NOW THAT'S FUNNY: Part XIII

Ann Sheridan, sporting her popular horned hair-do.

It was fitting, as Ann was a bit of a Devil!

The most lasting impression Ann Sheridan left on Hollywood was her congenial sense of humor. An unaffected girl-next-door with chutzpah, she enjoyed a laugh or clever quip, and she was always a good sport when she was teased or pranked. This turned out to be a good thing, for she was certainly the butt of the joke on more than one occasion. The most notorious example occurred very much in the public eye. Ann's career was beginning to gain real momentum by 1940. She had made some noteworthy appearances in major motion pictures, she had been dubbed the "Oomph Girl," and she was a bona fide movie star enjoying her moment in the sun. Proof of her public power was displayed when she attended the preview of her latest film, It All Came True, in April. Enduring the usual press junket and ballyhoo, Ann was suddenly surprised by the appearance of a 19-year-old UCLA student-- Dick Brunnenkamp-- at her side. Before she could blink, the kid had handcuffed himself to her! Not only that, but he had swallowed the key!!! Chaos and flashing cameras ensued. Dick's excuse was that he was fulfilling a bet he had made with his fraternity. Though the cuff on her wrist was probably a bit uncomfortable, Ann was pretty laid-back about the whole thing, aside from being confused and very inconvenienced by the scam. While the boy was probably really just looking to gain attention for himself and enjoy his own fifteen minutes of fame-- literally fifteen minutes, as that was how long it took to get a locksmith-- it was Ann who walked away the true winner, with even more frantic publicity and fan devotion.

The hijinks often did not involve Ann's fan base, however. Most of the time, the gags came from within studio walls, generally with her adoring pack of male friends. The major player on this list was Humphrey Bogart. Considering Bogie's unsavory and somewhat embarrassing history with women-- including the battered husband situation-- it is somewhat surprising that this ultimate guy's guy and future leader of the Rat Pack was best buds with a girl. But then, Ann wasn't just any girl. The two worked together many times-- San Quentin, They Drive by Night, etc-- but they never played love interests. This fit well with their private relationship, which was very brother-sister. Bogie loved to poke fun at Ann, whom he referred to as "Miss Pushface of 1893" after her "Oomph" title, which she hated, was bestowed. They played practical jokes on each other from pretty much the moment they met, and they enjoyed an ongoing competition of "who can get whose goat!" (Together in It All Came True, left).

For example: Ann bought Bogie a  very special gift: a genuine Gene Autry toy gun, which mocked his pistol-toting, tough guy roles. He got his revenge by telling Ann about a plum upcoming part that would really give her a chance to show her acting chops. So eager was Ann to prove her talents beyond her physical attributes that she was soon ignorantly campaigning all over Warner Brothers for the important period role of Fanny Hill-- the heroine of England's earliest pornographic novel. Whoops! Ann was back for round three when she, with John Huston's help, staged a cameo as a prostitute in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Expecting an unknown, featured actress to turn the corner in the brief street scene, Bogie spun to offer his character's scripted dismissal of the harlot only to find his gal pal lifting her skirt to reveal a tattoo that said, "Annie!" It is doubtful that Ann made it into the final cut of the film-- it's definitely not her in the close-up, but she may be  the black-wigged woman seen in a long shot. At the very least, Bogie got a good laugh out of it. As Ann herself said, "He was a dirty rat, but I loved that man" (see right).

Another stud in Ann's bro barn was the handsome Errol Flynn. It is occasionally rumored that the duo enjoyed a brief affair, though Ann always maintained that they were no more than chums. This seems to be the case, as they certainly remained pals for the extent of Errol's short life. They worked together for the first time in Dodge City, and while most of Errol's attentions were then devoted to his other female co-star, Olivia de Havilland, with whom he professed to be occasionally in love, Ann also charmed him with her usual, easy-going, down-to-earth personality. By the time they began filming Silver River (left), Errol had labeled Ann as his favorite comedy guinea piglet, perhaps because she had so kindly taught him the nifty trick of injecting oranges with liquor so they could enjoy a "healthy" snack while shooting. (Actually sounds pretty good...). Ann cracked one day that the uncomfortable wire bustle she wore as part of her wardrobe for the film looked like a bird cage. The next day, she entered her dressing room to find two finicky parrots, while Errol, director Raoul Walsh, and the rest of the crew, laughed hysterically outside! But Ann gave as good as she got. When she stumbled upon the boys sharing some celebratory cigars-- one of the crew members had just become a proud Papa-- Ann acted hurt that she hadn't been included. Errol naturally chided her and egged her on. Thus, while shooting their next scene, Errol was surprised to find Ann before him with his own cigar planted firmly in her pout. Walsh said she always kept things lively on the set.

Despite his stern and overly dramatic demeanor, William S. Hart (right) was a Boy at Heart. While he wasn't usually the instigator of dramatic gags-- he wasn't enough of a conniving scoundrel-- he certainly enjoyed partaking when a prank seemed worthy. One of the fellas that could recruit Bill in a joke was the one and only theatre impresario Sid Grauman. Hence the following situation: Paramount big-wigs Adolph Zukor and Jesse Lasky were aboard a train en route to San Francisco, assumedly to enjoy the usual mix of travel and business associated with running such a huge studio. Yet, the peaceful ride from Pasadena Station turned out to be more than the suits had bargained for. After about an hour on the tracks, the train suddenly came to a screeching halt.  The confused passengers started craning their necks out the windows to figure just what had happened, then word starting spreading like wildfire that they were being held up! 

Now a bit nervous, Zukor and Lasky peeked outside to see a very imposing line of men in western garb surrounding their car with guns at the ready. Before their wide eyes had even adjusted to this imagery, two train robbers hopped aboard and stood before them: one was short with a large sombrero and mask, and the other was very tall, wearing a cowboy hat (culprit left) with a kerchief covering his lower face. While the held-up studio reps mentally started counting the golden doubloons in their pockets, the reality of the situation began to register. Zukor took a closer look. After squinting his eyes, he realized that the renegades looked familiar... When he knew that he had been fooled, Hart and Grauman revealed themselves. It took a bit of explaining to calm the rest of the passengers down, but eventually, the plot-- which the train's crew had helped conspire-- was revealed and the initial, fearful shivering turned into guffaws of laughter. It would take a showman (and money man) like Sid to orchestrate such a fiasco, but naturally, the acting talents of Hart helped.

Not everyone was so light-hearted when it came to tomfoolery. Clark Gable, for example, was actually a rather serious guy, and it took the feisty humor of his short-lived soul mate Carole Lombard to loosen him up a bit. Of course, when he lost her, Clark turned grave again and disappeared into a guilt-ridden spiral of self-loathing and alcoholism. Ironically, he would take a shine to Miss Congeniality, Ann Sheridan, and it is rumored that the two had a little liaison themselves. Perhaps this is true, and it would make sense, given that Ann's spirit of fun was very much in keeping with Carole's own delinquent deviance. Still, when he was on the set, unless surrounded by close and trusted friends, Clark always arrived on time, stuck to the script, hit his marks, and kept to business. He would struggle with this pattern throughout his final picture, The Misfits, when he was teamed with the temperamental and often inebriated duo of Marilyn Monroe and Montgomery Clift. Clark had a soft spot for both (see with MM, right), but was irritated by their occasional unstable behavior, which he deemed unprofessional. To boot, he was annoyed by the odd Method approach that both actors seemed to use, which he felt wasted far too much time and unnecessary discussion. Clark was a "just do it" kind of guy. 

So, the secretly self-conscious actor was not exactly on cloud nine when photographer Ernst Haas arrived on assignment to capture the cast, crew, and horses in action. It was one more annoyance that Clark couldn't bare, but he appreciated that Ernst at least kept out of the way and wasn't invasive. One day, Ernst was given the opportunity to watch some rushes. Not knowing that Mr. Gable was behind him, he was asked by a baiting grip what he thought of Clark's performance. Fortunately, Ernst had been very impressed with the touching and gutsy portrayal he had witnessed from the legend, who did some of his most compelling work in the film. Thus, his answer in reference to the previously viewed scene was: "It knocked me on my ass!" With that, a hefty bellow of laughter issued from behind him, and he felt the firm grip of a large hand on his shoulder. Initially embarrassed at his foul-mouthed response, Ernst quickly realized that his down and dirty, no-nonsense answer had won him the respect and friendship of the unknowable Clark Gable. Clark lightened up after that and even offered to help in getting some prize photo-ops for the young picture-taker. What a difference a laugh makes! (A hint of a smile, right).

Cary Grant was yet another co-star that Ann Sheridan had fun working with. While the two enjoyed each other's company tremendously, they would be considered more friendly acquaintances than "thick thieves." The reason was perhaps a matter of humor. Ann was much more bawdy, earthy, and sharp in her wisecracking. Cary, on the other hand, came from the old school of vaudeville slap-stick, punchline, and drummed buh-dum chink quips. He also, like Gable, was privately a much more serious man than many ever realized. Part of his protection from some of his personal pains was his projected image of perfection. Style certainly gave him a sense of control (left), which is why he gelled better with more polite and refined women like BFF Grace Kelly and, upon their teaming in Charade, Audrey Hepburn. Their female sensitivity also offered safe harbor to the little boy in him who was searching for the nurturing and comfort that was denied him as a child. 

"All man" but not what one would consider a "man's man," Cary opted for elegance and conversation over rough-housing and high-school hijinks, which made him contrast sharply with his other Charade co-star, Walter Matthau. Matthau (right) was the physical opposite of Cary, being a bit oafish and not exactly conventionally attractive. His uniquely unrefined voice has become as equally identifiable as the cockney Cary's, yet for very different reasons. Cary was aristocratic; Walter was a crotchety wisecracker from Nowhereville. Cary would get a very surprising introduction to Walter's "sufferin' succotash" repartee and unexpected, off-the-cuff sense of humor very early during production. James Coburn would bear witness to this while meeting Cary for the first time himself. Chatting with the eternal, cinematic leading man in his dressing room, the duo would be interrupted when Walter poked his infamous nose in: "Hey Jim, how are you?" he asked. "Did you ever see anybody do a better impression of Cary Grant than this guy?" With that, Walter shuffled away, leaving 'this guy' with an indescribable look on his face. It is perhaps the only time in history that anyone flustered Cary Grant. 

Cary in his most ridiculous and clowning role, Arsenic and Old Lace,

which (not surprisingly) he considered his worst performance.

I still love it!

STAR OF THE MONTH: Cecil B. DeMille

Cecil B. DeMille- Director and Renaissance Man.

That's right, this time around I chose to feature a director. Not just any director-- the director. The name DeMille still has a powerful resonance and serves at times as the very definition of Hollywood itself. This makes perfect sense, being that ol' CB was one of the founding fathers of this luxurious place we know as La La Land. And trust me, luxury has everything to do with it.


While DeMille was an artist and craftsman, working behind the scenes in the original days of Hollywood-- back when orange groves and pepper trees lined the major through street of Prospect-- at heart he was a showman. In fact, he studied acting first, attending the same school at which his father-- a playwright-- had once taught: The American Academy of Dramatic Arts (ring any bells?). Taking the brains of his father, the passion of his mother, and the flamboyance of family friend David Belasco, young Cecil matured from a curious and ambitious youth into a vivacious and unstoppable entrepreneur. He took odd jobs in the theatre circuit-- writing plays, directing, producing, even acting-- all of which he could perform ably, but it wasn't until a partnership with Jesse L. Lasky and Sam Goldwyn brought him into the cinematic world that his life was forever altered-- and our world as well. His first directorial effort, The Squaw Man, made with the help of Oscar Apfel, is still historically cited as the first full-length feature film made in Hollywood.

Jesse L. Lasky, Adolph Zukor, Sam Goldfish (Goldwyn), Cecil and Albert 

Kaufman- Founding fathers of Famous Players-Lasky.

The match was struck, and the fire in DeMille was ignited. He would work without even stopping for breath from 1914-1959. Forty-five years worth of dedication, drive, passion, and vigor would inevitably leave behind a legacy of unparalleled celluloid glory. After his contemporaries, including hero D.W. Griffith, disappeared into obscurity, DeMille always marched on, his energy for his work kept alive by the devout love of his craft. As the times changed, DeMille may not have exactly changed his own style, but he allowed it to expand, pushing the envelope further and further each time with respect to his artistic capabilities and his aesthetic extravagances. He loved movies, and he watched them as much as he made them, keeping up with the latest directors, the latest techniques, and the newest innovations. Over time, he fell into the immaculate cliche he had contrived for himself, that of the egotistical mouthpiece of God. His epic religious features, meant to strike the fear of a higher power into his viewers, too allowed them to indulge unapologetically in their sensual sides. While every film preached a lesson of love, brotherhood, and humility before one's maker, it too presented a very thorny and enjoyable segue on the crooked way to righteousness.

The King of Kings- DeMille's piety. (H.B. Warner as Christ).

Herein we have the two DeMille's: the craftsman and the poet, the moral liberal and the political conservative, the lover and the fighter, the tactician and the showman. DeMille is either accused of being a slave-driving fascist-- marching around the set in his boots and riding breeches, followed everywhere by his chair boy, and shouting out brash commands through his megaphone-- or a dastardly seducer-- injecting his sexual, sinful, and exuberant films with a moral lesson simply to get them past the sensors. The truth is, both versions are true. "Indulgent" is, in fact, the best word with which to describe CB. His brimming intelligence yearned to ask every question, his passionate side sought to fulfill every pleasure, and his spiritual side hoped to do honor to the only being he was humble before, God himself. His silent films remain dangerous and inventive contributions to a quickly growing and expanding medium, and his sound pictures have found their place in hedonistic kitsch. But in either case, the one unifying factor is detail: the composition of every enchanting frame in every rich scene. DeMille produced vivid, living texture-- films his audiences could very nearly reach out and touch. It is this reason beyond any other that they last. Beyond the story, beyond the cheesy dialogue, beyond the special effects that still leave directors like Steven Spielberg and Martin Scorsese spellbound, is the painterly, fluid, lusciously dripping quality of each masterpiece. This is why DeMille is synonymous with "Classic."

The Affairs of Anatol: DeMille's hedonism. (Gloria Swanson, the woman

he made a star, and Wallace Reid).

As controversial as DeMille remains, his lasting imprint on cinema is justified. But his impression was left on more than the screen. Those who knew him in his life were struck by how this cinematic God could so seamlessly come back down to earth. Many personal accounts recall the tenderness with which he dealt with those he loved and the generosity he provided to those in need. After his father passed away in his youth, the adult CB would always provide for his mother and even his brother, Bill (who too was a director, though a less notorious one), and his wife and children-- oh, and his three mistresses, who were not lookers but were intellectually vibrant and integral to his life. When actors from the silent period witnessed their careers disappearing into the abyss of sound, Cecil always found them parts in his films. He and his wife, Constance, began many charities, particularly for children and women. He lavished friends with gifts, enjoyed his wealth while living simply, and lived each day with the ambition of sucking all the marrow he could out of life. This he did up until the end, when, in 1956, his determination to re-make and improve upon his original silent film, The Ten Commandments, nearly killed him. In fact, perhaps it did. But he succeeded, and his last directorial effort became the pinnacle success of his career, (though The King of Kings remained his proudest film).

 Samson and Delilah: the DeMille unity. 

(Directing Hedy Lamarr and Victor Mature).

We cannot imagine a Hollywood without DeMille, for he was and is Hollywood. He built it as if with his own two hands, and he made it something bigger, something greater, something grander. Cecil and cinema are inseparable, which is why he was the necessary ingredient in Billy Wilder's Hollywood masterpiece, Sunset Boulevard. His mere name carried the context needed to relay all that movies are, all that they endow, and all that they represent. While a director in memory, he was at heart an actor, putting on the greatest show of his life by being the untouchable, indefinable Cecil B. DeMille. What he did, no one else could do, and the effort has taken down many men, (as Joe Mankiewicz could attest after his own Cleopatra debacle). CB gave his movies everything he had and gave us a limitless world in return. Vincent Price once said that you weren't a movie star until you had appeared in a DeMille picture. I suppose it goes without saying that you aren't a film lover until you've seen a DeMille film. With that said: All right, Mr. DeMille. We're ready for your close-up.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Wallace Reid

It took me awhile to get around to researching Wally Reid, though he seemed to appear nearly everywhere else I was looking. You can't pick up a book about the silent era without running into his story and hearing about his tragic end. It didn't take me long, once I had embarked on my voyage into history, to become familiar with his name and the fact that he had died of drug addiction in a padded cell. Though he posed a perfectly suitable subject for my studies, still I kept him on the back-burner, not only because he is so forgotten that it is difficult to find information on him, but because it was clear that in journeying into his life, I was in for a tale of great heartache. I wasn't sure if I was emotionally up to the task.

Once I mustered up the courage, I was glad I did. For though Wally-boy did meet a tragic end, his life story is full of charm, humor, and the delightfully unexpected. Reading about him, one is introduced to a figure of great personality, humility, and intelligence; watching his movies, despite your greatest efforts, you unwittingly find yourself falling in love. Wally did not want to a be a movie star. This was not because of the great prejudice against film actors, and film in general, in those early days. Wally had no prejudices it turns out, against anyone or anything. In fact, he was very intrigued by the new artistic medium. He just wanted to be behind the camera, writing, directing, and shooting. He wore many hats at many different studios, but his position in the spotlight seemed to be the only home that would have him. So, inevitably, the handsome man-child from St. Louis caught the eye of the camera and thus the eyes of the entire world, who dubbed him time and again their favorite movie star. 

In The Roaring Road

But, as quickly as they rise, they just as quickly fall. In the early twenties, Wally was in a train accident while shooting one of his films. Instead of being given time to heal, Jesse Lasky shot him full of morphine and pushed him in front of the camera. Wally's subsequent addiction and death made him the last member of the holy trinity of Movieland Martyrs, joining Fatty Arbuckle and William Desmond Taylor. After the tragedies of all three men, the myth of Hollywood was broken, and suddenly the world was introduced to the fact that the golden Gods and Goddesses that they had worshipped from afar were mere mortals, subject to flaw, weakness, and sin. Those who were guilty of sex and debauchery were punished, and the studio system was born to keep unruly stars in check. Poor Wally died, leaving behind him the memory of only his gravest mistake. Today, no one remembers that he was able to play any instrument within minutes of picking it up, or that he used to go to nearby shops and buy countless things he didn't need just to keep the owners in business. Most sadly, no one remembers that his movies, including his famous and beloved car racing films, inspired and enlightened the lives of fans all over the world, who watched their All American Boy triumph in their honor in film after film. Charisma cannot be made, it just is. In the days of silent film, without uttering a word, Wallace Reid endeared the hearts of the entire world to him. They knew then, what history has erased. He was one hell of a guy, and to his friends and fans, he was the greatest.

 

HOT SPOTS in CA: The Hollywood Heritage Museum

It only makes sense, being out of town for the Thanksgiving Holiday, that I grow homesick and devote this week's post to my beloved L.A. La Land and another of its great historical landmarks. The Hollywood Heritage Museum sits across the street from the Hollywood Bowl Theater on Highland Avenue, but most people know it as little more than a place to park when a concert is going on. It is a modest building, tucked just under the 101 Freeway, and easily overshadowed by the busy, electric intersection of Hollywood and Highland. Not much to look at from the outside, inside it possesses many interesting artifacts from cinematic history, including a camera used to shoot Gone with the Wind. But the history of the building makes it far more significant than it may at first appear. It is not just some random building, now used for preservational purposes, but is an actual piece of cinematic history, dating all the way back to the very beginning of California's birth as the Kingdom of Movies. At this time, Prospect was the main street running West to East down Harvey Wilcox's new city. It would be years later that it be renamed Hollywood Blvd.


In October of 1911, David Horsley of the Centaur Film Company, which he had formed with Biograph Director Charles Gorman, came to Hollywood with his brother William. (As a side note, Horsley and Gorman got the name for their company by combining their two names: Horse- + -Man = Centaur). The Horsley brothers' mission was to come to the slowly growing movie town, and set up a camp for their new studio. They met up with Murray Steele who took them to "The Blondeau Tavern" at Sunset and Gower, which was closing due to a ban on alcohol. The property, which included the tavern, a corral, several small buildings, a bungalow, and a barn-- was rented by the brothers from Mr. Blondeau for $35/mo. They used it as a center for their production.

Two years later, in 1913, the land would fall into the possession of Cecil B. DeMille (above) Jesse Lasky, Samuel Goldfish aka Goldwyn, and Arthur Friend. They had just formed the "Jesse K. Lasky Feature Play Company" in New York, and had been looking for terrain in Arizona on which to film a cinematic version of the play The Squaw Man. After finding Flagstaff unsuitable for the shoot, they moved over to Los Angeles, and happened upon the barn that the Horsley's had rented out two years prior. The current owner was Jacob Stern, who agreed to rent the barn out again on a month to month basis... as long as he could leave his horses and carriage there. And so, the boys of the Lasky team set up shop, filming The Squaw Man, which many regard as the first official full-length feature to be filmed in Los Angeles.




Working out of the barn, where DeMille set up his office, was no easy feat. DeMille had to raise his boots whenever a wash of water came running through the barn, usually the result of the horses being cleaned by Stern. The offices had literally been made out of horse stalls, as were the dressing rooms and projection rooms. Another interesting fact about their time there, was that Lasky was the first filmmaker to hire writers and scenarists to work "in house," and so this barn harbored the first studio story department! Amidst the mud and the chaos, they somehow made it work. Filming officially began on December 29, 1913. The resulting movie was a smash success and helped to take filmmaking to a whole new level of creativity and artistry. 

Still from The Squaw Man

The barn was moved from its original site (what is now 1521 Vine Street) to Paramount Studios, where it often served as a set piece on productions, including television's "Bonanza." It remained there for 55 years, until it was set to be demolished. It was saved, thank goodness, and moved to its current location on Highland. Then, in 1996, it suffered through a horrible fire that destroyed much of its precious artifacts. Thankfully, the building was restored and as of 1999 was re-opened to the public.


Inside, curious history buffs will find a replication of Cecil B. DeMille's private office, a large photographic collection of early Hollywood, film props, and other assorted memorabilia. The barn is surprisingly large on the inside, which makes its outer proportions quite deceptive. The staff hosts tours there, as well as many other interesting lectures about cinema and its history. (I myself went to a discussion about Errol Flynn that was very enlightening, for a personal friend of his, author Steven Hayes, was there, and many unseen photos of him were shared). 

If ever you adhere to the lesson, "Don't judge a book by its cover," let it be to see this great, historical landmark-- if not even to see the treasures that lie within its walls, then to physically set your own two feet upon an official piece of Hollywood History. The Hollywood Heritage Museum is open five days a week, Wed-Sun, from noon to 4pm. It is located at 2100 North Highland Avenue. Call (323) 874-2276 for more information.