TAKE ONE, TWO, THREE: Joan, the Woman

Ingrid Bergman in "Joan of Lorraine" (1946).

If you research any serious to moderately serious actress in the history of the world, you’ll probably uncover her fascination with, desire to play, or personal portrayal of one character above all others: Joan of Arc. The list of actresses who have had the honor of bringing this martyred figure back to life are numerous: Katharine Cornell, Joan Plowright, and Jean Seberg, etc. Jean Arthur played her with an interesting twist, having her Joan listen and respond to God as naturally as if he were standing beside her, whereas most performers had received him in awe with upward glances. Julie Harris performed opposite Boris Karloff (as Bishop Pierre Cauchon) to great acclaim in The Lark. As for Ingrid Bergman, her fascination with the "Maid of Orleans" began in her youth. Identifying with this chosen woman’s otherworldliness and admiring her courage, Ingrid would become determined to portray her both on the screen and on the stage. Her first portrayal was in 1946's "Joan of Lorraine," a play within a play about one actress's voyage of discovery in the role of Joan. This was later adapted for film without the dual story element. She resumed, or rather, refashioned the role on stage in "Joan of Arc at the Stake" in 1953, directed by her then husband, Roberto Rossellini. Marion Cotillard just did a recorded rendering of this oration as well.

But why all the hoop-la? As history becomes mythology after so many centuries have passed, the Passion for Joan of Arc seems a bit strange and outdated. Certainly, modern cynicism prevents audiences from responding to the "voice of God" that plagues poor Joan with the same fascination. The instinct is to mock or raise an eyebrow rather than believe. In addition, perhaps because Joan is a woman-- a girl, really-- her triumph over the British in war-torn Europe is too often presented as more of a macabre fairy tale than a truly inspiring story of heroism. Of course, this has a lot to do with the way she has been portrayed to audiences over the years. It often reads more "cute" than moving that she went out of her way to bring peace to her nation.

Dame Judi Dench in "St. Joan" (1966).

Still, while the varying depictions may age, the story does not. War is war is war, and as is clear from our nightly news broadcasts, we as human beings haven’t evolved much in terms of co-existentialism. People living in fear, people massacred for freedom, the downtrodden, the revolutionists-- they’re all still here. Within the chaos, it is always the pure voice of reason and peace that seems to be sacrificed, not so much for fear of the words, but for fear of the change they may provoke. We are too married to our savage ways; too mistrustful of our brethren to surrender our modest level of power and control for fear that we will be forced to surrender all. Better to trample underfoot than be trampled underfoot. Thus, the “heavenly” voices are silenced and their living vessels become murdered legends, from Jesus to Joan to Martin Luther King, Jr. Thus, Joan's position as a revolutionary makes her story tempting to continuing generations of artists.

Then, there is the woman herself who is appealing. The industry of entertainment is rarely kind to women. In film, the role options are variations of but a few accepted types:  the loyal wife, the slut, the frazzled, backward girl who just wants a boyfriend, or the cold, modern female who is finally reminded that she is just a frazzled, backward girl who needs a boyfriend. Even Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction could be plopped into the ‘frazz’ category. So, imagine the appeal of a strong, independent, willful female character, who is not adherent to any man, but serves only the spirit of man-- an idea of peace and goodness that has no form nor shape but exists only as faith. Imagine the appeal for actresses wanting to give a performance of strength, madness, bravery, fear, betrayal, and all the shades between. This protagonist is much more appealing than the typical gal-Friday. Hallelujah!

What follows will be the analysis of three particular women and what they brought to the role of Joan. The films of Joan the Woman, The Passion of Joan of Arc, and Joan of Arc present generally the same story, but in each adaptation, the audience meets three very different women. Which martyrdom was worth it?

Joan the Woman - Geraldine Farrar

Cecil B. DeMille seems the perfect director in retrospect to interpret the angelic Saint Joan. His own personal devotion to Christianity and his knack for luxurious, historical... re-imaginings shall we say (?), would certainly convince an encroaching viewer that something grandiose awaits on the other side of the "Play" button. Yet, Joan the Woman is far from a "Come to Jesus" cinematic moment. Cecil definitely takes certain liberties, for instance creating a love story within the tragic tale by uniting the stories of the The Hundred Years War and WWI through  a reincarnated soldier (Wallace Reid). Unfortunately, the expected juice is missing from Cecil's usually more tempting fruit.  People often forget that Cecil literally learned directing in the public eye. His first film effort, The Squaw Man (1914 ) was one on which he had a great deal of assistance, and when he made Joan a mere two years later, he had not yet cultivated the sublime craft that would make him a master of cinema.

Joan the Woman falls between The Squaw Man and more impressive future efforts like The King of Kings and The Godless Girl, meaning that he was no longer an infant and not yet a genius in his artistic self-discovery when filming commenced. There are elements of his usual intrigue, and his scene compositions are already cookin’, but the eye struggles with what to follow in the somewhat washed-out world he presents. This would not be an issue, had the film a strong actress to guide the audience through the maze of monochromatic hysteria Cecil delivered. Unfortunately, Geraldine Farrar was not up to snuff.

Not without merit: here we see a touch of the growing DeMille
brilliance. He'd only been at it a couple years, folks...

Naturally, Geraldine seemed like a casting coup when production was initiated. DeMille had worked with her on Carmen (also with Wallace Reid) in 1915 and was hoping that the same mutual appreciation and public response would repeat itself in their reunion. Geraldine herself was a fascinating and vibrant woman-- an opera singer with a conscientious demeanor and the charisma demanded of her craft. Without her legendary voice in the silent Carmen, she still performed very well, conveying the sinister sexuality of the notorious gypsy with an enviable panache. Yet as Joan, her effect was not as superb. 

For starters, Geraldine (left) was 34 when she played the role but looked older. Joan only lived to be approximately 19. The age issue could have been compensated-- though the discrepancy is an instant disappointment-- if Geraldine had been able to portray more innocence and delicacy in the part. In this case, she seems more to be struggling in vain to dilute her usual potency and plays Joan the Statue instead of Joan the Woman. Her piety is also unshakable, which makes her character arc monotonous and uninteresting. Her Joan is so in control and seemingly unafraid that she comes off as somewhat pompous. Had Lillian Gish with her effervescent valiance or Mary Pickford with her vulnerable but selfless carriage assumed the role, it would have been a better fit. Geraldine is far too mature, too cynical, too unyielding, and too bored in the role. In truth, she seems to be laughing at her performance even as she gives it-- which may have been for personal reasons, as her life was a bit chaotic at the time. (She had just wed the interfering and unmanageable Lou Tellegen.)

In any case, the rigidity with which Geraldine approaches the role gives the audience little to relate to. In total contrast to the title, she makes Joan a figurehead and an idol and not a flesh and blood human being. Had Geraldine played a plotting British wench or a mistress/mole in the French monarchy, she and the audience would have been happier.

The Passion of Joan of Arc - Maria Falconetti

The blame for the aforementioned film cannot be laid on its technical inadequacies. The fact that it was a silent film, black and white, etc, are not excuses for its flaws-- though is should be said that the actual film stock didn’t age well and the version available doesn’t exactly belong in the Criterion Collection. Yet, another silent B&W film involving St. Joan does fit into that category, and its brilliance belongs only in small part to the supremacy of its restoration. Directed in 1928 by Carl Theodor Dreyer, this fittingly French adaptation of Joan’s life does not cover her initial recruitment by the voice of God through her eventual execution, but focuses on a snapshot-- or rather, snapshots-- of her life at its darkest. For 82 minutes, the audience is literally absorbed into Joan’s torment, faith, and tormented faith, as she faces the hypocritical judges who accuse her of heresy and eventually burn her at the stake for her refusal to perjure herself. 

What is amazing about the film is the fact that so little happens in such a brief time, but the art and style are so well-crafted and acted that it is not so much a movie as an experience. The phrase “not a dry seat in the house” could definitely be applied. Truly, truly, it is a breathtaking piece of work and a touching and brutally human portrayal of Joan’s story. Film students should have to study this picture alone to be able to understand how intelligent editing with finesse (see shot sequence, left) and creative camera angles can create near perfection. It is far too simple for filmmakers to leave all the directing to the audience, but Dreyer guides the focus so eloquently that this story-- which in lesser hands could have been shot as a static, staged play-- is transcendent. It is violent, threatening, paranoid, painful, heart-breaking, and fluid.

An integral part of its success belongs to Maria Falconetti, who literally carries the film in a series of intense close-ups. I can only remember seeing a full, standing body shot of her twice-- once when walking before her jury, and the other enduring her last moments at the stake. Again, this actress is not the appropriate age, but Maria succeeds where Geraldine failed because she wears the last years of the intensity of war, social scrutiny, and flagging faith so clearly that one could almost refer to her granular performance as corporeal. She is not your prototypical beauty. Indeed, she is rough, weathered, and-- unlike Geraldine-- androgynous. Every emotion, every doubt, every tick, is exhibited in her eyes-- which are wide and psychotic at times and peacefully humbled at others. With the crafty camera work and skillful cuts, viewers never grow tired of her face as it reflects her rapidly dwindling willpower. Even without this technical assistance, every tear that falls down her cheek is somehow unique, as if delivered from a different and very particular, aching place in her soul. One can literally see her nostrils quiver as she struggles to breath and contain her sobs. In simpler terms, her profound despair kicks you in the guts.

Maria Falconetti's devastation is read on her face in its many mutating
and varying degrees from start to finish. Here, she is shamed and
humiliated for her "heretical" stance and for her denial of gender.

Joan's moment of mental weakness is also brilliantly displayed by Maria. We see Joan as she caves in to her human fears, signing a confession that will clear her name, save her life, but defame her God. Yet, as she raises the pen, one feels a rush relief. Her suffering is over. “To Hell with God, Joan! Save yourself!” This makes her final denial and renouncement of the document all the more painful. When she is reaffirmed as a heretic, one feels both pride and horror on her behalf. The moment when she begins to burn is an uncomfortable inspiration, for the audience fully understands the terrors she went through and overcame. Still, her death feels personal. It is a mix of liberation and torture for the viewer. One understands what the flames are killing, having witnessed the woman so closely. Joan is not an archetype or demigod. Though played by a woman, she is just a fragile girl-- a harmless creaturs. The final scenes, the chaos at the execution, the images of her corpse within the flames, omit an aroma that is sensed if not truly scented. These are ugly, violent scenes, for which reason the film was banned/censored upon its release. 

The final analysis of Passion is not so much to promote the good that Joan did for France nor her victories nor her God. Falconetti does not present a legend. She presents a human. In a strange way, this upsets the perfect ghost of Joan’s memory while glorifying it. It is resplendent.

Ingrid Bergman - Joan of Arc

The final version to which I will lend investigation is Victor Fleming’s Joan of Arc. For all that was said of the last film, this one blatantly states the opposite. Fleming, notorious for his sweeping tales and larger-than-life movies-- Gone with the Wind, The Wizard of Oz, Wings-- was clearly not of a mind to tell a story but to build an epic. The tale of Joan’s life from her resolution for conquest and declaration of war to her eventual death is blown a bit out of proportion. It's effect is long-winded and distracting instead of engrossing. Thus, the heart of the story, carried so superbly by Ingrid, struggles to find its way to the surface of the almost threatening color, overwhelming breadth, and transliterated scope of the film. It is, essentially, Joan the Woman overdosing on adrenaline. Fleming adds some brilliant touches, such as implicating the nightly rapes Joan most likely would’ve suffered during her incarceration, but the attempts at decadence, while not entirely unbearable, are out of place. Ingrid and Fleming seem at all times to be telling two different stories. One artist is playing the cello; the other is blowing a trumpet.

Ingrid definitely brought more enthusiasm and physicality to her role as
Joan. She is not just a small young woman who hears voices; she is
a soldier, warrior, and leader, as well as prophet.

I wanted to love the film and prove all the nay-sayers wrong, but I couldn't. The movie was critically panned upon its release, yet Ingrid was such a phenomenon at the time that the public still turned out in droves to see her. This is an example of super-proper casting. To the people of the world, Ingrid Bergman in the early-mid '40s was a saint. She was the angel of Hollywood-- a blessed, untainted, gorgeous soul. Her passion and decency, the persona that the public thrust upon her-- which was not totally untrue-- made her a foregone conclusion for the part. The fact that she had already performed the role on stage only bolstered this theory. Yet, somehow, it doesn’t work. Ingrid is seen too much from afar. The audience is not allowed to get too close, sealing Joan’s identity as an unknowable goddess instead of the mysterious, ethereal but real girl she was.

Despite this, Ingrid herself can be proud of the work she did. Her approach to the role is very much in keeping with her little girl lost identity, and coupled with her rather imposing physique, she makes for quite an interesting heroine (right). In fact, Fleming takes advantage of Ingrid’s length with his long shots, and she dominates the frame with her elegant command and childlike dedication to her quest. Why must we fight? Because... Because, we must! Because, God said so! As such, her over-devotion and wide-eyed responses to the Voice of God come off a bit saccharine at times. However, she is able to neutralize this effect by veering more on the side of immaturity rather than ignorance. Particularly in the scenes where she is questioned by her English partisan judges, her unschooled but honest answers tangle her attackers’ reason and simultaneously hurt their pride: there is nothing worse to them than being outsmarted by an uneducated peasant, not to mention a woman.

Where Ingrid really excels is in her typical simplicity and the honesty with which she communicates her emotion. The most powerful scene is perhaps that where her conscience is tested before the judges. She can uphold her prior testaments that it was God who spoke to her and commanded her to lead the legions of France, but she will be burned at the stake-- a painful death that she has fearfully foreseen. Or she can lie, claim that she acted of her own free will, and spend the rest of her life in jail. The people in the observing crowds, who are already holding her up as their savior and Saint, beg her to sign her confession! She falls to her knees in anguish, and we see only her eyes, filled with wonder and joy, even peace, cascading light and unforced tears down her cheeks. Ingrid signs, the people cheer, and she is safe. When betrayed by her the judges, who keep none of their promises, Joan becomes ashamed at her weakness and recants her faulty testimony. She dies finally understanding the eternal peace that her God had promised her. She goes fearfully but willingly through fire, determined to reach that place.

If the movie were Ingrid as depicted in The Passion of Joan of Arc, the results would have been more commendable. Unfortunately, Fleming is too concerned with winning a wrestling match with himself.

In all versions, one could make an argument as to whether or not Joan was in fact mad. Were her ravings that of a disturbed woman with the kind of "divine" genius that often makes the greatest (Moses) or worst (Hitler) of leaders, or was she truly a woman touched by the hand of some predetermining force of nature that saw calamity and chose in her its warrior? The answer doesn’t matter. In the end, it is not a faith in God that drove any of the women portrayed in these films. It was a profound faith in themselves and the message they felt they must deliver. Their sense of purpose, though shaken under duress and clouded by the usual human uncertainties, is successful. Their effect was to change the shape of the very world.

Boris Karloff as the conspiratorial Bishop questions Julie Harris's
Joan in The Lark (1955).

The most interesting thing about Joan of Arc for our purposes is how the many different actresses who have played her chose to do so because they saw slivers of themselves in her. It was these cracks, flaws, and lights in her character that they then reflected through their separate interpretations. For all her faults, one could say that Geraldine brought to the role her stubborn resolve. Maria brought pain, and Ingrid brought love. None were wholly true; none were wholly false. In searching for their characterizations, each woman probably thought she heard the voice of Joan guiding her, tried to hear her, or at least hoped to let Joan’s spirit speak through her. Were they really communing with a woman whom they had never met and only admired? Were they mad? Again, it doesn’t matter. They made their statements, martyred themselves before our critical judgment and scrutiny, and now, as Joan's women, they remain mislaid pieces to the continuing mystery of her life, death, and universal hold.

HISTORY LESSON: TV Movie [Stars] - Part 1

Olivia De Havilland contributed to Bette Davis's surprise when the latter lady

 was a special guest on the popular television program "This Is Your Life." 

Laurel and Hardy, Johnny Cash, and Jayne Mansfield were 

also participants, although not always gladly!

The transition of dull civilian life to devoted cinema spectatorship was not an overnight process. It started as a tingle and grew into an earthquake that left many a movie theater but nary a vaudeville circuit in its wake. In 40 years, we went from ogling the naughty motion photography of hopping, bathing, and leapfrogging male and female nudes (oh, Eadweard Muybridge, you rapscallion you!) to staring in thunderstruck admiration at the Oberammergau Passion Play of 1898, which was the first commercially produced motion picture, (thank you German Cinema professor of 2003), to being hysterically enraptured by the intricate comic wizardry of Charlie Chaplin in The Circus. The year 1928 would be another big one in film, for this year proved that our artistic and technological innovation was growing at just as rapid a speed as our increasing appetite for entertainment. Fittingly, sound brought the boom that turned the industry on its head. Talkies made Silents a thing of the past in less than two years. As in the first "box office" crash with the advent of film-- does Digby Bell ring any bells today?-- it was only the members of the entertainment community that suffered. Some evolved and some didn't, wouldn't, or couldn't. 

Eadweard Muybridge's studies in motion photography did much to further the process of
 turning still photographs to motion pictures. He later used his expertise to do popular
"motion studies" regarding the naked form. There doesn't seem to be any record
of male audiences reacting negatively to bounding breasts in motion. 

To be fair, Eadweard featured  men too, including himself-- 

naked as a jay bird.

Following Hollywood's golden age, history would repeat itself yet again with the next great innovation, the birth of the television set, which-- like film itself-- started slowly in the late forties and found itself in half of all households by the mid-fifties. The celebrity reaction was the same as ever. Some denied; some jumped on the gravy train. Some bowed out of the biz gracefully; others fell on their faces. Some disappeared; others found a new generation of viewers and a second run at fame. We are arguably going through another cycle of media reconstruction as the computer increasingly takes the place of both film and television by offering a new medium for both options-- often for free. As per usual, the stars are suffering, in that there aren't really any left-- at least none who rule with as much magnitude as their predecessors (see old article here). When a God becomes too accessible, He transforms from a golden idol into last year's fad-- what once was as exciting as the invention of the light bulb thus becomes as ridiculous in retrospect as the slap bracelet.

In any case, the following Movie Gods and Goddesses were able to make the transition from big-screen to small-screen-- some with dignity, others with... humdingery, but fortunately for all, their great cinematic reputations were big enough to maintain their lost luster, and history has mostly forgotten their fruitless televised efforts. Gable perhaps remains untouched, if only because he never sold in his "King" stature to become a Prince of Pabst Blue Ribbon or the Baron of Brylcreem, but as you will see, the following pack of experimental pals did all right for themselves too, even if the big gamble of the small screen wasn't always worth it.

Son, switch the dial!

Sadly, of the many who made the jump to Television, the majority were duds. Character actors often had a better shot of maintaining their careers as their sinister, comical, or otherwise malleable characterizations could easily be plugged into various series, occasional episodes, or even a permanent supporting role on TV. In some cases, smaller names were able to transcend their former B-status to become huge stars of the boob tube, some playing the lead in their own series, as in Clayton Moore aka "The Lone Ranger" (left) and George Reeves aka "Superman." Conversely, some film stars who had enjoyed a glorious hey day in the cinematic stratosphere found themselves floating into oblivion after their attempts at broadcast success. Some dipped in a toe only to gracefully retire from show-business; others made a bold attempt to board the gravy train only to be left behind. There too was a stigma attached to some stars who wandered over to TV town, for just as Television became both a welcoming place of refuge for aging movie icons-- where studios would gladly profit off their notoriety-- TV debuts could also be seen as their fall from grace: "This guy, he used to be big! Now look at him..."

One of the biggest celebs to give television a go was Judy Garland. Judy, whom Fred Astaire once dubbed "the greatest entertainer who ever lived," endured a very public series of ups and downs in her career. Overworked and doped at MGM, everyone's favorite little girl matured into a very nervous and high-strung woman. Her addictions to drugs and alcohol would remain a constant throughout her life, and it was only her love of singing that could at times propel her through her personal haze of confusion, lethargy, and man-handling, to the place where she truly shined brightest--the stage! While her (occasionally canceled) live performances kept her busy for the majority of her adulthood, she also was an always welcome surprise as a guest on various television programs. With her witty humor and hammy storytelling, Judy's reminiscences on her many interviews with TV personalities like Jack Paar (right) were consistently and thoroughly entertaining, especially to nostalgic viewers who still remembered her trip down the yellow brick road. Judy was also a notorious bull-sh*tter, and one could never be certain whether she was being honest, embellishing, or completely fabricating a grand story on the spot, but that was part of her charm-- as was her sharp but slightly naughty repartee.

Soon enough, CBS offered Judy her own show, during which she would, of course, perform songs and chat it up, as only she could, with random guests. This could have been a huge turning point in Judy's life. Looking for a chance to rebuild herself, she was ecstatic at the opportunity and, after getting healthy, was looking better than ever by the time shooting began. Fueled by optimism, she was also more cooperative than she had been in years and collaborated well with the entire production team. Fittingly, her first guest was Mickey Rooney (left)! Unfortunately, the show bit the dust when the network changed management, and suddenly Judy's natural style was not considered "suitable." To her dismay, her team was dissembled, the format was altered, and instead of being devious, genius, glamorous Judy, she was supposed to play the fallen idol who was the butt of America's joke. Her stalled career, her weight fluctuation, and her failed marriages, were regularly used to mock her on the air, to which she always brilliantly played along, but the ploy didn't work. Judy was expected to be Judy, and audiences didn't like her being brought down to earth with the mortals. As such, they stopped tuning in. As for Judy, she became severely depressed and fell back on her old patterns. It was a huge opportunity lost purely from bad business.

The good news, at least in Judy's case, though she certainly had trouble seeing it at the time, was that it wasn't her that was rejected by viewers but the show's style. A few other sufferers fell into this category, including Robert Mitchum. Bob had performed on television in various miniseries, such as "North and South," as well as in a fairly successful 1990 TV movie called "A Family for Joe" (right). The latter plot involved the coalition of four orphans who, in fear of being separated, elected a crotchety homeless man to pose as their "grandfather." Chaos, as expected, ensued. The network decided to adapt the film into a show, but as it turned out, people weren't interested in seeing Bob every week, particularly when playing an old buffoon with a heart of gold. Audiences liked his edgy versatility and reacted negatively and confusedly to his turn as a diluted, family-friendly archetype. As such, "Joe" was again rendered homeless after nine episodes. However, the show did spark the career of one Juliette Lewis. Bob and Juliette would re-team in a mere year for the Cape Fear re-make.

Errol Flynn (right) enjoyed a little more success in 1956 when he started "The Errol Flynn Theatre" anthology series-- a popular format of the time that produced weekly, unrelated stories and rotating performers. Filmed in London but aired in the United States, Errol hosted the series casually with the same, utter lack of pretension that made his small screen personality as charming as his big screen characters. He would perform in several of the episodes himself, which he also produced, and various other stars made appearances, including Christopher Lee, Paulette Goddard, Mrs. Flynn- Patrice Wymore- and even Errol's son, Sean. Always uncertain of his talents but eager to explore his range, the diverse plotlines and character roles allowed Errol to do some of his most interesting acting, which was more fitting to his years. However, Flynn was getting older, and it was perhaps for this reason that audiences didn't respond to the series. They preferred him in tights, forever young, and swashbuckling to victory. The show only lasted one season.

Jean Arthur, the Class Frown, also took a stab at the tube. After retiring from film and spending the majority of her later life on the stage-- that is, when she could muster up the courage and keep it together enough to perform-- Jean had only performed on one episode of "Gunsmoke" when she decided to go for it with her own series in 1966: "The Jean Arthur Show" (left). Always an intensely anxious and temperamental woman, Jean's inferiority complex caused problems from the very beginning. However, working against her even more was the show itself. The plot revolved around a female lawyer and her battle with a weekly case. She would always win the verdict, of course, but the style was that of heavy-handed comedy, and a little too much so. Jean's true brand of humor never derived from slap-stick nor from her being the butt of the joke. In her classic films, the laughs were much more situational wherein her wide-eyed reactions, dry humor, and iconic voice filled in the charm. As such, the context of the show and its jokes, which were far too on the nose and ridiculous, didn't work. (I said class frown, not clown, remember)? After the apparently always dependable Mickey Rooney made an appearance and upstaged Jean, she totally lost confidence, and a slew of other guest stars couldn't save her nor her show. She abandoned ship and left TV for good!

Hey, look who it is!

Changing stations, the next crew of TV trespassers were actually able to find mild success. More career-conscious entertainers and business-minded actors/actresses saw television as an opportunity as opposed to a death knell. As such, a lot of former and current stars broadened their fan base and bulked up their resumes by making the lucrative decision to join the realm of the telly. The reasons for this were both tactical and professional, examples of which can be seen in the cases of divas Barbara Stanwyck and Ann Sheridan. Neither woman opted to insult the "idiot box" with diversion, as clearly said 'box' was smart enough to get people across the nation to stare at it transfixed for hours on end. Babs was drawn to the TV-experiment more for her passionate need to work-- the all consuming drive in her life-- while Ann was just a practical and easy-going lady who was up for anything. Both of their gambles were relatively successful. Ann participated quite a bit in various shows, like "Wagon Train," or "The Lux (as in Soap) Theatre," which showcased abbreviated movies with guest stars and introduced such up and comers as Grace Kelly and James Dean to the world. An open fan of television, Ann also proudly proclaimed her love of soap operas, which she found absolutely addictive. This eventually led to her one season participation on "Another World." Her greatest success was appearing on her own series, "Pistols 'n' Petticoats" (right), though cancer would sadly claim her before the first season finished. Reviews weren't particularly friendly, unfortunately, so it is questionable whether it would have continued had she survived.

For her part, Babs-- as per usual-- hit one out of the park when she appeared on the hit television show "The Big Valley" (left) in the latter part of the sixties. Lasting four years, this show gave her a comfortable income, provided her with her favorite brand of storytelling-- the Western-- and earned her a place in broadcast history. While the show wasn't a huge sensation, it had a good run, and generations not familiar with her film work got to know her through this program. Babs continued seeking out opportunities, taking jobs here and there in the rare TV movie, but she hit her stride again with some coups in the '80s, including a guest spot on "Charlie's Angels." There was even talk of doing a male version of "Angels" with Barbara taking the role of their female Bosley! No dice (fortunately), but Babs had success with her powerful performance in the controversial mini-series "The Thorn Birds" and her participation in everyone's favorite guilty pleasure: "Dynasty." In fact, Aaron Spelling gave her her own spin-off, "The Colbys," but pro though she was, Babs found the material so ridiculous that she bailed out early. As she was aging and in poor health, she sadly would not make any more contributions. This was a painful thing for the always feisty Barbara, who became quite despondent in her last years. Her need to build and craft was denied her by her frail condition. She would confide to a friend that she had always hoped to "go out" in some wild or heroic fashion. Thus, ending her days helpless in bed was, to her, the ultimate of life's cruelties.

STAY TUNED FOR NEXT WEEK'S EXCITING CONCLUSION!!!

HISTORY LESSON: Hollywood's Best Friend

Man's Best Friend. Hint: it's actually the guy on the left.

Life in show business is and has always been a bit cut-throat. Or a lot cut-throat... Needless to say, while competitive artists are scrambling to get to the top, or even just to get a paycheck, a lot of back-stabbing and corporate manhandling manifests itself in typical, menacing fashion. They say keep your friends close and your enemies closer, but in Hollywood-- the land of superficial relationships-- when you find a "good egg," it always works to one's benefit to hold onto it. One such diamond in the rough during the final roar of the studio era was Roddy McDowall. Due to the length of his career in film-- which spanned 6 decades, from the age of 10 to the age of 70-- and his naturally generous nature, Roddy became the sort of go-to boy about town. During his reign as a Hollywood character actor and occasional, atypical leading man, he got to know and befriend some of Hollywood's brightest talents and tragediennes. As a result, until his death, he was too a major source of information for any historian, author, or documentarian looking to dig into the secrets of Movieland's past. Having starred in everything from Lassie Come Home to Planet of the Apes, his career was nothing to sniff at either. He was, in fact, issued an apology from the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences when they failed to nominate him for his performance as "Octavian" in Cleopatra, beings that his contribution was one of the few bright, honest moments in an otherwise disastrous, albeit fascinating, experiment in cinematic gluttony. Everyone seemed to love Roddy, professionally and personally, though he is far less recognized than many of his heartthrob contemporaries. So, what was it that made this guy so darn swell? If you want to know the measure of a man, count his friends:

Montgomery Clift (left) had a slow start in entering the social stratosphere. Home schooled for the majority of his early life, his brief attempt at public school was cut short when he and his elder brother, Brooks, were mercilessly bullied and harassed by the other students-- not a promising indication of civilian life. As such, his childhood, while filled with intellectual and artistic pursuits, was bereft of friendships outside his family-- which included his super close twin sister, with whom he had a secret, collaborative language. It is thus surprising that Monty turned out as warm, curious, and friendly as he did. Nonetheless, despite his many friendships within and without the industry, he was not one prone to trust others and rarely forged relationships that made him comfortable enough to confide his own personal issues. He took Elizabeth Taylor to his heart, of course. Another pal he let into his inner circle was the always non-threatening, easy-going Roddy. In fact, it was Roddy's 'easy-goingness' that was so effective in the friendship. The duo became acquainted by running in the same circle of friends, often going to parties together. When Monty's sour side would reveal itself, Roddy could always be counted on to temper the stormy conditions. For example, Monty didn't take a liking to Merv Griffin at one particular party-- the reasons remain unknown-- and the two ended up having a friendly, but not really friendly, pie-throwing fight. Sensing trouble brewing, Roddy would step in on occasions such as these by offering up a joke or aside that rendered the antagonistic situation hilarious and ended the hostility. Blaine Waller recalled, "[Roddy] was one of the funniest people I've ever met... We would actually fall on the floor laughing at him."

This sense of humor would carry over into smaller social gatherings, most particularly in the Monty-Liz Taylor-Roddy trio. The pals once ran amok at the Plaza Hotel after Elizabeth was presented with an exorbitant bill. In retaliation, she called for back-up. Roddy and Monty appeared, and the three performers caused quite a ruckus by getting tipsy on martinis and engaging in over-the-top pranks. They started hanging all the pictures they could get their hands on upside down, unscrewing bathroom fixtures, and throwing toilet paper around like streamers on New Years! Monty also swiped some exclusive Plaza towels and subsequently set them out for Elizabeth whenever she came to visit him at his own home. Laughs aside, the skirmish got the three friends in trouble, because the charade landed in the press. But, friends that play together, stay together. Monty trusted Roddy implicitly, and Roddy was equally enchanted by Monty's vitality, passion, and talent. His empathy for Monty's personal torments made him an easy ear and reliable shoulder. Monty's various secretaries always screened his calls, but Roddy was one of few whose voice was able to go directly through to the troubled actor. Always curious and supportive of Monty's career, he became an even more reliable touchstone after Monty's devastating car accident. He was deeply grieved at his death, and thus he treasured a photo he had taken of him, which he placed in his notorious powder room, now on display at The Hollywood Museum. The two would collaborate on but one picture, Monty's last: The Defector. (Liz and Roddy frolic in younger days, right).

Roddy, having literally grown up within the industry, had a profound respect for both it and the artists who had endured, survived, and even thrived within it. He had a particular fascination with female stars of the past, whom he idolized. As such, he struck up many odd and unlikely bonds with some of the most evasive Queens of the silver screen. One of these was Jean Arthur (left). In fact, Jean must have sensed a like soul, for she actually pursued a friendship with Roddy, sending him a fan letter after seeing him perform in a "Hallmark Hall of Fame" production of Saint Joan. Having earlier performed in the role of Joan of Arc herself, she saw in Roddy the perfect cast mate that she'd never had. Roddy returned the favor by visiting Jean on the set of her new television show, which was unfortunately a quick flop. He was surprised to see such a huge starlet, known as a creme-de-la-creme comedienne, behaving as frightened, stressed, and insecure as Jean. For whatever reason, Jean took Roddy into her inner circle, and he remained a steadfast confidante until her death. He worked diligently, but ineffectually, at bolstering her self-esteem, and was able to maneuver the precarious mine-field of Jean's emotions and mistrust. Jean loved Roddy, but she had ground rules: for example, No Pictures! Yet, Roddy was able to sneak photos of her on his camera when she wasn't paying attention. She even acquiesced and let him publish two of her pictures in his celebrity picture book Double Exposure: Take Two. Roddy was both flabbergasted and honored. It was Jean's way of showing that, deep down, she recognized his support and wanted to return the favor. It was always clear that a relationship with Jean could be a one-way street. Despite her peculiarities, Roddy loved her anyway.

Louise Brooks (right) was equally indignant to scrutiny in her later years, although she became much more vocal about her Hollywood experiences through interviews with people such as Kenneth Tynan, in addition to her own writings. Yet, she let few into her inner circle, perhaps worried about how avid fans would react to her age and the loss of her famous beauty. It was a sentiment shared by many of the women who had once been held up in their youths for their physical perfections. Luckily, with Louise, it was always more about brains than body, so she could let her guard down when she felt appreciated for the former. Enter Roddy, who again would use his passion for photography to crack a tough cookie. Roddy approached Louise in 1965 about appearing in his first effort, Double Exposure, to which the actress surprisingly agreed and even offered a blurb about Buster Keaton. Already a 37-year-old man at the time, Roddy was still so moved by Louise's presence, voice, and personal power that he left her apartment moved beyond comprehension. He would recall how he had randomly begun crying in the elevator upon his departure, as if he had just stepped away from God himself! Of course, he had to endure the usual attacks of paranoia that Louise exhibited and even moments of cruelty, in which she blatantly trashed Planet of the Apes, for example-- a film of which Roddy had been a part. Of course, the latter insult was meant to be protective, for she thought he was "wasting his talent." Roddy was equally protective of Louise, and because she had entrusted him into her life, he honored the privilege by not "selling her out" to others. As with Jean, Roddy respected the actress enough to adhere to the stipulations of her odd behavior, perhaps understanding, as a survivor of the film world himself, that the effects are often hard to get over.

Ava Gardner (left) too became enchanted with Roddy when they worked together on his sole directorial effort Tam Lin (The Devil's Widow). The two had actually met in the forties, when Roddy was but a young boy and Ava a much more developed young woman, though a mere six years his senior. They saw each other at the MGM "school" for child stars, though a more social friendship would have to wait a few years. Another faded love goddess by 1969, Roddy's eager interest in Ava's life and career and his utmost respect for her as a person put her at ease during the shoot and allowed her to relax under the pressure of her role. Though only in her late forties, she felt like an ancient, old lady among the rest of the youthful cast. In the film, Ava was to play a "demonic godmother to a band of swinging, stoned young wastrels." More literally, she played a witch in a contemporary "horror fable." Ava didn't want to accept the project, as she had been enjoying time away from pressure-filled Hollywood, but Roddy coaxed her into it. He wanted to get her back to work, and she wanted to help him become a director. The project didn't wind up doing much for either professionally, but it did help them forge a strong bond. Roddy adored Ava, and vice versa. Ava wound up enjoying her time on the shoot for the most part, where she became den mother to the younger actors, who always called her "Big A." Roddy tried to get Ava to trust herself as an actress, but as she had never valued her own talent, his constant compliments and reassurances did little good, other than to warm her heart a bit. His attentions did provide a missing comfort from her life, and it was enough to make them friends for life.

Clearly, despite his own fame and reputation, Roddy could definitely "geek out" in the presence of celebrities whom he considered iconic, and who had in fact inspired his own childhood fascination with acting and cinema. For this reason, the fanatic in him would go out of his way to meet those personalities whom he had especially admired. He had a little help from George Cukor in arranging the following dream situation: a meeting between Greta Garbo and Mae West (right)! Roddy approached George with a kind of dare to get the two infamous and obviously different women together: "George, you're the only person who could get Greta Garbo and Mae West to your house for dinner together, and I want to be invited!" Challenge extended. Challenge accepted! If there were any man who got around more-- in a totally innocent sense-- than Roddy McDowall, it was George Cukor. Thus, a miracle occurred, and two polar opposites on the feminine, sexual spectrum met... and became thick as thieves for their brief meeting! Both were somewhat intimidated and definitely impressed by the opposing woman's talents and fame. Mae, when introduced, even gave the bashful Garbo a kiss, a moment that George noted was particularly unusual. After a bit of an awkward dinner, the two women found a quiet corner and talked all night long. The rest of the guests, Roddy included, sat salivating nearby and watched with rapt attention: What could they possibly be talking about!? Roddy could have used the moment to edge his way in, but somehow, what he was witnessing was too perfect to disrupt. He never became close with either woman as a result, but watching the sexually ambivalent Greta talking to the sexually luxurious Mae about the latter's surprisingly heavy shoes was enough for him. 

It is always interesting to witness a star who is just as starstruck as the Average Joe. Roddy definitely fit the bill, and it is perhaps his humble and genial nature that, not only made him an appealing presence on the screen, but allowed him to endear himself to so many big screen performers. His loyalty to the cinematic realm was very strong and equally devout. In fact, he is allegedly responsible for another particularly moving honor: bestowing Florence Lawrence with her headstone at Hollywood Forever Cemetery, for her grave had for a great many years remained unmarked. If true, it indicates indeed Roddy's passion and interest in the people that made the world of movies so grand. The respect he paid to others has certainly been paid back to him in the continued interest each generation shows in his work. Roddy, thank you for being a friend!

CAST AWAYS: From Stage to Screen

Barbara Stanwyck and Robert Ryan Clash by Night and use a stage play

to take Hollywood by storm.

Some of our most iconic films were adapted from theater plays. This is but one of many pieces of evidence that it is a good story above anything else that makes a good film (are you listening Hollywood?). A lot of film actors, of course, get their start as stage thespians, and many have been discovered treading the boards of Broadway, off Broadway, or even off off Broadway. Cinema constantly goes fishing and poaching in these highly respected and esteemed waters, using the talents of the theatre mixed with the punch of Tinsel Town power to create smash screen hits. In some cases, the original theatrical cast is duplicated on the screen, with the play itself edited to fit into a two hour bracket of entertainment. In most cases, however, the cast and the script itself are heavily altered to fit into the world of movieland conditions, with a leading man and lady with more star power usurping the primary roles and the story acclimating itself to time constraints, current audience tastes, and-- of course-- censorship. Thus, theatre is looked upon more often as performance art while Hollywood is viewed as its more bastardized (albeit profitable) cousin: product-- art in a can, or should I say in the can.

In any case, it is the stories more popularly seen on the silver screen that touch the most hearts and introduce superbly written and acted productions to people the world over. It is films that we will honor and pass down to our children as a shared experience, whereas theatre is a once in a lifetime shot: never duplicated and never performed the same way twice. It makes one wonder and yearn for the chance to see some of the alternate performances that, instead of being left on the cutting room floor as in film, were left merely to history, echoing against the walls of so many great theaters. While screen actors never age and never die, theatre actors and their performances become ghosts as soon as the curtain comes down after the final act. Here are a few of the lost souls whose spirits were brought to life through other vessels on the silver screen:

Tallulah Bankhead (left) was... a character. James Cagney once said that acting was a "shy man's profession," because it allowed a more introverted or bashful person to become someone more intense, emotional, and outspoken. Tallulah must be the exception that proves this rule, for no character she played was as outrageous and gutsy as she. She bragged that she only came to Hollywood to sleep with Gary Cooper, which she proudly accomplished. She too drew gasps and chuckles from the set of Lifeboat when her soggy undergarments became too daunting and she decided to continue filming sans panties: a moment Hitch must have remembered with fondness. While she made quite a few contributions to the big screen, even being an early contender for Scarlett O'Hara, this earthy lady with southern sass remains most renowned for her contributions to the stage. She brought many characters to life for the first time that would later be embodied by different actresses when adapted for the screen. One such character was Mae Wilenski of Clash by Night, written by Clifford Odets and performed for the first time in 1941. Lee Strasberg directed the vehicle through its meager 49  performances, but despite its short run, it was still made into a film a decade later.

This time, Barbara Stanwyck (right) took on the role of Mae, with her name changed to D'Amato and the play's locale moved from Staten Island to Monterey. Fritz Lang used his genius as director to add as much gravitas as he could to what turned out to be another soapy B-film, which remains most notorious now for an appearance by a young, pre-superstar Marilyn Monroe. Since Babs and Tallulah had much in common-- both assertive, sexual women with notorious, husky drawls-- it is easy to see Tallulah standing in Babs's place at the helm. The film retains more cult than classic status, but Babs brings her usual guts to the part, invigorating the tale of a sexually undernourished wife in a cataclysmic love triangle with the dignity of truth as only she could. Tallulah wasn't an option for the screen version, most likely because her career had stalled a bit. She remained fairly busy on the stage and small screen in the '50s, but a life of hard living and hard drinking mixed with her hell-raising reputation made her a much bigger gamble than the diligent and consummately professional Stanwyck. In any case, Babs was a few years younger, so that also tipped the scales in her favor.(Interestingly, there may be more to the connection between Babs and Tallulah. When Louis B. Mayer once confronted Tallulah about her over-erotic nature, she shot back with a list of stars, including some from his own stables, that she had... made friends with. Allegedly, "Barbara Stanwyck" was one of the names. It shut the red-faced Mayer up quickly).

The same year that Tallulah was first breathing life into Mae Wilenski on stage, another one of her past roles was being brought to life on the screen, which may explain was she was unavailable to take the film role. Directed by Herman Shumlin, Tallulah had portrayed the infamous Regina Giddens of The Little Foxes at the National Theater in February of 1939 and then enjoyed an extensive run and tour. The play was so successful that Lillian Hellman adapted her own script into a screenplay in '41 with William Wyler directing. But Tallulah's busy stage schedule was not the whole reason she was overlooked for the film version. Wyler had insisted on casting Bette Davis for the role of Regina (left), as he had been impressed with her vitality in their previous collaborations of Jezebel and The Letter. Jack Warner wasn't about to loan his top star to Samuel Goldwyn for the production, but Wyler stuck to his guns and eventually got his way. However, he did admit that Tallulah was an amazing talent, and prior to production, he pressured Bette to see Tallulah's interpretation on the stage-- which was still running-- if only to ensure that Bette bring something different to the table. Bette herself would admit that Tallulah was fantastic and had performed the role the only way it could be performed, which made crafting her own, unique characterization a real headache. Still, it remains one of her most iconic roles, and ironically not the only one she stole from Tallulah-- she had performed in the role of Judith Traherne in Dark Victory in 1939, which too Tallulah had immortalized on the stage. Essentially, Tallulah kept settin' 'em up, and Bette kept knockin' 'em down.

Though clearly an actress of great reputation, Tallulah was a die-hard fan herself when it came actors. One performance that left her in awe was that of Frank Fay (the ex-Mr. Stanwyck) when he starred in the lead role of Elwood P. Dowd in "Harvey" (right). Tallulah considered his interpretation of a kind-hearted man who sees and interacts with an imaginary rabbit to be "one of the greatest performances [she'd] seen." It ran for over 1700 performances from 1945-1949 on Broadway, being a smash hit and a triumph for Fay, who was still nursing a bruised ego after his divorce from Babs and his failed film career. Despite this boost in his career, he still wasn't hailed to reclaim his role in the 1950 film version, though his co-star, Josephine Hull, thankfully was, and it earned her an Academy Award. Instead, the most lovable and likable of all film actors was cast as Elwood: only Jimmy Stewart could play a complete loon and still hold the audience's favor. Still, with Tallulah as Fay's cheerleader, it makes one wonder what exactly he brought to the table that was so astounding, and so different from Jimmy...

James Stewart goes nuts (or should I say "carrots?") in Harvey.

Barbara Stanwyck snagged another role from a hard-luck diva: Frances Farmer. Farmer (right), while in the midst of her scandalous affair with Clifford Odets (wed to Luise Rainer), was cast in the lead female role of his production of "Golden Boy" when it hit the stage in 1937. Both members of The Group Theatre-- a precursor to the Strasberg method school that churned out modern, provocative work-- their combining forces in the story of a violinist turned boxer was sure to pack a wallop. At heart, the film was personal to Odets, who wrote it about the struggle between integrity/artistry and the temptation of commercial success. Many friends would say that he lost this battle when he "went Hollywood," taking his Golden baby with him. Frances, who was much more about the craft than the dough, was not invited along for the ride, as she had walked out on the play and Cliff when the affair hit the skids. She felt her star power had been used to sell tickets to the play and was tired of being used as, what she considered to be, Cliff's whore and cash cow. Thus, in 1939, Babs stepped on board for the screen version and coached newbie William Holden in his breakthrough performance. Bill had, coincidentally, nabbed the role of Joe Bonaparte from Luther Adler but also from John Garfield, who was a member of "the Group" and had been promised the part by Odets himself. Cliffy didn't come through, and the part went to Holden-- a test of faith that made a star. (This one was a bit of review from past blogs, but with Babs as star of the month, I thought it was worth repeating).

Another star moment was made when Marlon Brando brought his interpretation of Stanley Kowalski in Tennessee Williams's A Streetcar Named Desire to the big screen in 1951. One cry of "Stella!" and a few broken dishes later, and Hollywood had its newest bad boy. Marlon was not the only gem poached from the original 1947 case-- both Karl Malden and Kim Hunter would reprise their stage roles as Mitch and Stella respectively, and Elia Kazan would too transfer his directorial efforts from the stage to screen. The only member not invited along for the ride was Jessica Tandy, who invented the now iconic role of Blanche DuBois. Initially, her ostracizing seems ignorant if not plain rude. After all, she won a Tony for her efforts, which had-- along with the rest of the original cast-- created a half-hour applause after the play's debut. So, why wasn't she brought on board? (Marlon and Jessica rehearse, left).

The decision was, as always, a calculated one. The play had received such buzz that it was essential to the studio to re-create the magic for the screen and capitalize. Yet, studio heads were insecure-- they craved star power. Thus, players were essentially traded, with Marlon being a necessity to bring his violence and danger to the big screen, and Kim and Karl allowed to reprise their roles because they were secondary characters. Jessica was deemed the expendable one. Since Vivien Leigh (right) had later portrayed the role of Blanche in London under hubby Laurence Olivier's direction, she seemed a safer bet for screen viewers. In effect, the gamble worked, for this contradiction between old-Hollywood (Scarlett O'Hara herself) and new-Hollywood (holy, shirtless Marlon!) created just the juxtaposition needed for Blanche's otherworldly quality within the gritty realism of the Kowalski household. One wishes there were a piece of evidence to give all Williams devotees a glimpse into Jessica's interpretation, but-- despite this unsavory casting coup-- Vivien still managed to earn the respect of her co-stars and her second Academy Award for Best Actress.

My Fair Lady (1964) was a film adaptation of the musical adaptation (1956) of the earlier George Bernard Shaw play "Pygmalion" (1913). Clearly, the metamorphosis of the cockney Eliza Doolitle to a refined lady was reflected in the story's own journey. The musical "My Fair Lady" premiered in '56 on Broadway with one of history's favorite songstresses, Julie Andrews, in the lead role of Eliza (left) and Rex Harrison in the role of her Svengali-- the crotchety, uppity Henry Higgins. Despite the fact that Rex couldn't sing a note-- a fact that he obviously knew full well when he panicked and locked himself in his dressing room prior to curtain-- his rhythmic talking and pitch-perfect performance coupled with Julie Andrews's consistent magnificence was enough to make the show a hit. The mockery of gender roles and classes and the superb score, with such hits as "I Could Have Danced All Night" and " On the Street Where You Live" resonated with audiences, and eight years later it was time to broaden the fan base. Hollywood intervened with its usual accuracy, and cameras started rolling.

There was but one problem, Julie was nowhere to be found! Her mettle as a film actress had not yet been tested, thus Audrey Hepburn was given the role of Eliza (right). Rex, who was a much more experienced film actor, was allowed to maintain his role of Higgins. Despite the casting snafu, the film remains a classic and a delight, with Audrey bringing her own lovable, romantic nature to the role of Eliza while simultaneously pulling off a stellar, cockney ignoramus-- "Come on Dovah! Move your bloomin' ahss!" Yet, the fact that her singing was dubbed (by Marni Nixon) worked against her, and many believe this is why her performance was not recognized by the Academy. Clearly, everyone was "Team Julie" that year at the awards, for it was she who won for her breakthrough performance in Mary Poppins. Rex, however, walked home with the trophy for Best Actor. As for Audrey, she took the snub like a pro, though she was deeply hurt. She had indeed recorded all of her own vocals and was shocked when another voice came out of her mouth upon the final screening. She was deeply hurt, as she had worked diligently on all her past singing roles, including Funny Face and the iconic "Moon River" of Breakfast at Tiffany's. Yet, it couldn't be argued that Julie indeed had a stronger voice. Neither gal harbored any hard feelings about the whole debacle, and both became good friends. In the end, they had Eliza to thank for bringing them together.

The Barrymore name still holds great meaning in Hollywood. John's granddaughter Drew has been left alone to carry the torch of this illustrious family of thespians, but their reputation remains in tact. However, as Ethel was almost totally devoted to the stage and John was-- at best-- inconsistent in his dedication, it is Lionel (left) who has the most impressive cinematic track record. He got his start in film in the late 1900s, but he too maintained his dedication to the theatre. As such, in 1923 he appeared alongside his wife Irene Fenwick in "Laugh, Clown, Laugh." It premiered at the Belasco and ran for 133 performances through March of 1924. It wasn't exactly a runaway success, but its modest audience recognition and its intriguing storyline was enough to gain Hollywood's attention... albeit not immediately.

A few years later, MGM was sifting through storylines when Laugh, Clown, Laugh was brought to its attention as a vehicle for Lon Chaney. "The Man of a Thousand Faces" had portrayed a clown before in He Who Gets Slapped. The role seemed a perfect fit for America's favorite character actor, who was known for his tragic tales of unrequited love. Since Lon did a lot of his own story scavenging, it is possible that he came across the script himself, or at the very least that he was consulted on it. Sensing another suffering heart, he jumped at the chance to portray the romantically tortured Tito and handpicked Loretta Young to star as his adopted daughter/love interest (cringe), Simonetta (together, right). As Lionel was a competent film actor but not a star of Lon's latitude, he probably was not even considered for the part. The film was a runaway success and also-- reportedly-- Lon's favorite role. Since Lionel was working steadily on his own, he probably didn't hold any grudges... but if he did, he got a little revenge when he starred opposite Lon in West of Zanzibar in 1928. His character in the film steals Lon's wife!

Jean Arthur (left) stands alone in history. Not for her acting talent, off-putting behavior, or cinematic resume, but for that voice! It is hard to purr and squeak at the same time, yet that seems to be just what she did merely by talking. As such, when Garson Kanin's "Born Yesterday" hit the stage in 1946, he had no other actress in mind than his friend Jean for the role of the abrasive yet adorable Billie Dawn. A rough around the edges gal trying to play it classy, Jean's duck-out-of-water persona certainly would have fit the bill. There was but one minor problem when it came to Jean-- her crippling inferiority complex, which consistently manifested itself in stage fright. She started numerous plays only to drop out or cause problems once they debuted. Such was the case with "Born." No sooner was she cast in the role of Billie than her usual neurotic antics began to surface. During rehearsals, she would take issue with the script, get nervous, panic, and withdraw into her dressing room, driving Garson nearly mad. Despite this, the play opened to positive reviews in New Haven and continued to fare well in Boston. Then, Jean's internal stresses asserted themselves in physical illness, and she claimed to have a sore throat. One night, in the second act, she completely blacked out and couldn't remember her lines. She finally alerted the production that she would not be continuing on-- doctor's orders-- and an unsuspecting Mary Laslo stepped in to temporarily take her place. However, Mary had been playing the small role of the manicurist and was unprepared to be a sudden lead! 

Enter Judy Holliday (right). With the Philadelphia opening postponed, the equally gifted and much less emotionally troubled actress jumped into grueling, boot camp rehearsal sessions. Had it not been for coffee, as she admitted herself, she may not have made it. By the time the show hit New York, with a new leading lady and a new third act, it was a sensation. Judy ran away with the role, making it her own. In effect, thanks to Jean's erratic behavior, Judy became a star! Hence, when a film adaptation was made in 1950, Judy was cast in the lead role-- not the original Billie prototype, Jean. Judy had worked in film before, her most noteworthy part being  in Adam's Rib opposite Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, who had both championed her, but it would be this film that would skyrocket her film career, however briefly. In this case, it was Judy alone of the main cast who duplicated her performance, for Paul Douglas lost his role of Harry Brock to Broderick Crawford and Gary Merrill passed the torch of Paul Verrall to William Holden (yet another stage nab for the Bill). In the end, no matter who it was performing beside her, Judy stole the show. It was her moment, and her take on the reinvented showgirl who finds absolution through intelligence-- and thus self-respect-- remains one of cinema's favorite comedic female characters.

Ken Kesey's book One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was so unique and powerful in its human appeal that it was immediately turned into a play. In 1963, the adaptation hit Broadway with none other than multi-faceted tough guy Kirk Douglas (left) taking on the role of feigned nutcase Randle McMurphy. Gene Wilder too was cast as the sensitive but disturbed Billy Bibbit. Joan Tetzel took on the role of the unlikely villainess, Nurse Ratched. It ran for 82 performances and definitely turned some heads! Over ten years later, the film was in the can, but the cast was different. As Kirk had no longer been considered young enough to portray the devious and rebellious Murphy, Jack Nicholson swooped in and immortalized the role. Since Jack always comes off a bit "cuckoo" himself (in the best possible way), the casting decision seemed to be kismet. Gene too did not reprise his role, instead handing it to off-kilter character man Brad Dourif. Danny Devito too contributed his uncanny screen presence in a small role. Nurse Ratched would be memorably played by Louise Fletcher, who garnered an Academy Award for her muted take on evil. Jack would too win the Oscar, as would director Milos Forman. However, best of all was the fact that the "Douglas" name would still be honored when Michael Douglas, son of Kirk, would win the award for Best Picture after serving as Producer on the film. Since his father helped bring the play to life, it was perhaps in honor of him that Michael even approached the project in the first place. Innovation seems to run in that family.

Jack makes friends (with "Chief" Will Sampson) and history in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

While one can't argue the finished products of cinema nor their hold on us, the re-workings of the casts in all of these instances is something to note. A few different ingredients, and you wind up with a vastly different product, be it masterpiece or dud. Since we shall never be able to compare results-- play versus film-- we are left only with the offerings our movie stars have left us. In the end, there probably is no better or worse, merely different takes. A film adaptation of a play is akin to the effect produced in re-making a movie: you're going to get a different experience with different players-- some will like it, others not. I suppose the good news is that we are so flooded with talent that we have all these different pools to pull from. Since it could be argued that Hollywood keeps making the same old stories anyway, there is some beauty in seeing the same old plays performed again and again by different actors. It would be nice to have all of life recorded so that there was no mystery about our creative past at all, but for now, we shall have to suffice our curiosity with our own wonder. And, of course, with the movies.