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

HISTORY LESSON: Lil' Bit About Lincoln

The latest Hollywood offering about one of America's most revered presidents, Abraham Lincoln, has been drawing much attention with its slew of award wins and nominations. Director Steven Spielberg's Lincoln focuses on the life of the 16th leader of our nation as he fought for abolition in the midst of the Civil War. Daniel Day-Lewis, surprise-surprise, was incredible in his portrayal of one of the most iconic men in history and won the Golden Globe for his performance last night at the award ceremony.

Henry Fonda puts his oversized dogs up in his portrayal of 

the adored Commander in Chief in Young Mr. Lincoln.

Yet, Day-Lewis is but one of many in a long line of people to portray "honest Abe." Henry Fonda contributed to cinema's examination of this figure during his youthful, early days in politics in Young Mr. Lincoln, Joseph Henabary gave his interpretation in the epic and controversial Birth of a Nation, and who could forget Robert V. Barron's rendering during Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure: "Be excellent to each other!"

Benjamin Chapin brings Lincoln to life on stage.

However, few are familiar with the name Benjamin Chapin, the man who performed the role of Abraham Lincoln for years in vaudeville. Bearing a very strong resemblance to the former president, Chapin put the coincidence to use and played to packed houses in "A Day with Abraham Lincoln" at the turn of the century, merely 30 (or so) years after Lincoln's assassination. A dedicated researcher, he devoted his life to learning all he could about Lincoln's life, and in time wrote his own play, which he entitled "Lincoln" and put on the stage in Hartford, CT in 1906. In the words of noted Hollywood biographer E.J. Fleming: 

"Each act was a different Civil War event: the Fall of Fort Sumter, the Battle of Gettysburg, the end of the War, and the last day of Lincoln's life... told amid the tale of two soldiers in love with Mrs. Lincoln's neice, Kate Morris, one a loyal Union soldier and the other a Confederate spy."

It was a huge success, and Chapin's portrayal was highly revered. He and his company traveled from city to city, playing in increasingly respectable theatres, and were often in competition with the antithesis to the work-- the more racist play "The Clansman," soon to become the D.W. Griffith film Birth of a Nation. Chapin too would make some films by serializing his play. After forming Charter Features Corp. in New Jersey, he eventually churned out over ten pictures. Interestingly enough, the infamous writer/producer/director Paul Bern would work with him in 1917. He would direct several of his two-reelers, including My Mother, The Spirit Man and Myself, The Lincoln Man.

When Lincoln Paid, with Francis Ford as the Prez (1917).

Unfortunately, just as Chapin was hitting his stride in pictures, having landed a contract with Famous Players, he passed away after a bout of tuberculosis. He was but 43-years-old. This marked the end of the first, major Lincoln player in cinema, but there would be many more. The story of Abe's life seems to grow only more fascinating as the years pass and as scholars and historians chip away at the complications and passions beneath his gentle soul. Thus, from D.W's 1930 film Abraham Lincoln to the recent Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, we continue to remain enthralled and enthused by a man who represented all that was good, just, and honorable in our always struggling, always striving, democratic nation.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Bette Davis

Bette "the Diva" Davis

I think I first heard the name Bette Davis from my mother's lips. Ma loves Bette. For certain, the first of Bette's films I saw was Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte. Thus, at tender age, I was able to derive two things about her: she was awesome, and she was scary. The first verdict was based upon the fact that what was all right with my mom was all right by me; the second, by the fact that I had watched this brassy, caustic, and intense female push a stone onto Olivia De Havilland and Joseph Cotten's heads with a smirk on her face. As you can see, I was introduced to the Bette of later years: withering, bitter, tough, and a bit unsettling to look at. What is interesting is, despite her hostile outward appearance and demeanor, I still loved her too. Bette Davis didn't take sh*t from nobody! At least, that's the persona she projected. It would take me a long time to unlearn the cinematic, boastful tricks she used to deflect from her true nature. It would take time to undo the caricatured performances she gave from All About Eve onward-- which were both self-congratulatory and self-lacerating-- to find the supreme and gifted actress underneath. The conundrum of Bette Davis is her own seemingly willful undoing, as if she chose to go from an accomplished artiste to a hell-bent monster. If we can agree on anything about Bette Davis today, it is usually that she was a total "Bitch." But this is more than the result of a post-WWII reaction to her ambitious, self-serving tendencies-- far from what men were looking for when they came home. It turns out that 'bitch' Bette became the greatest and longest-running performance she ever gave.

The romantic beauty in her youth.

Ruth Elizabeth Davis was born on April 5, 1908. As a youngster, she changed her name to "Bette," because its sounded more glamorous. This was befitting, because in her youth, she was a true Yankee Princess. No, a Queen, who was doted on and always got her way-- or else. Her father, Harlow Morrell Davis was an extremely intelligent and successful law student who became head of the Patent Department at United Shoe Machinery Corp. Her mother, Ruthie Favor, was a passionate and artistic woman who had left a life of performance behind to become a wife and mother. Both adored "Princess Bettina." Everything was perfect in Lowell, MA-- until the divorce. Harlow's busy work schedule and his wife's increasing dissatisfaction with family life led to the male party's infidelity. Soon, Harlow was married to his former nurse, Minnie Stewart-- who had taken care of him during a bout with asthma-- and Ruth was raising two daughters, including the younger Bobby Davis, on her own. Bette never forgave her father for his transgressions, nor truly forgave her mother for losing him. Any mental proclivities that Bette had toward order and control were thus turned up full-throttle, as she sought to find balance and comfort in an undependable world. Her constant attention to detail and cleanliness make some believe that she suffered from an undiagnosed case of OCD her entire life. Such a theory is not unfounded, as both her mother and sister suffered mental and emotional breakdowns that led to their temporary stays in sanitariums. As she went through life with less money than her friends and the embarrassment of living in a broken home, the anger and resentment Bette felt manifested itself against her sister Bobby-- who was a shelled turtle beside Bette's she-wolf-- and her mother, who seemed to go out of her way to please her constantly emotionally distraught and insecure eldest daughter.


The result was a willful young woman accustomed to unquestionable appeasement. It was Bette who wore the pants in the family. Ruth worshipped her, and worked her fingers to the bone to give her eldest daughter whatever she wanted, as if to make up for her botched marriage and thus botched life. After she got work as a photographer, Ruth created in Bette a little Narcissus, taking romantic photo after romantic photo of the pre-Raphaelite-like beauty with large, intense eyes and glowing skin. As Bette blossomed, she became popular at school, where she used her feisty personality to win people to her side. She too enjoyed charming the opposite sex and pitting them against each other for her affections. It was her way of proving that, while she had lost Harlow, she could have any other man that she wanted. Revenge was sweet, but beneath the assertive, sensuously charged veneer was an insecure little girl putting on a great show. So intense was her need to keep the performance going that she never learned to relax, to settle down, to be herself. The world was her audience, and if she broke character for even a second-- if she let her vulnerability show-- she would lose her power and thus her sense of safety. The incredible stress she put on herself resulted in earth-shattering fits of anger and unstoppable crying jags. She once, in a fit of hysteria, even bit her own mother!

Part of Bette's genius laid in her ability to take chances. Her willingness to play
 the homely old maid in Now, Voyager is an example of this. Here she is with
Claude Rains prior to her character's astonishing make-over.

Finally, Bette found release. After Ruth had moved the family to Newton, she took Bette (Bobby remained always in the shadows) to see "The Wild Duck." Starring in this Henrik Ibsen play was none other than Peg Entwistle, the woman who would later end her life by leaping from the Hollywood sign. In this moment, Bette saw none of that despair nor the tragedy that was to come. She saw only Peg in all her glory: a fully fleshed-out, complicated, emotional woman who captivated her audience. Peg's acting transcended acting. It was being. This is what Bette wanted. Mostly she wanted to openly be emotional with the excuse of it being in character. She vowed to play the same role of Hedvig in "The Wild Duck." It was a promise she intended to keep, and then some. The pressure fell on Ruth to enroll her daughter in acting class. Since she had already encouraged Bette in artistic pursuits, including a tenure at the exclusive dance academy Mariarden, the idea was definitely not unpalatable to the senior lady, but the money was. As always, Ruth made it work. The idea of having her beautiful daughter succeed where she had failed was perhaps the only fuel keeping her going. Riding on an exultant high, Bette landed at the John Murray Anderson-Robert Milton School with a ferocious appetite that propelled her quickly to the top of the class. So lauded were her sensitive and courageous classroom performances that she was awarded a full scholarship for her second term. Despite her glowing status at the Academy, she took a risk and dropped out, pushing herself immediately into the world as a working actress. There was no question of failure, for Bette's mindset only received signals of success. This thinking, they say, is the thinking of winners. She went on to perform in stage successes like "The Earth Between" and, of course, "The Wild Duck." Then came the call to Hollywood that would change everything...

Universal and Warners struggled with how to cast Bette. They tried to 

glamorize her, not realizing that her "glamour" was 

her intelligence, singularity,  and strength.

It is possible, had Bette never come to Hollywood, that she could have gone on in this same brazen, inexplicably blessed fashion. Had she never come to Hollywood, perhaps she never would have started questioning or doubting herself. Her career may have soared continually instead of burning out mid-flight and ending in a battle of self-destruction. Hollywood breaks hearts, and indeed it would even break the unbreakable Bette Davis. Having spent her life as the toast of every occasion, lauded for her beauty and talent, she landed in Tinsel Town only to be told that she was "ugly," awkward, giftless. Her first screen-test for Samuel Goldwyn was a disaster. For any other girl, this would mean defeat. For Bette, it meant war. After David Werner called her back to Universal after seeing her perform in "Solid South" (this Yankee often found herself in Southern Belle roles), she landed a three month contract with the studio. The casting department fretted: What to do with her? She's not conventionally beautiful... She's not conventionally anything... Each snipe cut her to the quick, but more than ever, Bette needed to prove to herself that she was better than anyone else, if only to show her father-- who objected to her career decision-- that she didn't need him or anyone else. It was power that she was after. Though her ego was severely damaged by this un-Christian greeting from the City of Angels, Bette was determined to get to a place where she could tell everyone to go to Hell. She would find that place on her throne as the leading lady of Warner Brothers.

Bette takes the graceful, feminine ideal to school and wins

the world over with her earthy, real, and flawed 

performance in Of Human Bondage.

After a series of bit parts that took her nowhere, Bette was signed with Warners in 1931. After making over twenty films, she would finally reach success in what remains one of her finest performances. In fact, at the time, it was deemed "probably the best performance ever recorded on the screen by a U.S. actress ." Her elusive, selfish, and at times repulsive take on W. Somerset Maugham's anti-heroine Mildred in Of Human Bondage was a sensation. Never had acting been so raw or unapologetic. Other actresses had shied from the intense and unflattering material. Bette latched onto it with desperation, knowing that it was her last chance to prove her mettle. To stand out in Hollywood, she was thus agreeing to be just what they thought she was: ugly. It was a gamble that worked. Her stature on the lot and in Hollywood in general climbed after this film, leading to critically acclaimed collaborations (and an affair) with William Wyler in Jezebel and The Letter. Nominated five years in row for her work, after an initial snub for Of Human Bondage, Bette would take home 2 trophies for Dangerous and Jezebel. 


An unlikely starlet, her appeal to women in particular-- who were craving an escape from societal expectations and gender shackles-- made her one of the biggest names in entertainment. She used her intelligence, abandon, and amazing understanding of physicality to inject pathos into her roles in Now, Voyager and Dark Journey. She was the actress other actresses wanted to be. With her strength, she was the woman other women wanted to be. The champion of "women's pictures," Bette's harshness projected a realism that gave her soul sisters comfort. Her atypical features too gave her a place with the common women of the world, who were elevated by Bette's uncommon ability to translate their secret pains, fears, and yearnings. One watches films like Old Acquaintance or Marked Woman today and still willingly absorbs the Bette Davis punch. She is solid in her shoes, unapologetic, authentic, flawed, human, and not to be trifled with. To see a woman take charge so naturally was a much needed breath of fresh air, making Bette the female answer to Warner's typically male-heavy gangster films. She was a social gangster.

Bette tests Henry Fonda's loyalty and her own sexual powers over

him, and suffers the consequences, in Jezebel, one of her 

greatest performances.

Yet, slowly over time, Bette's aim faltered. Her aforementioned 'punch' stopped smacking sense into the public and suddenly seemed to become self-inflicted. Some would say that the "actress" became a "star;" some could say money and not art became her agenda. In any case, Bette Davis seemed only to be playing Bette Davis after awhile. Always an unfalteringly strong performer, her technique dwindled and her characterizations suffered. Her formerly calculated mannerisms became little more than nervous ticks and old tricks. She wanted to maintain her power, but seemed to be surrendering it at the same time. Her well recorded disputes with Warner Brothers allegedly revealed a woman who wanted better opportunities, but in retrospect we see that she sabotaged every chance for elevation she received. She turned down interesting work and feigned illness to get out of compelling pictures, as if her faith in her talent was waning. She became a victim of her own internal battle: the pressure of staying on top became too much, and so she subconsciously started to jump the plank. 


Her personal relationships too give a key into her descent. Never trusting of the familial environment, considering her own broken home, she tried and failed to have marriages with every type of man on the list: sweet pushover "Ham" Oscar Nelson, social ladder climber Arthur Farnsworth, overbearing beefcake William Grant Sherry, and the abusive macho Gary Merrill. But no man would ever be as important to her as her career. Like so many of her film characters, she tried to be a woman who "had it all," only to find the push and pull between home and career to be far too abusive for her psyche. She wanted more than she was able to be a loving wife and mother. She lacked trust: trust in men and trust in herself. A great majority of her marriages became abusive, and Bette willingly seemed to instigate most of her physical punishments, particularly with Gary Merrill, who too beat her daughter, "B.D." Partially terrified and partly gratified at the bruises she received, Bette seemed to be seeking absolution for her failure as a woman. Then again, perhaps as a woman who had reached such great heights, she just wanted to feel pain to feel human again.

Bette makes history again as Margot Channing in All About Eve. She 

finally found a man to go mono-e-mono with her in Gary Merrill-- 

but their union cost her the last of her self-esteem.

Being Bette Davis, in the end, destroyed Bette Davis. As her career started dwindling, she made All About Eve-- which remains one of her classic performances-- then disappeared into maladjusted family life with Gary Merrill, daughter B.D, and her two adopted children Michael and Margot, who were essentially bought to be toys for B.D. Michael would be abused by his eldest sister as Bette had and continued to abuse her sister Bobby, and Margot would be ostracized after it was discovered that she was brain damaged and thus unmanageable. Bette assuaged herself the only way she knew how: in her constant cleaning and in booze. The result was a woman who appeared far beyond her years. It was no surprise, therefore, that she made her brief career renaissance in horror films. Her lipstick scowl still painted across her constantly disappointed face, Bette howled vengefully at the fading Hollywood moon with another never-say-die lady, Joan Crawford, in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? It was a sleeper sensation and led to a reawakening in Bette's career. But glory was not to last. Age, poor health-- including a battle with cancer-- and a foiled sense of self-esteem would work against the icon.  Her last major triumph in The Whales of August is a great example of this. She spent the entire filming period ostracizing herself from the rest of the cast, including Vincent Price and Lillian Gish, who tried and failed to befriend her. She had become too isolated in her cocoon of self-doubt and desperately resorted to antagonism for a sense of control. Her final effort in The Wicked Stepmother was cut short when she dropped out after seeing her aged face in the rushes. It was as if she was finally forced to recognize the monster she had created, and instead of flaunting it and feeding it as she used to, she became terrified of it and let it eat her alive. Her death in 1989 was a sad end to a woman who had shined so brightly at her zenith. But then, Bette would never have admitted to this defeat.

Fallen idols in a final triumph: What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?

While Joan Crawford was religiously devoted to her own 

preservation, Bette seemed intent on self-destruction. 

In retrospect, all of these hell-raising, intimidating qualities, which became exaggerated in her later years, only served to endear Bette to us more. We counted on her to be over-bearing, to be pushy, to live out a side of ourselves on and off screen that we were always too afraid or too polite to personally unleash. We sometimes need a devil to wreak havoc for us. Perhaps this was Bette's purpose, and why we continue to love her. Despite the aged caricature that seems to sometimes eclipse the slender, petite, beauty she once was, one cannot deny this woman's talent, nor the way she influenced an era of women undergoing another social renaissance. To watch the nuances she gave her characters takes the breath away. Her turn as Leslie Crosbie in The Letter expanded upon Jeanne Eagles's original villainess by eliminating Leslie's mania and making her a calculating woman one-card-short of a full-on sociopath. Her martyred Charlotte Lovell in The Old Maid reveals one woman living two lives-- one as a frigid aunt, bitter and overbearing, and the other as a secret mother who yearns for her beloved child's affection. Had Bette continued to trust her intuition, her natural scent for character, her downward slide after The Little Foxes wouldn't have been as rapid. Her need for control affected her ability to cooperate and collaborate. Instead she disappeared into overly manufactured characters, and became the woman of only one face: the Bette Davis face. It is a testament to her as the vital force she was that that face was the only one we needed and the one we continue to search for in all of her dangerous, uplifting, and life-changing portrayals. As "bad" as Bette was, she's still so good. Incomparable. Perfect. Beautiful... Especially when she gets ugly.

BITS OF COINCIDENCE: Part VIII

Loretta Young, whom old pal John Wayne always called Gretchen, would help

 him in his early Hollywood career by getting him roles in  The Life 

of Jimmy Dolan and Three Girls Lost (above).

Football was a big part of John Wayne's life. Not only was it an important part of his close relationship with his father, but it also helped him get to college. Ironically, it would also bring him into the world of Hollywood. John was no stranger to the world of film, having grown up in Glendale and witnessed first hand actual location shoots. But, while focusing on his law degree, he had little time for the make-believe games that he had enjoyed in his youth-- when he had played "movies" with his friends. Nonetheless, the creme de la creme would seek him out, or more particularly his football team, when he began playing college ball for USC. John would later come to emulate the more authentic cowboys of William S. Hart and Harry Carey, but it was the flashy rhinestone cowboy and buckaroo Tom Mix (left) who had the most immediate affect on his life. Tom was a huge football fan, and he used to come to the games to cheer the Trojans on. In return for getting his own private box at the field to entertain guests, he made a promise to coach Howard Jones to "help out some of his boys" by giving them summer jobs. A man of his word, Tom soon had John and a handful of others working as prop boys on the Fox Studios lot. In addition, John worked up close and personal in the Tom Mix hit The K&A Train Robbery. It is possible that he even appeared in it as an extra, playing one of the thugs Tom shoots early in the film.

But, perhaps more interesting on another level was the USC connection John made with Clara Bow (above), who too loved coming to the local games. Of course, she was probably more interested in looking at the young fellas in their uniforms, but who could blame her? There is no doubt that the tall and handsome Duke caught her eye, but she didn't play favorites. In fact, she used to invite the whole team up to her house on Saturday nights after the home games for dinner. Later, such behavior would lead to scandalous rumors-- all complete BS-- that Clara was sexually working her way through the entire team. These allegations were published in salacious rag mags like GraphicC. As the prototypical "flapper" of the 1920s, Clara's free-wheeling and uninhibited ways onscreen and off ruffled feathers and caught her a lot of flack. Sadly, she was too often misconstrued and publicly ridiculed, as in this instance, where her kind intentions to share her wealth and hospitality with starstruck youths backfired on her in the press. There was never any "funny business" to speak of between her and the team, and Duke would never forge any kind of relationship with her other than one based on the memory of a beautiful actress who acted like a kind sister to a bunch of tongue-tied, starry-eyed bucks. By letting them hang out at her palace, she must have made them feel like kings!

Another team member that may have been present at these casual soirees is Ward Bond (above). Turns out that Ward also wore the Trojan jersey and played as a lineman on the team with Duke. Strangely enough, the duo did not originally get along. Outwardly, they were as different as two men could be. Duke was charismatic, yet somewhat bashful, well mannered, educated, and noted for his classic good looks. Ward, on the other hand, was gruff, abrasive, openly promiscuous, arrogant, and constantly getting into trouble. Ward's behavior would annoy Duke... at least at first. Later, after Duke had started working for John Ford, Ward would come back into the picture. Ford wanted to use the famed football team in his film Salute, and he assigned Duke the task of recruiting some of the players as well as his Sigma Chi brothers. Much to his chagrin, Ford gave Ward one of the prime spots, having taken a liking to his "ugly face." Knowing the two didn't get along, Ford took great pride in bunking Duke and Ward together on the train to Annapolis. Perhaps because he found his behavior so shocking and amusing, Ford latched onto to Ward. His brazenness and inability to be intimidated by the notorious director intrigued the senior party, who would both take him on as a friend and cast him in several of his films. Duke too softened after sharing a bunk with Ward. His caustic manners, at first irritating, surprisingly became endearing... and somewhat reassuring. The two became lifelong friends and got into several drunken shenanigans together, often with Ford too in attendance. Not everyone would cozy up to Ward as easily as Duke and Ford did, and he irritated them from time to time over the years. But, as Ford would say, "Ward is a son of a bitch, but he's our son of a bitch."

Loretta Young also knew Duke when he was a USC boy. It turns out that Duke and ol' Gretchen Belzer (as she was known then) went way back, again to his football days. While attending college his freshman year, Duke was set up in the conventional way on a slew of blind dates. He and his friends would pick up a girl or two and go out dancing and whatnot. It was never a serious thing; just a group of friends having fun. One of Duke's dates was with Loretta's sister, Polly Ann, which in turn must have initially introduced him to Loretta. He and Polly Ann never became more than chums, and she set him up with another friend, Carmen Saenz. Again, Duke kept things casual and wasn't too interested... until he dropped Carmen at home and was introduced to her younger sister, Josie. Here, Duke fell head over heels. Thus commenced a 7 year courtship-- the result of Josie's much opposed family. Not seeing anything bright in Duke's future, the Saenz's weren't an easy sell, being upper crust "Hispanic blue bloods." They were against the match-- particularly after Duke lost his scholarship when he injured his shoulder, and even moreso when they discovered that Duke was not exactly a steadfast Catholic. Nonetheless, he and Josie suffered through the ups and downs, and he finally received her parents' consent. In addition to helping Duke in his career-- helping him land a role opposite herself in films like Three Girls Lost-- Loretta stepped in and  offered up the gardens at her parents' Bel Air estate as a wedding place, since the duo's conflicting religions would not allow them to marry in the Catholic church. Loretta was present at the wedding (above with the happy couple), as were George O'Brien and Henry Fonda, but despite the fact that Duke was already working in Hollywood, he was not yet big enough of a star to demand more media attention. The nuptials were barely noted in the press, and when they were, Duke's fraternity brothers and USC teammates-- who served as groomsmen-- received more press than he. Six more years would change that. Still, he always honored his days at USC.

STAR OF THE MONTH: John Wayne

The Duke

John Wayne. The name alone conjures countless representations. John Wayne is the eternal definition of the masculine identity. John Wayne is the absolute embodiment of the perfect cowboy. John Wayne is the unequaled, unparalleled standard of the movie star-- and he is all these things 32 years after his death. How did a shy, insecure, average-American boy become one of the most famous people who ever lived? Because he was just as equally composed of determination, integrity, and-- of course-- "true grit." The Western hero has nearly become a mockery in modern cinema-- lampooned, caricatured, and misconstrued. He is a great fiction that we no longer comprehend, at least not popularly. Explain then why in the latest poll, which tallied young America's favorite movie star, John Wayne is still listed as #1? Because, young, old, male, female, black, white, liberal, conservative, John still represents the heart of this great country, and our hearts are still with him.

Marion Mitchell Morrison as a young

football player.

Such limitless greatness was not apparent in Marion Robert Morrison's early years in Winterset, IA. Born to a charismatic, loving father, Clyde-- who worked primarily as a pharmacist-- and a harsh, detached mother-- who was never satisfied with either her eldest son or her husband-- Marion had few thoughts of grandeur in his youth. A repeating mantra in his head was that he simply wasn't good enough, at least not where mother Molly was concerned. In fact, Molly showed her displeasure by depriving Marion of his middle name, her father's, and giving it to her second born-- Robert Emmett Morrison. Marion became Marion Mitchell instead-- one of many events in his childhood that left him feeling ashamed and outcast. His one salvation was Clyde, who adored his son and taught him to play football, live right, work hard, and above all, be honest. These early life lessons would stick with Marion until the end. In life, he would trust and forge great friendships with men, and always remain wary of women, whom he could never fathom. Kind, gentlemanly, and respectful, he would fall in love rarely, put women on a pedestal, and leave them there, never able to completely surrender his heart. From the beginning, he was a "man's man." Though endowed with a natural tenderness and empathy, the home was not where he would find solace. He found his peace through work, beginning even in childhood where he became a very focused, model student. Garnering straight "A"s, he too accrued a great number of friends, surprising his mother by becoming popular with fellow students and-- especially after moving to Glendale, CA-- drooled after by co-eds who were lining up for a date with the tall, handsome teen. By this time, he was known as "Duke," a pet name derived literally from his pet Airedale. Locals had called the dog "Big Duke" and Marion "Little Duke." (One wonders if this influenced the Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade writers. You know what I mean)? Because he found his given name "girly" and was equally tired of being picked on, Marion welcomed the change. For the rest of his life, he insisted that friends call him by his nickname.

John's good looks helped him land the lead in The Big Trail, 

but ironically he would not achieve fame until he had 

weathered a bit into the "man's man" ideal.

After earning a scholarship to play football at USC and enduring the break-up of his parents' marriage, Duke began studying for a law degree. Always a hard worker, he masterfully balanced his studies, football, social life, and several jobs to earn his keep. Disaster struck when he injured his shoulder while showing off for the girls at the beach in a body-surfing stunt gone wrong, which cost him his scholarship. Unable to afford the school that had no more use for him, he dropped out and went to work at Fox Studios where he had already been putting in some time as a prop boy and sometimes extra during the summer. Fate wanted Duke in the movies. After witnessing some of his childhood idols like Harry Carey and Tom Mix in action, Duke would get his own shot at fame. He would meet director John Ford, one of the most important people in his life, in 1926. Ford noticed the kid at work, heard he was a football player, and decided to play a prank on him. He asked Duke to get into position, then kicked him over. Though sweet-natured, Duke also had a temper and a willingness to fight. He challenged Ford to try his trick again, only this time, Duke tackled him. A lifetime friendship was born. Duke would work with Ford, continuing work as a prop boy where he learned to properly dress a set and give it as much character as the actors in it. He occasionally would stand in as a stunt performer, and sometimes Ford would even assign him small roles. However, another influential figure would give Duke his first break. Raoul Walsh would see the 6'4" youth unloading a truck and joking around when he decided that the Duke had the right combination of brawn and charm to be his leading man in The Big Trail. When offered a screen test, Duke replied with a "Sure, why not?" At the premiere, he invited both parents, but Molly refused to come unless Duke dis-invited his father. He refused, and Clyde and his proud step-mother attended what Duke hoped would be a life-changing moment. The role brought him a great deal of critical acclaim but failed to boost him into the mainstream. Despite his hopes, he would languish in B-movies for another 9 years. Yet, he had discovered himself as an actor, and he would throw the same amount of gusto into learning that craft as he had into everything else.

John was frequently miscast in his early cinematic attempts, 

including this bit part opposite Barbara Stanwyck 

in Baby Face.

The greatest tragedy of The Big Trail was losing his relationship with John Ford, who was both mentor and slave-driver. A sado-masochistic relationship, Ford supplied Duke with another father figure but was also harsh and critical like Duke's mother. Unlike Molly, however, Ford could be pleased, which is perhaps why Duke worked so hard to impress him. Yet, when Duke took on The Big Trail, Ford gave him the cold shoulder, perhaps feeling betrayed that his protege had wandered off to another director or perhaps just jealous of the younger man's success. The fracture in their relationship had its benefits, for Duke got one Hell of an education making B-Westerns for poverty row studios like Republic Pictures. Fast-paced, poorly-written cliffhangers and serials, John became a low-level star to the thousands of young boys and more rural clientele who enjoyed the simple, uncomplicated nature of low-budget flicks like Riders of Destiny and Rainbow Valley. Duke slowly lost his uncertainties and insecurities, learned how to think fast and keep up. He too started building a character: one with which he would be identified the rest of his life. The graceful beauty of his youthful good looks slowly began to harden into the more mature, macho adult that would make him a "real man" and not just a heartthrob, as he had originally been publicized. He copied the stilted and poignant line delivery of his hero Harry Carey-- creating that signature drawl with meaningful pauses-- friend Paul Fix would help him develop his rolling walk, and Yakima Canutt helped him perfect his stunt work and fights scenes. His cowboy was not clean and polished, nor flashy and cocky. He was a real guy. Comfortable on a horse and handy with a gun, the B-Westerns molded Duke, now known as John Wayne, into an actor but even moreso into the most important cowboy in cinematic history. John Ford was ready to forgive.

John finds stardom and his signature persona in Stagecoach, 

one of the greatest Westerns ever made.

Stagecoach was one of the many movies that made 1939 the biggest year of Hollywood cinema. It too would mark a turning point in Duke's life. Having already been in Tinsel Town for over a decade, he had worked long and hard for the great opportunity Ford now laid at his feet. In Stagecoach, his turn as the Ringo Kid would forever seal him into the American mind as our favorite cowboy. With a mixture of diligence and innocence, raw power and grace, he became a sensation. This film kicked a door open that would never again be slammed shut in his face. John went on to star in film after film, cementing his reputation and crafting his John Wayne character, which would harden over the years. As he aged as a man, his characters aged with him. Red River, The Searchers, Rio Bravo, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon-- they all came to define the masculine image. Embodied in Duke were the sacrifices man made for his country and countrymen. Justice, righteousness, and the risks and stakes in upholding these virtues were displayed in his persona. When America went to war, so too did Duke, who rotated between the saddle and the army when ideals of patriotism were the most needed. Critics started taking notice of his acting as he continued to prove himself through They Were Expendable, In Harm's Way, and The Sands of Iwo Jima, the latter of which earned him his first Academy Award nomination and also his place in cemented history at Grauman's Chinese Theatre. He represented to men the man they wanted to be and to women the man who would protect them, whose seemingly impenetrable heart made him all the more alluring. Though romance was never the most important thing on the agenda in his films, he proved to have great chemistry with Marlene Dietrich, Gail Russell, and most importantly Maureen O'Hara, who matched him step for step in strength, courage, and gumption.

John Ford had trouble getting financing for the little Irish film

The Quiet Man, but the electric chemistry of Duke and Maureen 

and the comedy of Barry Fitzgerald warmed America's heart. 

Duke worked hard to protect his screen image and to see that his ideals and sense of integrity were passed on in all of his roles. When he thought of testing the waters and entertaining more variety, Ollie Carey reminded him of the importance his solid presence dictated to audiences, and how much they relied on him-- like the rock of Gibraltar-- to remain their strong and steady savior. He remained faithful to this ideal, but it came at a price. He suffered through three failed marriages, though the last did not end in divorce but separation. He tried all kinds of women, wedding first the Virgin (Josephine Saenz), then the Whore (Chata Baur), and finally the Lady (Pilar Pallete), all of whom were "exotic," Spanish women who adhered to old-fashioned principals of a patriarchal family life. But because Duke grew up fearing the domestic lifestyle, he was never able to completely give himself over to any of the women that loved him. He regretted his broken family and the effect it had on what would grow into his brood of 7 children. In retrospect, he would wish that he had stayed with Josie-- who had proved to be the perfect mother and wife-- and was always guilty that he had unintentionally crafted the same unsavory home life for his children that he had had for himself. Though he always remained a good father, constantly bringing his children to set, and even working onscreen with son Patrick and producing with son Michael, he couldn't deny that his life was his work, and he found more solace with his team of men, "The Young Men's Purity and Total Abstinence and Snooker Pool Association" (of which John Ford, Ward Bond, Henry Fonda, Johnny Weissmuller, and Robert Preston were a few of the drunken members) than he ever did at home. He was too itchy, too bored, too anxious. Life was outdoors, on a film set, or on his yacht: the Wild Goose. He knew well how to live. Loving, on the other hand-- as tender and kind a friend as he was to so many, both male and female-- was a craft too deep for him to fathom personally.

Always more cozy with the fellas: John, Dean Martin, Ricky Nelson 

and Howard Hawks on the set of Rio Bravo, another triumph.

And he was adored, even when his politics began to chafe the majority. A Republican in Hollywood is never popular, particularly in the Vietnam years when Duke was currently at odds with the young, mainstream liberal movement that made a fossil out of his ideals. But while his convictions were strong, his agenda was not selfish. He made decisions based not on what was right or left, but what he felt to be right or wrong. An educated man who had spent a majority of his youth with his life buried in books and studies, his judgments-- whether one agreed or disagreed-- were based on sound reason, and he did from time to time ruffle the feathers of his own "party." For example, he tried to lighten up on the HUAC witch trial refugees who were looking for work, while others were less willing to forgive. Though Duke took a firm anti-communist stance, he also believed in forgiveness, and above all he didn't want to rob a man of his desire to work. His opinions were declared loud and clear, but what is less remarked on was his ability to listen. He did not judge a man for having an opposing view, and preferred it to someone who was by nature a "yes man." While his name was constantly dragged through the mud by people with more liberal sentiments, he never returned the favor. Jane Fonda publicly ridiculed him, but-- as he was friends with her father-- he only kidded her about it in public. Nancy Reagan would remember him as one of the gentlest men who ever lived, which is no surprise; but he too had the great respect of Katharine Hepburn-- as much a Democrat as he was a Republican. Kirk Douglas too enjoyed his company despite their vastly different outlooks, and he earned Barbara Walters's undying respect when he paid her a kindness early in her career. Despite any negative publicity he garnered for his views, still nothing could sully his reputation. People still loved him and looked up to him, from Bertolt Brecht to Emperor Hirohito.

Duke's diligence pays off at the 1970 Academy Awards, 

with Barbara Streisand.

Duke's popularity may have waned slightly from time to time, but it was always present. This is because he represented something beyond politics that every American could relate to, which was America itself. A man who loved his country and paid homage to the men willing to fight for its freedoms, he never let social agenda or controversy cloud this truth: that he lived in the greatest country in the world. When all the world had gone mad, when everything seemed to be going to Hell, Duke and his films could always be depended on to light the way to the simplest and purest of lessons in eras of even the greatest confusion. All a man needed was bravery, loyalty, and decency. While others were lost in the gray or seeing red, Duke always painted things in black and white. There is a hero; there is a villain. There is a right; there is a wrong. You do what is just, not what comes easiest. You take the path that leads to honor, not the one that is less rocky. His understated acting, where everything was relayed through his eyes, is often submerged beneath the caricature history has made of him. It would take him years, over forty in the business, to finally earn his Academy Award for Best Male Performance for his portrayal of Rooster Cogburn in True Grit, and this he only earned by creating a character with great humor and mocking. But those who worked with him knew his genius long before, including Monty Clift who continually tried and failed to upstage him, never fully comprehending why he couldn't overshadow the Duke. Because... no one could. Burt Reynolds once said that John Wayne was "the only movie star [he'd] ever met that was not only exactly what [he] thought [he'd] be, but more." He remains our pillar of strength, our moral compass, our father, our leader, our friend. The last great American model, it seems, shall never crumble. Nor should it, even if it is to remind us of our great blessings. Left, Right, or Wrong, patriotism and love of country have no side. But they do share a face: a rugged, battle-worn one with thin blue eyes that can either freeze an enemy or warm a heart. God Bless America, and God Bless Hollywood for giving us John Wayne!