer Tracy and Loretta Young (left)... The two met on the set of 1934's Man's Castle and quite quickly thereafter began a romance. It would be the first major relationship to threaten Spence's marriage to wife Louise. Loretta had a habit of falling in love with her co-stars, a result of growing up in front of the camera and never being able to separate fantasy from reality. Spence was taken by Loretta's great beauty and confused innocence. Ironically, the two also had faith in common and even attended mass together. For a time, it was discussed between them that Spence really would end his marriage and wed Loretta. The drama of the impossible love made it all the more enticing to Loretta, who was just turning 21. However, the tide turned when the teetotaling actress became acquainted with her suitor's bad side aka his alcoholism. The dating duo often went out on the town with John and Josie Wayne, with whom Loretta had been good friends since John's football days at USC. They celebrated Loretta's birthday together, took a vacation in Palm Springs, went dancing, the usual. As with Clark Gable, Spence kidded John: "It's a good thing you're good looking, because you can't act your way out of a paper bag." Duke would respond: "That's right, fats. I'll catch on, then you watch out!" Good times... But, as Spence's guilt-ridden conscience got the better of him for his latest dalliance, so too did his drinking increase. Duke could keep up pretty well with the bottle, but the ladies did not imbibe and thus were left staring in horror at their drunken, sloppy men making asses of themselves. Of the two, Spence was always much worse than Duke. Duke was a fun drunk, whereas Spence could become hostile. On one particular evening, the foursome was dining at the Beverly Wilshire's Gold Room, the usual chaos ensued, and Spence became so belligerent in his drunkenness that Duke had to escort him from the premises, against much protest. Luckily, Spence was blotto or he would have been quite embarrassed at the ruckus he was making before the likes of fellow diners George and Gracie Burns. Duke finally got Spence to his room, but even there Spence made trouble and tried to get back to Loretta. He was causing such a disturbance that Duke was left with few options, so... he decked him. After that powerful "Whop!" Spence was down for the count and spent the night draped over his bed snoozing like a baby. The relationship with Loretta ended soon thereafter, but Spence would still get a wistful look in his eyes whenever he saw her in public.

When one thinks of Hollywood horror, images of Frankenstein's monster, Bela Lugosi's Dracula, or the countless terrors of Vincent Price flicker in the brain. These anti-heroes were all born in the days of sound, however. In the silent days, there was but one film villain that could turn the blood cold: Theda Bara. Theda Bara's career is a flash-in-the-pan phenomenon that is both indicative of the power films have to both make a star and break one. Over the course of a career that spanned just a little over a decade, this actress from Cincinnati, OH was built up publicly as the pinnacle "Vamp": a man-eating seductress with dangerous sexual powers, at once threatening and alluring (see right). Films like The Tiger Woman, The She Devil, Salome, and-- of course-- Cleopatra, solidified her forever as cinema's favorite temptress. But, this version of Theda Bara, (an anagram for "Arab Death") was a far cry from the true Theodosia, who was an accomplished actress renowned among friends like King Vidor and Ethel Barrymore for her delectable potluck dinners. Theda gratefully played the part Hollywood, and Fox in particular, assigned her, but in time, both she and the public grew tired of the gimmick. Before she knew it, her career was over, and the caricature that she had created was left to the history of film. But, her identity remains a fascinating topic, if only to illustrate how powerful a cinematic persona can be. Particularly in the early days of film, when Hollywood was so mythic and its stars so revered, the line between fantasy and reality was not so easily tread by viewers. Thus, what Theda was onscreen was what people believed she was in life. Shop keepers actually had to ask Theda not to come to their stores for fear of the stampede of women that would follow-- grabbing at any piece of clothing Theda had touched in the hopes of collecting some of her magic aura. Not all in the public were fans. Adela Rogers St. Johns would recall a very telling story regarding this subject. A mother and child were wandering the streets of New York City. At one point, the child ambled off, and the mother noticed her son talking to a darkly garbed woman with a pale, ghostly face. As she drew nearer, she realized that the woman was... Theda Bara! The mother suddenly became hysterical. "Save him! Save him! The vampire has my child!" Certain that Theda was hypnotizing her babe and intent on sucking his blood, the terrified mother even went so far as to call the police for assistance! One imagines that, at this moment, Theda got a hefty reality check: "What have I gotten myself into?"

Ginger Rogers loved to throw a good party. As she wasn't a drinker, she knew that she had to create a certain over-the-top environment to make her get-togethers enticing to those chronically parched individuals who only considered a party a party if there was plenty of swill. One of her outrageous shenanigans was contrived with the help of her boyfriend at the time-- some guy named Alfred Vanderbilt. I hear he was "loaded" in another way. After filming the superb roller-skating dance sequence with Fred Astaire in Swing Time, Ginger enlisted Alfred's help in staging a roller-skating party of their own. So, on March 6, 1937, they rented the Culver City Rollerdome and invited a few pals along-- you know, every day folk like Joan Crawford, Kay Francis, Franchot Tone, Chester Morris, Harold Lloyd, Simone Simon, Cary Grant, Cesar Romero, and the "battling Bogarts," Humphrey and Mayo Methot. Everyone was having a swell time, cavorting like children and sucking down hot dogs, hamburgers, and Coca-Cola. It was nice to see people dressed down, away from studio mayhem, and having pure unadulterated fun (emphasis on the un-adult). Ginger was pleased with her party's success, but at one point, in the midst of the laughs, she noticed some commotion going on in the center of the rink. She approached Joan Crawford to ask "What's the haps," and Joan indicated Bogie lining up a row of chairs. He was about to perform a dare-devil feat of jumping over one chair after the other. Ginger and Joan exchanged the "uh-oh" look, but before anyone could stop him, Bogie was up and rolling. Against George Murphy's warning, "Ah no, not again," Bogie cleared one chair... Two... He prepped to somersault over chair number three... Oof! Ow! He landed right on his keister and kept sliding. Half the audience howled, and the other half slapped their foreheads in "Oy vey" fashion. The movie tough guy didn't seem embarrassed, however. He simply dusted off his rump and defended his faux pas: "I used to travel with a circus... I just haven't done it in awhile." Even Sam Spade needs to play the little boy every now and again.

Franchot, Ginger, Alfred, Joan, and Chester suit up to skate down.



HISTORY LESSON: Art Imitating LIfe

Linda Darnell's too good to be true life story was the inspiration 

for one of her biggest films.

I have referenced multiple times in the past the fascinating mirror effect of reality and fiction. One such article, The Blurring of Violence, dealt with the way life has appeared at times to imitate art-- or at least claim to. Today's turn will examine the way art has imitated life in the movies, or more particularly how it has directly imitated the lives of its stars. Of course, there are a string of biopics about our celebrity favorites, from the Good, to the Grand, to the Ugly, (aka Man of a Thousand Faces, Chaplin, and Harlow), but while these direct tributes of celebrity life are fascinating-- a movie about a movie star making movies-- there too are examples wherein filmdom more indirectly borrows stories from stars' lives to spice up their scripts. Here are some occurrences when art has imitated the lives of its artists:

Linda Darnell's rise to fame and celebrity stature was just the sort of Cinderella story that made Hollywood the dream town of youths all over the nation. While "overnight success" is not really achieved overnight, the hard work and persistence that Linda put into her dream would pay off suddenly and shockingly to the 15-year-old when she signed with Twentieth-Century Fox in 1939. Suddenly, a switch was flipped-- Monetta Darnell was off, and Linda Darnell was on. After her breakthrough roles in Hotel for Women and Daytime Wife, Darryl F. Zanuck and company decided to capitalize off Linda's sudden appeal and "road to super-stardom" story. Thus, by the age of sixteen, a script was already being penned for the new starlet by Jessie and Ivan Kahn about her up-to-now life story... sort of. While the film did tell the tale of a small town girl turned movie gem, the old Hollywood spit and polish made things much more palatable to a glamour loving public, thus Linda's eccentric mother Pearl, for example, was not included in the plot. However, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star-- as it was originally titled-- did include some facts in its fictions. When Linda first came to Fox, she rode on the train with two fellow discoveries: Dorris Bowden and Mary Healy. In the film, later titled Star Dust, these two supporting characters were rolled into one, and Mary herself took on the role of "Mary Andrews." In the film, Mary's character was made to be a flop in pictures who finds happiness in the real world. This made Linda's light shine a little brighter as character Carolyn-- one of the few lucky, "chosen" ones. (This plot point was somewhat premonitory in that Mary's career never did take off like Linda's, and she made few feature films). Director Walter Lang also replicated Linda's original Fox screen test of "Two Nuts on a Sidewalk," even using her same wardrobe, though Linda admitted that the fake test was better than her original one. John Payne was added into the mix as another movie hopeful and love interest-- with a constantly broken nose-- to give the film a little romance, though Linda had no such beau upon her Hollywood arrival. Strangely enough, she was falling for cinematographer Pev Marley behind the scenes on this project. When the film premiered, Linda's name was above the title, with Fox declaring that Linda was a star before she'd had any real time to prove her mettle. In a little twist of life imitating art, Linda would immortalize her hand prints outside Grauman's Chinese Theatre after the film's premiere on March 18, 1940, just as her character had at the end of Star Dust. For one so young, it was totally unprecedented and a living dream come true. (Ironically, the movie that declared Linda a star was the same one she watched the night she suffered the fire that claimed her life. Linda is with Mary Healy and John Payne, left).

Katharine Hepburn (right) was superbly represented by another Kate, Cate Blanchett, in Martin Scorsese's The Aviator in 2004, but Kate actually brought a little of her true life to the screen over 60 years prior in the film Stage Door. When still a struggling thespian, Kate had performed in the play "The Lake" in the early '30s. It was a critical disaster that resulted in one of her most scathing reviews a la illustrious drama critic Dorothy Parker: "Hepburn ran the gamut of emotions from A to B." The negative reviews were certainly devastating to the young actress, who took her work very seriously. Having had previous raves for "The Warrior's Husband," the sudden change in mood was hard to swallow, especially since "The Lake" was basically her Broadway debut. Director/Producer Jed Harris was little help, having pushed her in his direction against her natural instincts, thus instigating a flawed performance. He too blamed her for the play's failure. As per usual, Kate took the lumps and pressed on chin up. Fast forward 4 years to Kate accepting the role of the socially oblivious but goodhearted actress Terry Randall in Stage Door. Kate would poke a little fun at herself, and perhaps at Dorothy as well, during an important plot point. Having snagged a role in "Enchanted April" from another actress, Terry finds herself underwhelming in her performance and unable to deliver the following lines with conviction: "The calla lillies are in bloom again. Such a strange flower. I carried them on my wedding day. And now I place them there, in memory of someone who is dead." These were actually the self same lines that she delivered on stage in "The Lake!" However, in Stage Door, as in her life, she was able to prove herself. After learning that the actress she had inadvertently wronged had killed herself, her performance in "Enchanted April" became jaw-droppingly honest and poignant. Terry could act after all! So could Hepburn. In later years, Dorothy Parker would recant her earlier assessment, saying that she believed Hepburn to be one of the finest actresses in the biz and that her original, infamous quotation had been a "joke." Good recovery, Dot. (Use of the play "Enchanted April" was another inside joke, as a film of that name had been an RKO failure a couple of years prior.)

Kate's co-star in Stage Door, Ginger Rogers, also indulged in a little game of live and tell. After Ginger won the "Texas State Charleston Competition" at the tender age of fourteen, she and her mother, Lela, rode across the enormous state in a continuing performance circuit. Immediately after this, she began an engagement working with bandleader Henry Santrey, which meant that she and Lela would continue traveling all over the United States. Needless to say, there were a lot of train rides. Because the dough needed to maintain one's career-- affording hotels, wardrobe, and food-- often made the cost of living higher than the rate of pay, the dynamic duo had to find ways to cut corners and save cash. One way was train fare. Mother and daughter came up with a scheme pretty early to have Ginger pretend to be two years younger, making herself twelve and thus eligible for child rates. To complete the illusion, along with her acting skills, Ginger carried a large Egyptian doll named "Freakus" around to both cover her face and make herself appear physically smaller. The plot worked like a charm until, fortunately, Ginger got far enough in her career to afford lawfulness and avoid a life of little white cons. However, she got a pleasant surprise when Billy Wilder sent her the script for The Major and the Minor, since Ginger's character pulls the exact same stunt as in her youth: she pretends to be a child in order to afford cheaper train fare only to find herself trapped in the illusion after meeting the handsome Ray Milland. Freakus, however, was substituted with a balloon (see left). Though feigning an eighteen year age difference was more difficult than a mere two year one, Ginger still pulled off the feat flawlessly. If it ain't broke... don't grow up.

Hollywood storytelling is not always a laugh, as our continuing subscriptions to rag-mags and website tell-alls can attest. The poster boy for movie star breakdowns in 1923 was America's favorite playboy, Wallace Reid (right). Having just lost his battle with morphine addiction, Wallace was cremated and put to rest at Glendale Forest Lawn cemetery, but his memory and untimely passing remained quite palpable in the public. His sad end would inspire a film, spearheaded by his grieving widow Dorothy (Davenport), about the devastating effects of drug abuse on family. Left alone with two young children, Wally Jr. and Betty, Dorothy became totally devoted to educating the nation about drug use. She equally wanted to finance a hospital in her husband's name that would care for addicts seeking mental and physical redemption. Wally's mother, Bertha, was opposed to the idea, not wanting her son to be remembered for the way he died, but Dorothy was adamant. She joined up with Harold Lloyd in forming the "Anti-Narcotics League of Los Angeles," which she too hoped to finance with profits from the movie, which was originally titled The Living Dead. 

Compiling a screenplay with C. Gardner Sullivan and signing on friend Elinor Ince as a producer (wife of Thomas), the movie got underway with the acting talents of luminaries such as James Kirkwood, Bessie Love (shooting up, left), and Dorothy herself. Jesse Lasky and the boys at Paramount had no hand in the film, which is perhaps emblematic of their guilt-- they were at least partially responsible for Wallace's dependence on morphine. Despite all of the intention, the plot was a bit over-dramatic and convoluted, involving the corruption of a taxi driver who becomes a substance abuser and, thereafter, a thief to support his habit. He then inexplicably pulls his lawyer down into the bowels of addiction with him, and the families of both men suffer as a result. However, while the lawyer finds absolution, the taxi driver does not and is killed in the end. The film was imperfect, but few critics would throw stones knowing that it was a legacy of love for Dorothy and a commemoration of one of their favorite, fallen soldiers. Some did argue that Dorothy was simply trying to profit off Wally's name-- in the film's opening she had credited herself as "Mrs.Wallace Reid"-- but with two kids to feed, who could blame her? Ironically, while the film was meant to save lives, it nearly ended two. Actors Harry Northrup and George Hackathrone were nearly killed in a collision when they had to jump from a car before being hit by a speeding train, (Oh, the days before special effects). While the end product of Human Wreckage had little to do with Wallace's life, it was a testament to what he had suffered and was notorious for its honest depiction of drug use, down to the painful realizations of withdrawal. If the story was able to save even one life, Wally certainly would have been proud.

Norman Maine (Fredric March) tries to balance his love of his wife, Vicki Lester (Janet Gaynor), 
with his jealousy over her career, as Adolphe Menjou looks on in 1937's A Star is Born.

There has been a great amount of controversy surrounding the back story of A Star is Born, a film that has been made thrice ('37, '54, and '76). The plot varies little between the different versions and involves-- similarly to Star Dust-- the meteoric rise of a young ingenue in the film business, as her lover/tutor/husband's career crashes and burns. The character of "Vicki Lester" is coached into her career by fading idol "Norman Maine," whose decent into alcoholism in response to his jealousy over his new wife's career leads him to suicide. Even today, rumors abound in Hollywood, but just who the true source of this tragic tale is remains a hot debate. Many pinpoint MGM's silent leading man, John Gilbert (right), as the inspiration for Norman Maine's tragic hero. This is somewhat understandable when one compares the downward slide of Gilbert's career with that of Maine's--  in addition to his unfortunate taste for alcohol. However, many differences suggest otherwise. Gilbert was much more a victim in reality, whereas on screen the Norman Maine character is pretty much assumed the culprit of his own downward spiral-- a mixture of changing audience tastes, his addiction, and self-loathing. Some too may draw comparisons between the relationship of Norman and Vicki and Gilbert and Garbo, but Gilbert's kind guidance of Greta during her early studio days is vastly different from Maine's complete metamorphosis of and public campaign for Vicki in the film. Too, Gilbert did not commit suicide but suffered a heart attack, so the two characters there also have a divide. Yet, the method of Maine's self-annihilation-- drowning himself in the ocean-- does bring to mind a story as told by Marion Davies. Apparently, John-- who would occasionally fall into bouts of despair-- once fell under the spell of his own melancholia while at one of Marion's beach parties. Dramatically and drunkenly, he declared to all within ear shot that he was determined to kill himself. Some onlookers called his bluff and dared him to drown himself in the ocean. In defiance, Jack dove headfirst into the waves. A worried Marion called after him to stop, but the less sensitive wisecrackers assured her that Jack would not complete the task. When he was indeed washed back ashore not much later, he began weeping at his own cowardice to the jeers of onlookers. Marion's heart went out to her deeply disturbed friend, and she balled the jesters out. Since John's life is still causing inspiration, as seen in the latest The Artist, it is possible that A Star is Born also absorbed some of his tragic tale. 

But these likenesses between John and Norman are not the only bases for the film. Another popular lovers' feud often referred to with Star is that between Barbara Stanwyck and her first husband Frank Fay (together left). Babs was a struggling young actress of twenty-one when she married 36-year-old vaudeville comedian Fay in 1928. Under the more popular entertainer's protection and guidance, Babs was able to kick-start her own career and soon had movie offers. This story alone has spawned rumors, including those that allege the marriage was one of appearance only. There is argument that both Barbara and Frank were homosexuals who wed to cover their sexual preferences and protect their careers. However, if this was the case, it makes the situation that followed somewhat nonsensical. Almost immediately after the nuptials, the young bride went to Hollywood where she began working at United Artists, while funny man Fay continued on the road. Eventually, he made the move to Hollywood and was signed at Warners, but he failed to catch on with movie audiences like his wife had. This led to envious arguments that often turned physical. Friend and neighbor Joan Crawford was witness to more than one brawl. Allegedly, Frank wanted Barbara to give up her career and join him on the road when his contract was canceled in 1931, but she refused. After the duo adopted son Dion, Fay's drinking only increased.  The battling couple was a well-guarded secret in the press, but the bruises that Babs often sported were common knowledge around town. When an inebriated Fay threw son Dion into the family pool, Babs decided enough was enough and pulled to plug. They finally were divorced in 1935. Barbara would go on to become one of the most beloved and acclaimed actresses of her generation, and Fay's name would slowly disappear from the limelight. The sadistic nature of the relationship-- with the male as the dominating force-- could well have been one more bone in the spine of the Star story, especially as the inverted careers of the man and wife were the same as in the film.

Yet, there is even another story that could have served as source material: that of everyone's favorite flapper, Colleen Moore and producer husband John McCormick (together right). Colleen was an old-fashioned but ambitious young woman when she decided that acting was "the thing" for her. However, even as a youth, she was business savvy, and she understood that her atypical looks and somewhat boyish figure did not make her the symbol of female eroticism the guys usually went for. Still, there was something about her--including the fact that her eyes were two different colors--that caught the attention of John, who met her one night when the duo went dancing with Mickey Neilan and Blanche Sweet at the Sunset Inn. Not used to flattery and a wise little thing herself, the cynical Colleen merely raised an eyebrow when John asked her to marry him after three measly dances. But, before she knew it, she was head over heels as well, and the two were wed a mere day before her birthday. At first, life seemed grand. With John's support and her own ambitious spirit, Colleen's career started gaining steam, but as in the case of Babs and Frank, John's jealousy of her rising star and taste for alcohol impaired what had at first seemed a match made in heaven. Colleen kept the facts of her personal misery a secret for many years, never being one for gossip, but she did finally unleash the truth. John had been physically abusive, once nearly throwing her out a window, and finally-- when she told him she was going to leave him-- nearly choking her to death. His angry words, "You can't leave me. You're nothing without me! I made you a star!" would echo in her ears for years to come... and quite possibly in the script of Star. 

Mrs. Norman Maine ( Judy Garland) takes a hit from her alcoholic husband 

(James Mason) in 1954's A Star is Born.

One particular factor that ties the factual and fictitious versions together is a phone call that Colleen made while still married to John. At the time, Colleen's career was thriving, but she received word that her husband was about to be fired from their home studio. Though the marriage was troubled, Colleen was loyal. She called up top dog Richard Rowland and stated loud and clear, "This is Mrs. John McCormick. I just called to say 'hello." The message apparently was heard, and John's job was temporarily saved. The marriage was not, and Colleen finally left John and never looked back. History did, for in A Star is Born, the famous ending line uttered by the grieving widow/superstar, which she delivers to fans, is: "Hello, everybody. This is Mrs. Norman Maine." (Strangely, this is not dissimilar from Dorothy Reid's credit as Mrs. Wallace Reid in Human Wreckage...). Whether the tragic romance of Vicki Lester and Norman Maine was based in part on one or all of these tales is still uncertain. It is quite possible that the age old battle of the sexes and the conflicts that arise when gender roles are eclipsed (in her case) or failed (in his) are enough of a starting point for any good screenwriter. In any case, the elastic nature of the silver screen continues to give and take with its stories and its stars, giving audiences a little truth mixed with the fiction. As long as the material is good, the pond from which writers reel in ideas doesn't matter. Keep 'em comin'.

(A friend just tipped me off to the story of John Bowers as well, who may very well have been a significant source in the A Star is Born story).