THE REEL REALS: Barry Fitzgerald

Barry Fitzgerald with his Oscar

Barry Fitzgerald is "the bomb." Outshining even the extremely hot chemistry between Duke Wayne and Maureen O'Hara in his drunken, comedic turn as the town matchmaker in "The Quiet Man," Barry also shared Oscar glory with Bing Crosby in the surprise success "Going My Way." An honest Dubliner, born and raised, part of Barry's appeal was his thick, Irish accent and his likeable, unpredictable actions and reactions. Whether playing the increasingly confused and slightly mad groundskeeper in "Bringing Up Baby" or making a cameo appearance in "Duffy's Tavern," there was no telling what the lovable leprechaun would say or do next. All one could do was sit, wait, and most likely, laugh.

Getting a late start in the acting profession, Barry wouldn't grace the screen until he was nearly forty. Both he and, later, his younger, nationalist brother Arthur Shields would journey to America and find success working with director John Ford, who immediately took a liking to the sprightly Barry in particular. From a civil servant to an unexpected film star, Barry would enjoy over thirty years performing on the silver screen before passing away in his early seventies back in Dublin. In addition to his lovable Irish brogue, Barry had an irreplaceable, unmatched persona that made viewers adore him-- there is no actor that could have outperformed or improved upon his characterizations in any of his given film. This, one could say, is the mark of the finest of actors.

MENTAL MONTAGE: The Direct-ators Part I

Joan Crawford unleashes a little pent up frustration on Lucy Marlow
in Queen Bee. When you push an actor too far, sh*t happens.

The diva temper tantrum is not an unfamiliar phenomenon. Nay, it is generally expected. As we gawk at the super-celestial stars above, we make apologies for their erratic behavior, irrational demands, social faux pas, because we find their eccentricities just as-- if not more- entertaining than their films, albums, etc. When Prince demands that his hotel room at the Roosevelt Hotel be carpeted entirely in purple (this happened, I was an employee at the time), it is so absurdly ridiculous that we find the trivia delicious. As such, it feels like a press release present when Reese Witherspoon-- who is supposed to be the Southern debutante of moviedom-- utters the immortal words "Do you know who I AM?!" to the cop who has just pulled her and her husband over for a DUI. It's nice to know, I suppose, that while these people may be richer than we, they are also abysmally, stupidly, embarrassingly superficial. As such, it boosts the confidence when our "stars" reveal themselves for what the majority of them actually are: burning balls of gas.

However, they're not all bad eggs. In fact, a lesser discussed evil is that of the maniacal director. Safe behind the camera, where he can force the sad, dancing monkeys of the acting profession to perform his most sadistic desires, many of these filmmaking artistes get drunk with the power that comes with the director's chair/throne. The man holding the megaphone is God on the set, and those underlings who question his authority will be destroyed. Or shamed. Or whatever it takes to get his rocks off and make him feel like he is invincible (and not the little boy who used to get pushed into his locker in high school because he liked Star Trek.) Fortunately, just as the misbehaving movie stars endured humiliatingly public slaps on the wrist for their misdirected naughtiness, the Dictator-style directors of Hollywood past have also occasionally gotten their comeuppance, and often from the very object of their attempted subjugation. Here are some of my favorite stories of badass bitch slaps and hot shot throw downs:

One of cinema's all time favorite heroes and tough guys is the incomparable John Wayne (right).  The mythology of the Western seems almost to have been created for him, around him, from him, because of him... His effect on the public remains fascinating. An odd duck with a distinctive, staggered delivery and super saucy walk, "the Duke" matured through his films from a young buck, with an innocent face and a reluctant penchant for honor, to a hardened cynic, who didn't take no sh*t off nobody but whose stone heart could sometimes be melted by the "Mattie Ross" types. When this guy was in the saddle, America was the safest place on earth. Ironically, such was not the case off camera. A fairly bashful man when operating without the social lubrication and liquid courage of alcohol, John was a fairly easy guy to push around. Due to his severed relationship with his mother, he always preferred the company of men and consequently looked up to the men who directed him as father figures. He worshiped no one more than John Ford. Unfortunately, as with many directors, Ford had the habit of counteracting his incredible talent for visual storytelling with almost consistent, semi-A-hole behavior. 

John Wayne seeks shelter behind Robert Montgomery during
They Were Expendable.

While Ford and Duke would forge a strong relationship that would span several films over several years, the director often took advantage of the actor's unwavering allegiance and surprising timidity. Their first meeting set the bar for the rest of their relationship (see here), but despite the hard knocks, Duke determinedly took on the Sisyphean task of staying in Ford's favor. On one occasion, he would have a little help from Robert Montgomery (left). During the filming of They Were Expendable, Ford was being particularly nasty and critical of Duke, his chosen whipping boy on the shoot-- Ford always had one. Duke could do nothing right in the clearly frustrated and unhappy director's eyes, and Ford insulted him constantly, calling him a 'clumsy bastard' and 'big oaf,' and mocking everything from his line readings to his salutes. Finally, the uber-professional and ever-focused Montgomery, who had a very low tolerance for BS, became over-irritated by the incessant immaturity and bullying. Thus, the normally introverted and pensive actor rose to his feet, walked right up to Ford, and hovered menacingly over his Director's chair with an icy glare: "Don't ever talk like that to Duke again. You should be ashamed of yourself." You could have heard a pin drop. No one, but NO ONE, talked to Ford that way. Yet, instead of getting fired up, Ford slumped guiltily in his chair like a school child who had just been reprimanded by his favorite teacher. There were rumors that, after filming wrapped for the day, Ford actually cried. Duke, on the other hand, probably slept like a baby.

Carroll Baker (right) also had a run-in with John Ford, with whom she filmed both How the West Was Won and Cheyenne Autumn. However, perhaps due to her talent and toughness, Ford took a liking to her and never set out to undermine her confidence. In fact, he seemed impressed with her work, and she eventually forged enough of a bond with him to started calling him "Pappy." Carroll was a smart cookie who realized that if she wanted to earn a place in "the boys' club," she had to play by their rules. Observation taught her that she needed to adhere to the Fordian principles of honor, duty, and utter obedience to the task at hand if she wanted to stay on his good side. She adhered. However, life has a habit of throwing curve balls, so despite her preparation, Carroll hit a snag during Cheyenne Autumn. When driving her wagon across a river for one tough scene, the current proved to be too strong. Carroll could feel herself losing control, and as she had two small children on board (who could not swim btw), she determined to steer out of the line and proceed with the current before she and the kids were totally capsized. Unfortunately, two stuntmen dressed as Indians tried to straighten her out to save the shot-- as per Ford's instructions. Carroll, feeling the wagon about to turn over, tried to call to them and tell them to stop, but they couldn't hear her over the sound of the rushing water. So, she did what her maternal instinct told her, stood up, and started lashing them with her whip! Needless to say, it ruined the shot.

'Pappy' (left), who had been filming from atop a mountain to capture what was supposed to be the amazing, panoramic shot, drove  all the way down from Olympus with his eye patch and unlit cigar in place. He approached Carroll, clearly miffed at losing the shot-- which had taken ages to set up-- and said, "Well, that's great! So in keeping with this film. I have a marvelous shot of two Indians being horsewhipped by a Quaker girl." (Quakers, in case you don't know, are a very nonviolent sect of people). As Ford glared at Carroll, she knew that he was reading her. She also knew that if she ratted the stuntmen out, Ford would judge her for being a "bad sport." She opted to stay mum and take the blame. Judging from the penetrating but knowing look in Ford's good eye, she also determined that he understood exactly what had happened and was testing her. Her silence proved to be golden, which maintained her membership in his boys' club. After the stuntmen stepped up and admitted their error, Carroll garnered further validation. "Well, I guess we have a heroine on our hands," Ford said with a twinkle in his eye. And that was the end of that. Well played, Carroll. Well played.

Barbara Stanwyck (right) was another tough cookie when it came to her profession. The true Panther Woman of Hollywood, due to her fabulously cultivated, in-control strut, Babs played her cards close to her chest until the call to "Action" came. At that point, her co-stars were just lucky if they could keep up with the intensity levels of her acting. Nearly every director she ever worked with became a salivating puppy at her feet due to her almost masochistic dedication to her craft. Cecil B. DeMille-- not an easy man to please-- was floored by her, and Frank Capra fell head-over-heels in love with her. Babs was not just a "broad" with brawn, however. She had an incredibly loyal streak, and as a woman who had worked her way up from poverty the hard way, she always had a soft spot for underdogs and those who were not lucky enough to have landed in her fortunate position of luxury. She often stuck up for other actors on the set, particularly the unknown, struggling ones. She was equally known to throw a punch or two for the big timers. 

Robert Cummings (left) would never achieve the stature of leading men like Cary Grant or James Cagney. He was an able, attractive actor, but he lacked the edge and hint of danger that would have made him as intriguing as his peers. Sadly, he was hopelessly wholesome. His place in film history is generally thought of as a reliable supporting male lead opposite the likes of Deanna Durbin, however, his distinctive resume illustrates his impressive career. He worked with the big guns likes Alfred Hitchcock in both Saboteur and Dial M for Murder, not to mention Babs Stanwyck in The Bride Wore Boots. The latter collaboration was a definite plus, but it wasn't all gravy. Apparently, filming the dismally generic and hack-job comedy was no laughing matter, and Barbara in particular was not at all impressed with director Irving Pichel, who seemed to be purposely making a bad situation worse. Boots turned out to be one of her least pleasurable career experiences (and also her last comedy). However, as a professional, she stuck out her chin and did her job. Yet, when she saw Pichel torturing her co-star with repeated and unnecessary takes of a very dangerous stunt atop a horse-- over, and over, and over again-- she finally took the gloves off, telling the director from Hell that if he forced poor Bob to perform the potentially neck-cracking feat one more time, he wouldn't get another scene out of her. As everyone at the studio and on set was utterly loyal to Queen Stanwyck, the message was received, they moved on, and the film was quickly "in the can." 

Clara Bow (right) was hardly the testy femme fatale. She lit up life onscreen and off with her vibrant and loving personality and supercharged sex appeal. A woman insecure about her lack of education and haunted by her tragic, impoverished past, Clara preferred to "kill 'em with kindness." Sadly, the favor would rarely be returned. Despite all the odds, which predetermined her as "Least Likely to Succeed" in the graduating class of life, her genuine nature and jaw-dropping talent got her all the way to Hollywood and soon placed her atop the superstar totem. Her struggles to this position were not easy. Talked down to and brushed aside as just another pretty face, trashy dimwit, and struggling actress wannabe, it was hard for her to make her mark and even harder to make it stick. The scenes from her first film, Beyond the Rainbow, all hit the cutting room floor. 

Luck started turning her way after her work in Grit earned her a plethora of kudos, and she was immediately handed a ticket to L.A. Unfortunately, when she arrived at Preferred Pictures to sign with B.P. Schulberg, the West Coast partner of the studio and her soon-to-be biz-nemesis, he took one look a her, turned to her agent, and asked, "Is this a joke?" He decided to torture Clara and put her through her paces, essentially humiliating her by demanding that she prove herself to him before he agreed to sign her. Dressed shoddily and deemed overweight, Clara was obviously slighted by BP's rebuff, but before she could even react, he was barking out orders and playing director: "Be happy! Be angry! Now cry!!!" Clara could have caved under the emotional duress, but she played his self-masturbatory mind game and won. A born actress who knew there was no other job for her on earth, she gave the goods-- her face would light up with exuberance, her brows would furrow in fury. The ace up her sleeve was her instantaneous access to tears. She could turn them on and off at will, and her sobering emotion at BP's cry of "cry!" left him stunned. Thus, Clara put the top dog in his place with no backtalk or sass. BP nearly wet his pants, then handed her the pen.

The director Lon Chaney is most associated with is Tod Browning-- a filmmaker with a penchant toward the odd and the macabre who understood the actor's genius and used his own adept creativity to develop a story that let the ravenous Chaney animal out of its cage. Naturally, as friends and frequent collaborators, the two bull-headed men had their share of disagreements. There were countless times when they would get into arguments on the set, mostly with regard to a certain scene and how it was to be played. The third parties-- assistant directors, cinematographers, etc-- would often try to intervene just to get the camera rolling again, but such was a mistake. In the middle of their yelling matches, Tod and Lon would simply turn to the intruder and tell him to "mind his own business" or, more forcefully, "Oh, f*ck off!" At the end of the day, they respected each other and their individual visions, so after the temper tantrums had been exorcised, they got down to business and put their latest genesis of genius on the silver screen. It's hard to find a shared piece of work between the two that isn't fascinating, if not utterly compelling and wonderfully disturbing. (Tod, Marceline Day, and Lon on the set of London After Midnight).

Strangely, the film for which Lon is most often remembered is one that he did not make with Browning. His great love child was The Hunchback of Notre Dame, which he made with Wallace Worsley, but it is The Phantom of the Opera that boasts the face that launched a thousand future fans for the "Man of a Thousand Faces!" A dedicated actor and true artist who molded his many movie mugs with nothing but plaster and vivid imagination, Lon needed a director who understood and trusted the gifts he brought to the table, which included his lifetime experience of both acting and directing. He was not to obtain such synchronicity from Rupert Julian, the director he had once worked with in his early, struggling years in The Kaiser, the Beast of Berlin. Lon found the tyrannical, self-important, trumpet-tooting actor/filmmaker had lost none of his pomposity when shooting on Phantom began. Julian had become something of a von Stroheim wannabe, wearing absurd boots and walking around the set like the Prince of Persia-- or some equally ridiculous, self-important monarch (see left). It was this pretentious indulgence in egomania that Lon the everyman found... distasteful to say the least. 

As Lon took his work seriously and was committed to embodying his characters honestly, and Julian was more interested in flash, their all-out brawls on the set could be heard from Hollywood to Holland. It grew to a point that the two wouldn't even speak to each other and would need the same third party substitutes to deliver various messages between them. Cameraman Charles van Enger was often stuck with the job. He would walk over to Lon and deliver Rupert's "direction" for the forthcoming scene; Lon would listen patiently, then deliver his response: "Tell him to go to Hell." (Ha. Hahaha). Lon won in the long run. In addition to helping direct his co-stars, who trusted him far more than Julian, he also communicated his aesthetic ideas to those on the production side, thereby secretly directing the film himself. Today, people still remember the Phantom's face and are touched by his private, internal Hell. No one, except for perhaps the most steadfast of silent film junkies, even know who the heck Rupert Julian was. (Nor do they care).

Lon makes history as Erik the Phantom. Burn Rupert!

To Be Continued...

MENTAL MONTAGE: Movie Stars on the Radio

The body (minus the leg warmers) that inspired America to "do the
Jane Fonda..." and Mickey Avalon to write a hit song.

When it comes down to it, movie stars are nothing more than romanticized human beings: romanticized in their dramatic performances and romanticized in the public consciousness. They put themselves before the camera, and we place them on pedestals. And so, it is not really surprising that so many of our beloved celebrities become muses of song. In Byron's day, we would have read about some random, faceless damsel whom he was lusting over in one of his lyrical opuses. Today, instrumental inspiration often comes from a more obvious source, and so songwriters, rock-stars, and pop-idols reveal their own personal fanaticism by penning ballads and hit songs about the grand stars of cinema's bygone glory era. When these musical offerings are not straight-forward dedications to the Gods of Mt. Olympus, they are at least homages to the singular figures in our ever-growing pop culture.


Buggy Bette

The best celebs always have a trademark. For Harlow, it was her flaxen hair. For Flynn, it was his debonair mustache. For Bette-pop-eyed-Davis (left), it was her large, invasive peepers... (and perhaps a cigarette). Bette's luminous eyes did a great deal of her acting, taking her characters even in moments of stillness from anything from dewy wonder to murderous intent. As such, her baby blues inspired the lyrics to the 1974 Jackie DeShannon song, "Bette Davis Eyes," which described a dangerous coquette who knows how to use her sensuality to get what she wants: "She's precocious, and she knows just what it takes to make a crow blush." The song became more famous when it was re-recorded with minor lyrical changes-- crow became pro-- by Kim Carnes in 1981, where it became the #1 hit of the year. Bette was so flattered to be initiated into yet another generation of fans that she personally thanked Carnes for the "shout out." It meant a great deal to her that, years past her prime, she was still looked upon as the staple of female sexual power.


Jack White's Red-head

Alternative rock musician Jack White has enjoyed success in a number of realms: in various bands, in a solo career, as a music producer, and even as a film actor. His work is often interesting for its articulate yet untidy homages to different artists of the past. He makes no secret of his adoration for heroines like Loretta Lynn or Wanda Jackson, for both of whom he spearheaded new albums. His appreciation of the musicians of yesteryear is always apparent, and his respect blends mediums. Nursing a clear crush on the gorgeous Rita Hayworth (right), he made her the leading lady in the song "Take, Take, Take"-- his perspective on the draining and abusive side of celebrity. Released in 2005 on the White Stripes album Get Behind Me Satan, Rita Hayworth is described as being accosted repeatedly by an increasingly demanding fan whose obsession finally chases her away: "Well it's just not fair/ I want to get a piece of hair." The question both raised and answered is: "What price fame?"

Jack also pays a very direct homage to Rita's hubby Orson Welles in a Citizen Kane tribute. From the 2001 White Stripes album White Blood Cells, "The Union Forever" is totally comprised of pieces of dialogue from the Kane script. A seemingly impossible feat, White weaves the story of Charles Foster Kane (left) into a macabre translation of destructive capitalism and the ravages suffered by its most famous cinematic victim. "The union forever" is thus illustrated as a death sentence, and the painful life of isolation-- "It can't be love, for there is no true love"-- that Kane is left to suffer in his untouchable castle on a hill is sonically translated by White. In listening, movie fans can connect to the otherwise unrelatable character on a whole other level.

Hello, Norma Jeane...

Marilyn Monroe's (right) name pops up everywhere, so it barely joggles the mind anymore when she presents herself in song. However, the most famous and direct offering to Hollywood's sacrificed movie angel is Elton John's "Candle in the Wind." Released in 1973, Elton composed a cathartic release for a world still in mourning for the luminous star who died too soon. The song is particularly fascinating in the way Elton's empathy for the fallen idol and his poignant childhood memories reflect the powerful impact that she had and has maintained on the universal culture. Marilyn was as American as apple pie, but her beauty and vulnerability crossed over borders and oceans to reach people around the world. Few people can have such an amazing effect. Elton would alter the lyrics in 1997 to honor the death of another far-reaching woman, Lady Diana, after her equally shocking and affecting death, but the fact that Sir Elton's feelings of loss were as palpable for a starlet he never knew as they were for a close friend speaks volumes: "I would have liked to have known you,/ but I was just a kid."

In Thine Honor

The tragedy of Frances Farmer (right) has become one of the most famous cautionary tales about Hollywood: if you come here and try to maintain your independence, you will be lobotomized. I am hearing Marilyn Manson's "Beautiful People" in my head as I say this, as he has been known to make a commentary or two on celebrity (Hello, "Dope Show" and ass-less pants). But, a much less dramatic and equally tortured musician added his two cents to the Tinsel Town blood bank. Kurt Cobain continued the saga of fame's destruction with his own drug overdose in 1994. One of rock's most complicated and raw poets, his personal demons certainly found a soul mate in Frances, to whom he penned an ode in 1993's In Utero. The song "Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge on Seattle" not only explored Cobain's empathy for the destroyed muse, but reflected his understanding of her inability to compromise. At the time, his internal battle to maintain artistic integrity with the growing popularity of his band caused him to draw a connection between himself and the actress, who fought the same losing battle so many decades before. He would too lose his fight by succumbing to his addictions, but through his words, they both come out victorious, leaving an indelible mark on our cultural history: "She'll come back as fire, And burn all the liars,/ leave a blanket of ash on the ground." We're still burning.


Not Too Fast to Leave a Mark

James Dean (right) remains the poster boy for his generation and a symbol to every generation of youth that follows. He carries the torch of existential confusion, youthful rebellion, and the sort of obstinate bravery that gets us all through puberty. As such, he has influenced many people. Many would try to copy his look to replicate that James Dean cool, but The Eagles tried instead to synthesize his sound. Their 1974 offering "James Dean," from their album On the Border, is an example of a direct star tribute. There is no metaphor; there is no mystery in the lines. Don Henley et al simply wanted to write a song about pretty much the coolest person in their personal recollection. The impenetrability of Dean's bravado on the screen gave him a great power that many an adolescent wished to possess, hence the remaining fascination with his persona: "James Dean, you said it all so clean/ And I know my life would look all right/ If I could see it on the silver screen." Herein too does the band solve the mystery behind Dean's immortality: tragically killed in an auto accident in life, on the screen he still survives. Behind the shield of cinema hides the eternal elixir of life. Too fast to live, too famous to die.


Music in Silence

Not all the glory went to our more contemporary idols. Even in the days of silent films, movie stars were making a lot of noise. One of the crazes of the day was to write songs in honor of popular, current figures. In keeping with this mindset, the world's first movie star, Florence Lawrence (left), got her melodious comeuppance while at the pinnacle of her career. In the days of vaudeville, barber shop quartets, and fox trots, music had a very different personality from the one it bears today-- which is very schizophrenic at times. But, imagine an era where you could actually identify the instrument you were hearing-- I know, it's a long shot. While visiting with friends, one might hear a musician tickling the ivories to "Sweet Rosie O'Grady." A drunken night with friends might end with a house band encore of "And the Band Played On." In 1916, Carl Laemmle hosted a company party for the employees of Universal-- a masked ball no less-- to which his ace star Flo was invited. Imagine her surprise and delight when the MacDonald and Steiner Company's most recent hit, "Florence Lawrence," started echoing through the air and extolling the virtues of her "eyes like the violent, lips like the cherry." Had she any question that she was famous, it was quickly answered, and one can imagine she waltzed it up-- in between blushes, of course.


The Great Profile

Montgomery Clift was pretty (see right). Pretty talented, but also just really damn pretty. Before his tragic car crash, which marred his otherwise perfect visage, it was fairly well agreed upon that he was born with the right profile. Hence, The Clash's 1979 London Calling offering, "The Right Profile." The entire song is written about the public's agony, confusion, and even cold-heartedness after witnessing the movie star's altered appearance in Raintree County: "Monty's face is broken on a wheel/ Is he alive? Can he still feel?"  Monty's downward slide and addiction to pain pills and alcohol are also melodized, as is the hypocrisy of a world that turned its back on one of their prettiest people when he wasn't so pretty anymore. As the idol of Red River and A Place in the Sun, Monty had overcome the crutch of his good looks to bring forth great performances of depth and feeling. After his car crash, Monty in one respect found himself unbound-- as an actor, he was now able to pursue more character roles that would have been denied him in his pristine condition. But too, he suffered the ego blow of his fall from grace when he lost his face. In his life, he became both beauty and the beast, a point that The Clash illustrated with their typical howling and hard-hitting rhythms. 


Quick Hits:

As Lon Chaney (right) is "The Man of a Thousand Faces," it is fitting that he too become "The Man of a Thousand Songs." Countless numbers have been written for the sad actor whose continuing pain and influence never seem to wane. He has been mentioned or directly written about in songs from multiple artists: from Vetiver, to Garland Jeffreys, to Rob Zombie-- not to mention the hit from The Hollywood Revue of 1929, "Lon Chaney's Gonna Get You If You Don't Watch Out!" From Lon's martyrdom to his grotesquerie, he continues to inspire like-minded sufferers, freaks, and idolaters. Over 80 years after his death, his growing legion of fans hold tightly to his memory, as if hoping that he will emerge from the grave and perhaps in turn wear their faces too when they become too heavy. At the very least, these different musical artists return the favor by taking turns wearing his.

When John Ford's The Searchers hit theaters in 1956, he probably hoped at best to have made a great film. Little did he know that it would become an instant classic and the movie that future filmmakers like Steven Spielberg would look to as the prototype of perfect filmmaking. The success of the flick centered around the layered and complicated performance of John Wayne (left), whose hardened, prejudiced cowboy reflected the political unrest of a society undergoing change. His stubborn behavior was clearly indicated in his constant retort: "That'll be the day..." By the film's end, the day of reckoning did come... and so too did Buddy Holly's hit "That'll Be the Day," which was lyrically if not thematically inspired by the film and Wayne's performance in it.

This one remains nameless, but the song "The Second Time Around," which was penned by Sammy Cahn and Jimmy Van Heusen in 1960, was dedicated to one very special lady. While the song made its debut via Bing Crosby, it was more heavily associated over the years with King Crooner Frank Sinatra. This is not just because Frank recorded and performed the song himself many times, but because it was through him that Van Heusen met Shirley MacLaine (right), an often forgotten female member of the infamous Rat Pack. Van Heusen fell in love with Shirley, who unfortunately was married to Steve Parker. While he pined, poor Jimmy wrote the ballad for his lady love, whom he prayed would leave her husband. She did, but not until the '80s. Jimmy didn't get Shirley, but at least Frank got a hit out of it.

And the bands play on...

STAR OF THE MONTH: William S. Hart

Cowboy screen hero, William S. Hart

To borrow a saying: If the West hadn't existed, Bill Hart would have had to invent it. Some believe that is just what he did, at least cinematically speaking. The Western genre has been a part of American film culture since The Great Train Robbery of 1903, but it wasn't until William S. Hart hopped in the saddle  over 10 years later that the myth of the cowboy and his place in this strange and wild country took shape. Today, with Ford, Hawks, Wayne, Autry, Cooper, and Eastwood providing the well-known and celebrated vertebrae of this branch of filmic history, Bill is forgotten, underrated, and underappreciated. His performances seem hammy; his stories seem cheesy and cliched. It is hard for one to put him or herself into the theater seats of his early, avid fans-- a people who cheered when his sturdy, eagle face appeared on the screen. A William S. Hart film was a promise. You would be entertained, you would be thrilled, and you would take something away with you. Hart, in his iconic, giant hat, atop his trusty pinto pony, Fritz, was a solid guarantee to people living in a world that is anything but consistent. He did not enter the film business until he was nearly 50-years-old and only remained in it for but a decade, but he changed the industry and the American ideal forever. His specific place in celebrity as the quintessential Western hero-- a man of open plains, horses, and bravery-- was a surprise to everyone including him. You see, this rustic, earthy cowboy was born in New York.


William Surrey Hart was born on December 6, 1864 (most likely) to Nicholas Hart and Roseanna McCauley. He was the first son to follow two daughters, Mary Ellen and Frances. He would also be the youngest, despite the fact that his mother birthed another two daughters and two more sons. Only the eldest three would survive. This is perhaps the result of the hard living the family had to endure. Nicholas was what Bill would later refer to as a pioneer of white gold: flour. The patriarch was born with itchy feet, and his ill-adept entrepreneurial wishes to set up his own mill led the family all over the country, providing for Bill memories of life in desolate and under-populated towns throughout the United States: Illinois, Iowa, Minnesota, Wisconsin, South Dakota, etc. Roseanna's ill health, exacerbated by her difficult births and her mental and emotional struggles in the open West, resulted in her temporary hospitalization. Bill remained traveling with his father, helping out his sparse neighbors with plowing and thrashing, and made friends with the Sioux Indians, who taught him to speak in their tongue and use their sign language. With a limited to non-existent education, Bill learned early how to sustain himself in isolated conditions: he used his imagination. His memory of his boyhood days, where he and his father traipsed all over the map, was inflated and exaggerated in his mind. He had only fondness for these pure, adolescent days-- days of playing games with the Sioux boys, whom he came to love and admire, of riding horses, and of roughing it in general. His recollections always poeticized his life; that was how he survived it. In truth, life was hard, lonely, frustrating... but then he knew no different. Being dirt poor, being constantly uprooted, was normalcy. When he was brought back to New York to rejoin his mother and sisters, and when his father ultimately gave up on his own dreams of a Western lifestyle-- much to Roseanna's relief-- Bill missed the peace of the frontier and the blue skies.

Bill in an early theater role in "Ben-Hur" as Messala.

You couldn't blame him. New York, though exciting, was a big difference from the free West. He was a "country bumpkin" as far as his new school chums were concerned. He dressed weird, he spoke Sioux gibberish, and he was an awkward loner. A life of isolation doesn't prepare one for social graces. Bill lacked his father's gregarious personality, possessing instead his mother's shier demeanor, but he did have his father's guts. When he was picked on for his manners or for his "girly singing voice," Bill was known to throw out a powerful slug that would silence his naysayers rather quickly. Still, his sense of not belonging and his fear of judgement, his social paranoia, and his mistrust, would never leave him. He would build a wall around himself for protection and decorate it with pictures of wild horses and rolling plains. While he found time for himself, entering in and winning several speed-walking races at the Manhattan Athletic Club for example, he did his duty to his family. His father was a hard worker but an unreliable one, and due to his failed business schemes, poor eyesight, injuries-- his hand was caught in a conveyor at one point-- and his early death, Bill at 30 was left to be the breadwinner. As he wasn't educated enough to really make much of himself, he took what jobs he could. Entry at his desired West Point was off the table, so he worked as an errand boy, a horse trainer, a cashier, whatever paid the bills. What money he earned went toward the family, though he did find time for himself to take a few dancing and fencing classes and even a trip to Europe. It had been his loving father's suggestion that he polish himself off a bit in the old world. See, Bill wanted to act. This was but another example of the dreamer in Bill retreating into imagination over reality.


This was not the most prudent decision, considering the number of mouths he had to feed. While his sister Frances eased the family burden by getting married and decreasing the household by one, and Mary Ellen found work of her own, Bill was still taking a great risk in setting his sights on such a temperamental career. The pay was not good, work was scarce, and a reputation was hard to build. This perhaps exemplifies a collision between Bill's more rebellious self and his dutiful self. His father had left him with a Hell of a burden. He was a young man, after all, and he wanted to live! It may have been a slim chance for him to accomplish his thespian dreams, but the gamble was worth it to him. The pull he felt for the stage was one so strong that he could not deny it. The road he chose was rocky; they don't have the phrase "starving artist" for nothing. Somehow, Bill managed to get work with different acting companies and troupes, build up his resume, and also his reputation. Starting with Daniel E. Bandmann's theatrical company in 1888, he worked his way through classic and contemporary pieces portraying everything from Iago in Othello to Messala in Ben-Hur. He found that he liked the complicated, darker roles more than the typical, heroic ones. His reviews grew better with each performance, and by the time he started on The Squaw Man, he was a theater star. This show was a big hit and acted as a bit of foreshadowing. The audience responded best to Bill in a Western setting, and he himself would enjoy any role relating to the West above and beyond the others, if only because he got to demonstrate his first-hand knowledge of cowboys and Indians.

Filming at Inceville

Despite his success, Bill always struggled between jobs. Though he had managed to support and buy a house for himself, his mother, and Mary Ellen to live in, the long breaks between gigs was at times terrifying. Not unaccustomed to poverty, Bill didn't fear the meager lifestyle, but he was not a young man anymore and needed more stable income to protect himself and the women in his life. Fatefully, he saw his first Western film. A light-bulb went on over his head. This was it! He would make motion pictures about his favorite thing, if only to correct all of the obvious blunders and inaccuracies he noticed in the genre. Bill was picky. He considered himself an authority on the West, as brief as his adolescent experiences on the plains had been, and he was personally affronted when stories didn't add up, costuming was wrong, or behaviors were inconsistent with his personal experiences. He was on a mission, and when the Klaw & Erlanger Co. went to California on tour with "The Trail of the Lonesome Pine," Bill went with them and stayed to check out the growing film scene. Fortunately, he had what every actor in Hollywood needs: a hook-up. No sooner did he arrive than he discovered that his old friend Thomas Ince-- whom he had met while traveling with "Heart's Courageous" in 1903-- was running the California branch of The New York Motion Picture Company, known as "Inceville." Tom was against the idea of making more Westerns. Being a shrewd businessman, he saw the fading audience reaction and tried to persuade Bill to pursue other projects. But Bill was stubborn. He returned to New York briefly, but came back West by the spring, determined in his agenda. After making a couple of two-reelers, he tirelessly coerced his pal to let him star in a feature-length motion picture, which Hart had developed and expanded from an original short. Tom finally conceded, and The Bargain hit theaters in 1914. It was a smash success! Hollywood had its first cowboy star.


William S. Hart as a cowboy hero is far removed from the icons we recall better today. He possesses the boyish bashfulness of Gary Cooper but lacks his seduction. He possesses the tough love moral compass of John Wayne but lacks his more intimidating masculinity. Bill was more of an experiment, though he claimed to be as authentic as authentic can be. Over time, his reputation as a real cowboy became exaggerated by his own publicity stories and his friendships with men like Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson. There is disagreement about just how much of a "cowboy" he truly was. Some said he was an ace shot with a gun; others said that he couldn't hit a bull's-eye if it were inches away from him. Some recalled him as a great rider; others said that he was afraid of horses. In Bill's own estimation, as presented in his biography My Life East and West, he was a salt of the earth, true blue, prairie man, but this was probably more wishful thinking than fact. But, as embellished as his reputation may have been, his affection for the lifestyle he projected was never false. Hart's heart was the West. In the end, people bought him as a fact because he was real in his intention. He was no rhinestone cowboy; he was an every man. His stories of a conflicted, anti-hero turned good guy would speak to audiences who were both thirsty for Western nostalgia and looking for answers and direction in a topsy-turvy world. Bill's movies were moral lessons. He always found God. He always did the right thing. He always fell for the pure woman who taught him right from wrong. Parents wanted their children to go to Bill's matinees-- it was just as effective as sending them to church. And so, from Inceville to Triangle to Famous Players, Bill brought vivid and exciting stories to an America eager to witness a reproduction of their not so distant history: a day when saddle and spur were the order of the day, and rugged, rough, but conscionable men helped build the country into the more comfortable place of steam engines and flicker shows that they currently enjoyed.

Bill brings two swindlers to justice in Tumbleweeds.

Bill's career soared as he starred in The Aryan, Hell's Hinges, The Tiger Man, and The Toll Gate,  but his personal isolation remained. Middle-aged when he became a star, Bill was still a bachelor. After burying his mother, his sister Mary Ellen was his only consistent companion, and their loving but co-dependent relationship was comforting and suffocating to both of them. Bill found himself unable to open his heart to anyone, so set was he in his ways, and Mary Ellen was loathe to let him go. Because she acted as his business advisor in many respects, Bill took care of Mary Ellen, mostly because he had no one else. His affection in life was devoted entirely to animals, particularly to horses and dogs, and he would contribute to charities that practiced the prevention of cruelty to animals. He had an unfulfilled love affair with one time fiance Jane Novak, wed once for 6 months to Winifred Westover, (their lengthy divorce would drag on for several years), and allegedly fell in love with and proposed to nearly every leading lady he ever had. Yet, he remained a lonely man, cut off from the world and living only in his dreams and illusions of boyhood fantasy. He put all of his time, energy, and passion into his work, and his cowboy persona did not stop when the cameras ceased cranking. Harry Carey, Jr. would describe Bill as being always "on." The insecure youth seemingly had matured into an uncertain and thus affected man, who often read as phony to his contemporaries. The real Bill remained hidden behind a mask of his own creations. While friends like Harry Carey, Sr. and the light-hearted Will Rogers left their work on set, Bill didn't seem to know how to relax and unwind. His work, building his Western empire in celluloid, was his life. And he had many followers. Fan mail poured in, big names like artists James Montgomery Flagg and Charles M. Russell considered his friendship an honor, and soon his name was in the same ranks of fame as his heroes Doc Holliday and Buffalo Bill Cody. He was a living legend of his own creation.


But, times change. Soon, Bill found himself rejected by the very studio that he helped build-- despite his loyalty to the men in charge, like Adolph Zukor-- and saw his films losing money instead of gaining. His stubborn refusal to alter his style or stories hampered his career, while new hot shot film stars like Tom Mix started riding away with box office receipts. Bill felt abandoned, betrayed... and though he had often spoken of retirement, he didn't want to leave until he was ready. After a final break with Paramount, Bill made his swan song, Tumbleweeds via United Artists, but it failed to draw in the crowds he had hoped. It was  fairly well-received, and his fans still loved him, but with no studio backing its promotion, that ship sank as soon as it left the dock. With this, aside from a later cameo in Show People, Bill rode away from film forever. He spent his retirement writing his biography and books for boys, such as his Injun and Whitey series, and building his dream house-- "La Loma de los Vientos"-- in Newhall, CA where he had at first operated out of a small ranch. He entertained guests like Maurice Chevalier and Pola Negri, showed his old films, rode his trusty horse Fritz, and made occasional personal appearances. When Mary Ellen was bedridden and then restricted to a wheel chair after a car accident, her dependence on Bill only grew. He grew increasingly despondent, melancholy, and perhaps even bitter about an unfulfilled dream: a castle in the sky that never became a home. He had had success, but not a life of depth that true love could provide. He died a lonely man in June 23, 1946 leaving behind one son, William S. Hart, Jr, and a legacy that could not be surpassed but was indeed expanded upon by a new generation of filmmakers.

Bill and Fritz-- who was a small Pinto Pony, but strong as an ox.

It is a tragedy when someone so worth remembering and honoring is so easily forgotten. While his steadfast fans remained true during his lifetime-- begging him to return to the screen-- the generations that followed would be less familiar with his work, which had acted as the foundation for the entire Western film genre. Acting in, writing, and in effect directing many of his own pictures, Bill was able to define what honor, manhood, and the freedom of open country represented to him, and in turn these things became the representations that America would hold onto and cherish as their own truth. Of course, particularly in film, it is often the integrity of the subject matter that is more beneficial than its authenticity. Bill may not have been the cowboy archetype that he pretended to be, but he presented to his fans an idea that was as necessary as their life's blood. We need heroes, we need sinners, and we need saints, to sometimes paint our realities in broader strokes and inspire us to dream, to have faith, to fight. We chose Bill as one of our favorite idols at a time when a fast-moving and fast-approaching future made us want to look back at a simpler era that was no less complicated by man's eternal struggles. This is a time that is every time. But in the early part of the twentieth-century, our leader wore a large hat, two guns, and a stone face. He delivered us from evil again and again and rode off into the sunset, leaving us only in his warmth. He gave us respect for ourselves, our land, our triumphs, and made us feel safe. A world where William S. Hart was in the saddle was a world that need not fret. Bill would protect us. Let us do him the same honor.