YOU SHOULD SEE: A Letter to Three Wives

Ann Sothern, Linda Darnell and Jeanne Crain

A Letter to Three Wives is yet another triumph on director Joseph L. Mankiewicz's resume. With his unparalleled gift at both literal and visual storytelling, "Mank" presents a snappy, intelligent, well-polished script with his uncanny brand of woman's intuition. (It's no secret that women loved working with him, and this film is a prime example of why). In three stellar performances, Ann Sothern, Jeanne Crain, and Linda "What I got don't need bells" Darnell, this film tells the story of a trio of pals and their worst frenemy: Addie Ross. Addie is the cat's meow... And she has fangs. Simply for the sport of it, she has cast a shadow over the unions of all three women, and when she sends a letter announcing that she will soon be running away with one of their husbands, the ladies' true natures erupt and the strengths of their marriages are tested. With Kirk Douglas and Paul Douglas turning out equally compelling and surprisingly humorous portrayals as two of the husbands, the story is dynamite, and little Miss Addie echoes the power of Orson Welles's Harry Lime in The Third Man, as she is one of the most impactful yet faceless villains of film. Will love triumph over lust?

HOT SPOTS in CA: The American Cinematheque (and the "Dark Blood" of River Phoenix)

Exterior wall of The Egyptian Theatre, home #1 to the American Cinematheque.

The benefit of living in Los Angeles is the access to all things cinema. Hollywood, as the home of the Movies, honors the industry like nowhere else. It's the perfect landing place for movie hounds, as it has countless venues for junkies to choose from when selecting where and when they want to see what. Grauman's Chinese (now TLC-- the learning channel???), the Egyptian, the Silent Movie Theater, Old Town Music Hall, the Laemmle chain, LACMA, AMPAS, Fairfax Regency, Cinespia at the cemetery, etc, are some of the community's darlings. They screen the classics, the forgotten jewels, the restored, the cult favorites, whatever your flavor is. Each locale has its own personality and generally cheaper seats than the average movie chain, which only plays the latest block-bruiser. Depending on the monthly menu or retrospective that's happening, one can pretty much spread herself around like a celluloid slut (Oh, I get mine, trust me) and take advantage of experiencing films on the big screen-- the way they were meant to be seen and increasingly aren't.

The American Cinematheque has been in operation since 1981 and is a non-profit organization that presents films, historical or cinematically related lectures, and guest appearances at both the Egyptian and Aero Theatres. The Egyptian is much more notorious (and right in the center of Hollywood), as it was one of Sid Grauman's many over-embellished movie palaces. Renovated and technologically modernized, the interior has changed quite a bit. For example, the seats used to stretch from the screen all the way to the entry door, as there was no popcorn and thus no concession stands in the early days. However, remnants of the former glory remain, and much of the original artwork has been restored. The hieroglyphics outside and ornate pattern detail on the entry ceiling, as well as the still impressive ceiling décor in the theater itself, provide a bit of forgotten ambiance, though the result is nowhere near the original splendor. The Egyptian typically gives tours of the theater and screens a brief documentary called "Forever Hollywood" at least once a month on Saturday, if not every other Saturday, in addition to its many other screenings and programs.

The Egyptian Theatre ~ 6712 Hollywood Blvd. ~ Los Angeles, CA 90028

As its sister theater, the Aero directs its focus into honoring all the different filmmakers, performers, and genres by featuring varying retrospectives, whether these reference the cinema of various countries, time periods, movements, what-have-you. The look of the theater is less exciting and historically relevant than the Egyptian. Aside from the brightly lit marquee, the building is thoroughly contemporary. It's charm lies in the unlikely films it presents, as well as the plethora of celebrity guests it hosts for Q&A sessions regarding particular films. Anyone from Eva Marie Saint to Jane Campion and the Cast of Bright Star may show up, and the movie house plays everything from The Unknown (1927) to The Harder They Come (1972). Located between Brentwood and Santa Monica, it's a bit of a hidden treasure on the West side, and the intimate attendance at most screenings makes one (#me) feel like a member of a very select club-- the Cinemat 'Pack, huzzah!

The Aero Theatre ~ 1328 Montana Avenue ~ Santa Monica, CA 90403

Most recently, just prior to the 20th anniversary of River Phoenix's death, I was fortunate enough to attend a screening at the Aero of his last, uncompleted film with director George Sluizer: Dark Blood. The "lost film" is always a dagger in the heart to flicker aficionados, and-- similarly to James Dean-- River's premature death certainly makes every product of his work more precious. (He would pass away due to a drug overdose in the early morning hours of Halloween, collapsing on the street outside The Viper Room). As the film was left 10 filming days short, there are missing scenes from the finished project, as well as some that Sluizer had to remove due to their lack of coherence within the limited final product. Working with what he had, the director was able to save the film from destruction when the members of the Phoenix family tried to seize it and Ted Turner, the studio, et al refused to refinance further shooting/editing. It took the director some time to face this past demon, but he used the money from his own pocket to put the piece together, restoring the film himself, adding voiceover dialogue where needed to explain missing sequences, and editing the remaining images into a fluid and somehow fittingly detached but provocative story.

Poster handed out at the October 29th screening.

The plot follows a vacationing couple as they travel through the deserts of Arizona (actually Utah, I believe-- the cinematography alone is enough to make the film worth seeing). The brash and irreverent Buffy (Judy Davis) and her stoic but silently boiling actor-husband Harry (Jonathan Pryce) wind up stranded in the middle of nowhere after their vintage car breaks down. The playful tension between the couple quickly takes on a more sinister edge in this isolation, revealing the truth behind their disintegrating marriage. When Buffy spots and hikes toward a distant light in the hills, she finds the small cabin/tee-pee of a character known only as Boy (Phoenix), who takes the couple in and promises to fix their car and see them safely to their next destination. Unfortunately, their three lives become violently entangled as Boy's attraction to Buffy becomes not only threateningly potent but fearfully dominating, his obsession over her creating an oppressive atmosphere, which is only fueled by the sinister history of their surroundings...

The story takes place in the space formerly used as a nuclear testing site by the U.S. government. Many people, including Boy's young wife, died of cancer as a result of the contamination. Certain areas remain condemned-- sad, dusty ghost towns with the lingering stench of death upon them. This stain of history is echoed by the stain in Boy's blood. He is a quarter Native American-- his grandfather married a white woman. Additionally, said grandfather was allegedly an incredibly unbalanced and depressive personality. As such, Boy carries on this "dark blood." Proud of his heritage and unapologetically bitter against the yuppies who destroyed and forgot this wasted land, he frequently bursts out venomous torrents of his own invented wisdom. Crafting Kachina dolls to adorn his handmade bomb shelter-- complete with an extensive candelabra that doubles as a library (you have to see it to believe it)-- he knows that the great wave of man's error will come again. When it does, he wishes to go underground, taking Buffy with him to create a new age of man-- one totally pure and within his control.

Judy Davis and River in Boy's romanticized fall-out shelter of delusion. As she stares
at his altar of hand-made Kachina dolls, she is mesmerized by the deep focus and 
care he has put into this creation and turned on by his deepening fixation on her.
Allegedly, Davis was a nightmare to work with, and she and River were mutually
intimidated by each other, but there is a depth to their love
scenes that is quite compelling.

River is amazing in the role. Wavering between a raging, crazy old man in a 22-year-old's body and an innocent and vulnerable child, he uses his spiritual conspiracy theories to protect him from the loneliness of his isolation and status as an existential cast-away. He believes that he has willed Buffy to him, and when he delivers this information to her, you believe it. Judy Davis, as his increasingly willing and then terrified prey, is equally remarkable, providing layers of sexual tension and surprising softness that escalate into moments of sheer panic. Pryce, for his part, is the frustrated "white man," lost in the maze of his country's past poisons, cleverly exemplified as he literally wanders in the canyons of the desert, desperate to be freed of this collective residual guilt, but unable to escape it until it has had its vengeance on him. The film truly is something 'dark.' Mysterious, poetic, jarring, unexpected... It takes the viewer to places he or she perhaps doesn't want to go, but the voyage of this macabre Odyssey somehow rings so true that one can't help but be on the side of its surprising anti-hero, even when he rattles your bones.

In addition to watching the film, the Q&A with the now 90-year-old Sluizer proved very informative and equally soul-fulfilling, as his recollections, struggles, and triumphs revealed a lot about the process of bringing the film to the screen and additionally honored his departed friend. Also in attendance was author Gavin Edwards, who was signing copies of his recently released biography Last Night at the Viper Room: River Phoenix and the Hollywood He Left Behind. This, as with most awesome Hollywood book related events-- including another past Kirk Douglas one I attended at the Egyptian-- was provided by the Larry Edmunds Bookshop. (Keep your eye on these guys. They host cool things all the time). 

Oh this? This is Kirk Douglas' autograph. On my book. That I own.
This is why AC and LEB are awesome.

So, for those living in the area or those hoping to visit, you can add this to your list of things to do in Hollywood. This city can be as annoying as the traffic jams are long, but as my depictions of the aforementioned theaters hopefully prove, there is this one great condolence: there is absolutely no reason one should ever, ever be bored in L.A. La Land.

PERSONAL NOTE: I Heart L.A.

Crowds gather at a Cinespia screening of The Shining at Hollywood 

Forever Cemetery, where films are projected onto the mausoleum

wall behind the Fairbanks tomb. Like nowhere else...

There tends to be a harsh divide between West coasters and East coasters, and for that matter the Midwest, Central U.S, South, etc. As they say, home is where your heart is, so that piece of land that maybe didn't raise you but somehow fits you like a glove seems to be the only place on earth that makes sense. The outside world views Los Angeles and thusly Hollywood as being artificial, narcissistic, immoral, and oblivious. Smoothie shots of rutabaga and bi-annual botox visits rightfully appear absurd to the "normal" inhabitants of such bread and butter places as Oklahoma, Mississippi, or Ohio (can I get a what-what for the Buckeyes?!). Likewise, the jaded urban hustle of New York and the liberated and more earthy metropolis of San Francisco find Los Angelenos to be pretty much full of... shitake mushrooms, (or perhaps just "on" them, if you know what I mean). I admit, I can whole-heartedly relate to these outsider perspectives or escapee conclusions regarding my new home state.

Indeed, to live here and survive, you must have a BA in BS; there are no two ways about it. L.A. is gross in so many ways. Living here, you are overloaded with overly aggressive billboards, film land flim flam, and giant tools who are ironically lacking in... ball bearings. Everyone seems to look and act the same. The glamour soon disappears within and sometimes before a year of living here: "Isn't that that guy from that show?" / "Who cares? One large snifter of oxygen please!" Despite this, because of this, there are many who migrate here and many more who immediately migrate back to a place that feels less offensive. Strangely, for all the macabre mimicry of human beings, for all the traffic, for all the smog and walking Barbie Dolls (on crack), this place-- this devious, despicable, delicious place-- still feels more like home for this Midwestern girl than her youthful world of Cincinnati (which basically encapsulates the entire tri-state area as far as anyone there is concerned). I have shared this thought, analogy, what-have-you, before... but Hollywood is the only place on earth that openly lies and tells the truth at once. That's why I love it. That's why I remain shackled to it. It is the only place I have ever been that isn't tight-lipped about its own monstrosity. It is a liar who doesn't lie.

"Hollywoodland" wasn't the only Los Angeles community marked with a hillside sign. There 

were several growing neighborhoods that used this propaganda tactic, including 

the "Outpost" development, which blasted its neon red lights from the area

now known as Runyon Canyon. It's remains can still be found there.

Unarguably, my attraction to the Golden State was instigated by my obsession with Golden Era Hollywood. From a young age, I wanted to be where that magic was; I wanted to be where insane levels of absolutely anything were possible. I'm constantly teased for my movie collection, and I take it like the woman I am, but a movie has never been just a movie to me. They are art-- even the bad ones. There is always something new to notice, to appreciate, to learn, be it studying the performance of a particular actor, the style of the fashion and settings, the technological/psychological innovations, or the dissection of human history right before your very eyes. As a lover of history and a perpetual, self-taught student, there are few things more perfect to me than discovering a new film to love, a new actor to appreciate, or a new piece of a former beloved flicker coming together and making more sense to a mind that thought it already had it all figured out. My love for film is the same as a young artist's devotion to Van Gogh or Magritte; a writer's love for Proust or Hemingway. An athlete's love for Babe Ruth or Karl Malone. I understand and love the world of cinema in a way that those who do not cannot understand, just as I can't understand people who waste hours watching football. But, I respect that. There is beauty there too. There is passion. Everyone has her niche; mine is here. I fit here, because I just do.

Dennis Hopper works the camera... sort of.

Hollywood itself is a fascination if only because it is the most recognized geographical place in America, and perhaps the world, where good and evil so gracefully converge-- on screen and off. Everyone has an opinion, everyone's a critic. You may have hated the last Adam Sandler movie (can't blame you), but you're talking about it, aren't you? You love that damn beautiful and talented Leonardo DiCaprio, but you liked his performance in this so much better than in that. You're talking about it. And that latest, controversial war movie? You thought it was totally misdirected, while every other schmo accepted it as the God's honest truth. You're talking about it. You're all thinking about it. You can feast on the occasional thoughtless movie when you need a break from the tired cranking of your mental wheels, but more than we realize, the movies don't entertain us, they prompt us to think. That is their beauty, even when they're ugly.

The other Jekyll and Hyde in this scenario is the artistic, impassioned face of the finished product contrasted with the beastly bitch of hard work, seemingly unimaginative studio big wigs who rehash for cash, and the spiritual and physical casualties that go into and result from show business. As someone who has witnessed this first hand, there is no more astounding conundrum than trying to be an "artiste" in a system that runs on numbers and figures. It is incongruous, yet one hand must always wash the other. For those that make it, a little of themselves must be sold, because the reality of this situation is that show business is just business. It is just another job. The erotic pose on the silver screen isn't felt on the soundstage when the boom guy is hovering over your carefully covered extremeties so he can record your synthesized moans appropriately. The smiling faces in interviews are literally gritting their teeth, because they are so tired of going through the grind and being marched before the commercial camera to promote promote promote their latest film or show, which it turns out, is just a product, as are they.

When the sometimes critical but mostly white-washed gossip of Hedda

Hopper and Louella Parsons was interrupted by scandalous rag mags

like Confidential... the pillars of Mt. Olympus started shaking.

But we know this, because we see the self destruction. We "ooh" and "aah" at how beautiful Julianne Moore looks this year at the Oscars, but we do this while flipping through the article regarding Lindsay Lohan's latest arrest. The former is a train wreck, but my God, she didn't get there in one breath. A child star pushed before the camera too young, used by her two inept parents, and far too easily introduced to the ever available valley of drugs practically sold here by street vendors, she didn't stand a chance. So few do. This town is a heart eater. As Marilyn Monroe, the undisputed authority on the subject, said: "Hollywood is a place where they'll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul." It's true. People are used for profit and discarded the minute their box-office loses value. It is a place where one is constantly judged, where your job is always on the line no matter how famous you are at the moment, and where the timeline of your career is not something you ride until your retirement but a rapidly spilling hourglass. Will it be turned over for another cycle? The temptations of easy sex, comforting highs, and erratic, violent lows are much more understandable and easier to empathize with when viewed from this angle. Yet from the outside looking in, the vantage point is always low, looking down, judging, and never comprehending how easy it is for an actor, director, writer's spirit to be broken. The industry professionals aren't champions or Gods; they are hamsters on a wheel running for their lives. Anyone who emerges from the end of this rabid, Wonderland rabbit hole in tact deserves an honorary Oscar just for surviving.

For all these contradictions, I remain mystefied and enthralled with Hollywood. It has a texture like nowhere else. Every street, every alley, every vacant lot, is brimming with tales of both life and death. I find solace at a cemetery walking among the stones and paying respect to the people who contributed to making cinema what it is. They are dead and gone, but the marked graves that confirm their previous existence somehow make them more vividly alive and seemingly still here. It draws the curtain back and reveals the flesh and bone behind the silver screen image. In every neighborhood, you will find remembrances of celebrities past (and present). I can drive past Lupe Velez's former home in Beverly Hills, and just by knowing that she once inhabited those walls, I am touched, and moved, and saddened, and invigorated. The Roosevelt, The Beverly Hills Hotel, Grauman's Chinese Theatre, The Million Dollar Theatre downtown... They are all standing tombs of history filled with the energies of ghosts, film fans, and the secret histories of so many people in so many eras-- all sandwiched together and somehow entwining and creating the collective soul that makes this town truly great. All of these inhuman artifacts are fossils of humanity, there to be laid bare and investigated, to tell us truths and teach us lessons about ourselves, just as the films this city produces.

Former Abode of Lupe Velez at 732 North Rodeo Drive. The home has been little changed

since her occupancy, but the more protective gate was added.

Of course, no other city pays such tribute to the art it forms. Only in Hollywood can you go to a screening at the Egyptian Theater and see living legend Kirk Douglas in the flesh. Only in Hollywood can you attend a Q&A session with Eva Marie-Saint. Only in Hollywood are there such dedicated and bold stage productions about Judy Garland or Marilyn Monroe by actors that are so good, you believe that you and a room of people are the in the presence of a ghost. Only in Hollywood can you attend plays starring modern celebrated performers carrying on a devotion to the craft laid down before us at the turn of the 20th Century and now taken for granted due to its availability. Ed Harris, Richard Attenborough, and John Goodman rarely make appearances in small town theaters, but here, actors who love acting continue to seek out their creativity despite the fame and fortune they've already accrued. They tread the boards where expression began before there was a camera to capture it; a place that gave birth to their initial thirst for storytelling.

Here, just as much as the industry feeds itself, the public celebrates its product. Screenings of new films, old films, silent films, forgotten films, B-films, cult classics, and film students' final projects are attended by lovers of celluloid. Hollywood may have gone commercial, it may cater to tourists in a way that is not as grandly hospitable and self-respecting as the gallant South, but at its core there is still the beating heart of is pure phenomenon. Directly on the pavement upon which you tread, there are etched reminders: Griffith was here, Garbo was here, DeMille was here, Hayworth was here. The same engine of pure drive, desire, and passion to create that brought legions of auteurs to these once barely inhabited hills still chug beneath the skin of cracked sidewalks, graffiti covered slums, and oceans of people who have forgotten the sources of magnificence at which they still marvel.

Orson Welles directs Citizen Kane and makes history.

I guess you could say that I came to Hollywood for its beauty and stayed for its soul. You know how they say, "You are attracted to a person's perfections, and you fall in love with his flaws?" That is the love I have for La La Land, which is coincidentally the same love we all have for it. Our fascination may have been instigated by the initial excitement of technological gimmickry and the glossy finish of pretty people in motion, but our loyalty has remained because of the vulnerable and dangerous underbelly and profound honesty we slowly discovered both on the screen and behind the camera. Once the initial sheen faded, which it did, we would have stopped believing in Hollywood and its tall tales had they not become true. We continue our mutually co-dependent relationship with show-business like shameless addicts. We are at the mercy of what it feeds us, but it is at the mercy of our ticket purchases. Los Angeles, Hollywood, or "Tinsel Town," is the sad dog in the pound that you choose to adopt, because it is adorable in its pitiful sadness. It nurtures us, we nurture it. Thus, despite the constant, holier-than-thou critiques of outsiders or under-appreciators, I remain convinced of and fascinated with the integrity and debauchery of this town. To know it, to truly know it, is to love it. And to me, at peace in the present chaos and the painful memories surging through the veins of this naughty metropolis and powering electric lights, I can say with utter certainty that Dorothy was right: "There's no place like home."

HISTORY LESSON: Who-dunnit, Hollywood?

Charlie Chaplin and Marion Davies: did their affair

lead to murder???

Part of Hollywood's allure is its mystique: a foreign land of sunlight, palm trees, and skies that seem to rain money on people that are just plain prettier than the rest of us. However, this city, when it doesn't have its make-up on, can be downright ugly. The harder someone works to look perfect, the more certain you can be that he or she is covering something up-- perhaps even something hideous. The dark side of La La Land is far from glamorous, and enough disturbing, tragic events have taken place to create the contradictory, evasive, and hypocritical image of both Heaven and Hell that many equate with the city today. Strangely, the world's audience seems to find the macabre stories more fascinating and hypnotic than the triumphant or pure. And so, we remain tantalized by tales of Sharon Tate, Elizabeth Short, Paul Bern, Thelma Todd, and George Reeves, keeping in check a city that protests too much its perfection-- we are no longer fooled. Here are a handful of similarly fascinating Hollywood tales, unsolved mysteries, and questionable alibis. The trouble with the following is that we may never know what truly happened in any of these cases, but then again, a solved murder is much less intriguing than the average open book.

What really happened to Thomas Ince (left)? The theories abound and none of the facts add up. What we know for sure is that Ince-- acclaimed director and producer who made up one third of the Triangle Film Corp. triumvirate and made Westerns in Inceville-- joined a group on William Randolph Hearst's yacht, the Onieda, when it took to sea in celebration of his 43rd birthday on Nov. 16, 1924. Thomas would never set foot back on shore, for when the party docked in San Diego on the 19th, he was carried inland and died mere hours later. The cast of this plot alternately may or may not include: Marion Davies (Hearst's mistress), Elinor Glyn, Margaret Livingston (Ince's alleged mistress), aspiring columnist Louella Parsons, Seena Owen, Aileen Pringle, Julanne Johnston, Theodore Kosloff, Hearst's secretary Joseph Willicombe, publisher Frank Barham and wife, Marion's sisters Ethel and Reine and niece Pepi, Dr. Daniel Carson Goodman, Mary Urban, and Gretl Urban. During the night, Ince was overheard groaning in his bedroom. The fortunately present Dr. Goodman was summoned and diagnosed Thomas as suffering a heart attack brought on by indigestion or ptomaine poisoning. The ship docked on the 19th, Ince was attended to, and to keep matters from the press, Hearst urged everyone to keep mum-- most particularly, one presumes, to keep his affair with Marion under wraps (not to mention the heavy imbibing that had occurred during this prohibition era party). After all, leaking their rendezvous would only serve to inflame current gossip, embarrass his wife, Millicent Wilson, and hurt the career that he was trying to build for his kooky but beloved girlfriend, Marion. Unfortunately for Hearst, Ince died, and the press wanted details. The nervous Doctor Goodman is generally blamed for fearfully blabbing a series of contradictory facts in order to obey Hearst's orders, thus starting the alleged theory that all was not as it seemed. All aboard maintained that the death was an unfortunate twist of fate, and Marion maintained to her deathbed that nothing sinister was afoot. 

Yet, this is difficult to be believed.  This is where Charlie Chaplin comes into play, who was also allegedly in attendance on the Onieda, though he always denied this later. It had been rumored for some time that he and Comedy Queen Marion were enjoying a tryst of their own, and that Hearst was becoming incredibly jealous. When you add this to the conflicting stories about what exactly occurred, the alibis get dicey. The most shocking bit of evidence came from Charlie's own loyal chauffeur, Kono, who stated that he not only picked Charlie up from the travel's end but witnessed Ince being pulled ashore with an apparent bullet-wound in his head, a fact which he confided to Eleanor Boarman. Curious... Marion maintained there was no gun on board, but Hearst was known to shoot pelicans for sport on the ship. The now popular theory is that Hearst, in a jealous rage over his suspicions that Marion Davies and Charlie were having an affair, shot at Chaplin, only to discover that he had accidentally shot Ince instead, who in certain lighting looked a great deal like Charlie. (This a scenario brilliantly brought to life in Peter Bogdanovich's The Cat's Meow). Other theories are that Hearst poisoned Ince, stabbed him with Marion's hatpin, or even hired an assassin to kill him, though with no pure motive, these latter conspiracy theories don't add up, unless Marion was getting too cozy with Ince as well. To cover up the scandal, many believe that Hearst threw money at everyone present to hush them up-- including giving Louella Parsons her lifetime gig with the Hearst corporation-- and printed his own creative narrative of the events in his papers, like the little ditty that Ince had taken ill at his ranch and not at sea. As Hearst all but controlled the press, it was not a hard feat to keep things quiet, yet Ince's quick cremation and burial on Nov. 21st only bolstered suspicions. So, was Kono mistaken? Was the blood he saw actually from a "perforated ulcer?" It is hard to believe that Kono, so loyal to his boss, would tell such a lie nor one so outlandish. And if Ince wasn't shot or somehow pummeled on the head, why would Hearst go to such lengths to cover up his death? Was it some other, even more unbelievable accident, or was it murder? Everyone involved kept deathly silent, and now the truth is lying six feet under. (Right, the nemeses at happier times at one of Hearst's costume balls: Doug Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, Hearst, Charlie, and Millicent Hearst (?)).

One of Charlie's old Keystone chums also ran into her share of scandals. Good-time girl Mabel Normand (left) made a career out of hamming it up alongside fiance Mack Sennett, becoming the first major cinematic comedienne. She held her own against the comic giants of the day, eventually directing her own films and becoming a huge star in the process. The fact that she twisted her beautiful features into hilarious mugs made her seem less pretentious and more down-to-earth than the average starlet, and as she earned the public's chuckles she too stole their hearts. Ironically, Mabel's heart was ever in trouble. Not only did she fail to marry her soul mate, Mack, but she wound up in a loveless, gag marriage to Lew Cody, and was also falsely implicated in the murder of her good friend William Desmond Taylor. When it came to luck, Mabel must have spent it all in her first 25 years. The demise of her relationship with Mack is one of the remaining mysteries about her. We know that the powerful duo broke it off. We too know that Mabel appeared afterward with a nasty head wound. Where exactly it came from remains a matter of great debate. One theory is that Mabel walked in on Mack in flagrante with her supposed friend Mae Busch, who-- after Mabel became understandably hysterical-- smashed a vase over her head. 

Minta Durfee, Mrs. Fatty Arbuckle, would recall that she and her husband were either a) summoned to Mabel's home by a mutual friend who revealed the disconcerted Mabel and her nasty head-wound, or b) Mabel showed up at their doorstep in the same fashion. Fatty rushed Mabel to the hospital where a threatening blood clot was found and instantly corrected through a dangerous operation. Yet, another theory is that Mabel was so heartbroken by her break-up with Mack-- who may or may not have been a philanderer-- that she took one of her famous swan dives from the Santa Monica Pier in the attempt to kill herself. To complicate things further, Adela Rogers St. Johns attested that Mabel attempted this suicide only after her initial head-injury and hospital release, making both versions true. Whatever the case, the story Sennett (right) gave the press was that Mabel had injured herself while doing a stunt with Fatty, who allegedly, accidentally sat on her head-- a bit of foreshadowing to the Virginia Rappe rape scandal, where again Fatty's girth would be used as a scapegoat (this guy couldn't catch a break). Sennett also claimed that Mabel faked her "illness" to get back at him for going after Busch, a ploy that worked after he complacently set her up in her own studio and gave her the role of a lifetime in Mickey. Arguments against Mae Busch's guilt in the incident have too been made, as she and Mabel were pretty good pals. Whatever the true situation, Mabel was never the same. Some would protest that in addition to her heartbreak, a switch in her mind took place that made her more erratic and disjointed. So, what really broke Sennett and Mabel up? Was it the same thing that broke her head?

By 1958, Lana Turner (left) was no longer the Queen of MGM. As an aging actress, her career was winding down almost as quickly as she had risen to the top. This prior rise to fame in itself is the stuff of legend. After she was allegedly plucked off a stool at Schwab's Pharmacy (really the Top Hat) while drinking a milkshake (coca-cola), Lana shot to fame for her ability to fill out a sweater with great... panache in They Won't Forget. Lynn Fontanne she was not, but Lana still had an edge to her that made her a bit naughty, a bit dangerous, and all gorgeous, which allowed her to maintain a lengthy career before the cameras. In her time, she was linked to all kinds of handsome leading men, from Tyrone Power, to Artie Shaw, to Clark Gable, but it was her marriage to Johnny Stompanato aka Johnny Valentine that would become the most notorious. Johnny too had an edge of danger, but his was much more threatening than Lana's more sensual allure. In fact, it was deadly, but this had come in handy back when he was a bodyguard for none other than Mickey Cohen. The thrice divorced Johnny's charms and seduction won the rebellious Lana over, though as their relationship became abusive, their passion for each other perpetuated an on-again, off-again tragedy-- both violent and deluded. Caught in the fray was Lana's daughter with Steve Crane: Cheryl. Cheryl bore witness to more than one unruly spat that grew horrifyingly physical. At fourteen-years-old, this was hardly the happy home that the teenaged girl needed to endow her with confidence and positivity to face the world. 

On the evening of April 4th, ironically Good Friday, the police were summoned to Lana's home on the infamously catastrophic Bedford Drive. Johnny had been stabbed to death! Cheryl and Lana would claim that Cheryl had overheard another frightening spat between her mother and her lover, during which Johnny had threatened to essentially cut both women to ribbons. Terrified, Cheryl had run to the kitchen to obtain a weapon to protect her mother. She raced back to Lana's bedroom door, and before she even knew what she was doing, she was startled by Johnny's exit. She stabbed him, and he fell backward into the shocked Lana's room. Lana would tearfully tell this same story before a judge, a moment that many would mockingly refer to as "the performance of her career." Cheryl has forever maintained her version of the story, but many have hypothesized that it was in fact Lana who killed her lover. To save herself and her career, it is thus suggested that Lana begged Cheryl to step up to the plate and take the blame. Did she? In the end, most of us take Cheryl's word for it, but was she protecting her mother's life on that fateful day, or did she tell a fib to protect her mother's livelihood forever after??? If the latter is true, the ploy worked. Lana shot back to fame with the dual success of Peyton Place and Imitation of Life. Buh-bye, Johnny. (Lana, Johnny, and Cheryl, right).

The name Jean Spangler (left) doesn't ring too many bells today. A wannabe actress, the svelte brunette had come to Hollywood chasing the dreams of so many others. And, like so many others, she too often used the wrong avenues to get where she wanted to go. Vulnerability and naivete never serve a woman well... By the age of twenty-seven, Jean had already been a dancer at the Florentine Gardens and a girlfriend of, again, Mickey Cohen. Still, her fortitude was able to land her some bit parts in films for Harry Cohn at Columbia, such as The Petty Girl, but she never made it as a top leading lady. This, of course, may have had something to do with the fact that she literally disappeared on October 7, 1949.  Earlier that day, Jean had confided that she was going to be "out late" shooting a movie. After over 24 hours of absence, her sister Sophie filed a missing person's report, and the hunt for Jean began, though efforts by LAPD were half-hearted at best-- they didn't even send the report out on the teletype. On the 9th, a groundskeeper at Griffith Park found her purse, which had been torn. Clearly a struggle had ensued, but no robbery had taken place, as the purse's contents remained in tact-- including an undelivered note to her current boyfriend, "Kirk" (allegedly Kirk Douglas), in which it is heavily implied that she would soon be proceeding with an abortion from a "Dr. Scott." Ooh, the plot thickens...

Needless to say, Jean's family, particularly her mother, were distraught and certain that foul play had ended in murder. Kirk (right), who was married to Diana Douglas at the time, and his lawyer maintained that he didn't even know "the girl," yet her mother maintained that he had picked her up from her apartment at least twice. Other eye-witnesses claimed to have seen them at a party together, and Jean's friends attested to the fact that Jean was indeed three months pregnant. Throwing speculation is his direction even more is the fact that he contacted the police to tell them that he was not the "Kirk" in the note before the contents of this note had been made known to him, nor the connection made by police to the defensive star. Kirk would later backtrack and admit that he may have taken Jean on a couple of dates. Radio man Al "The Sheik" Lazaar also claimed that he saw Jean the night she disappeared at The Cheese Box on Sunset, where she was sandwiched between two unrecognizable men. The trio were said to be arguing. This was the last time that she was seen alive. What happened is still unknown, and her body has not been found. There are two major theories as to what may have befallen the young beauty: a) the infamous Dr. Scott had botched Jean's abortion, she had died on his table, and her body was disposed of, perhaps even in Griffith Park or b) Mickey Cohen had her maliciously "taken out" when he became jealous over the news of her affair with Kirk Douglas. Aside from the possible baby, Kirk was in no way implicated in her disappearance. Certainly, he must have learned his lesson regarding what a seemingly harmless night of passion can turn into. This didn't keep him from being at least partially blamed, and the normally stony Cohn actually had him barred from his studio when Kirk came to pay a visit to Evelyn Keyes not long after the incident. While his conscience may be clear of her death, someone is guilty. But just who-dunnit, we may never know.

NOW, THAT'S FUNNY: Part XII

Plenty of Chaps' to go around...

By 1917, five years after Charlie Chaplin had come to Los Angeles, not only had he become a full-on movie star, but he was a bona fide phenomenon. His movies were consistently successful and eagerly awaited by his incalculable number of fans. His face was quickly becoming the most recognizable one in America. It wasn't long before his image was finding its way into people's homes, as children bought dolls in his likeness and adults began dressing as him for Halloween parties (or just for fun). To Charlie, his fame was always a bit bewildering. He had gone from being a nobody to being the guy with the most familiar face in the world... Or so he thought. With all of the adulation out there, there was bound to be a community of Charlie wannabes. A series of comedians began appearing on the screen in very similar if not completely copied costumes, and hack Charlie Chaplin impersonators started coming out of the woodwork. Charlie didn't seem to mind too much. After all, imitation is the most sincere form of flattery. However, he realized that life had truly become bizarre when he read that a man in Cincinnati had performed a hold-up using a Chaplin costume as a disguise! The final insult came when Charlie decided to enter one of the many Chaplin look-alike contests himself, just for a laugh. Competing against boys of all shapes and sizes (with far fewer years of performance experience), one would think Charlie was a shoe-in for victory. Hilariously enough, he didn't win. He loved telling that story!

Boris Karloff portrayed another cinematic character nearly as historically relevant as Chaplin's "Little Tramp": Frankenstein's Monster. It is strange to think that by artistically bringing to life a creature that was scientifically brought back to life, Boris obtained his own immortality. His depiction of the awkward mash of arms and limbs was haunting, disturbing, frightening, and a little bit sad. Perhaps that is why the Monster remains in the American heart, despite his murderous penchants. But this was but one of many characters that Boris portrayed, which were generally villains, creatures, or good men gone bad in Universal's long line of B-horror films. In his personal life, Boris was far from his movie archetype, being generous, gentlemanly, and most importantly, harmless. He also had a great sense of humor, which some of his co-workers took advantage of. In The Invisible Ray, Boris's character "Dr. Rakh" and Bela Lugosi (left) come to blows over Rakh's latest discovery: Radium X. While filming one particular scene,  Boris was wearing an incredibly hot "radiation" suit as his character is lowered into a smoking pit to hopefully gather some of this strange radium specimen. The crew decided to play a prank. They lowered the sweating Boris down, then when the clock struck noon, they broke for lunch. Boris was literally left hanging! Luckily, his temper was not as easily provoked as his character's. He just started chuckling. Luckily, his co-workers came to retrieve him so he could grab some grub as well.

John Carradine (right) also took part in a few Universal monster flicks, including The Mummy's Ghost and House of Frankenstein. With his thin frame, sunken cheeks, and natural intensity, he could easily step into villainous roles. His acclaimed acting chops had earned him quite the rep on the stage, but his talents on the screen are best remembered in supporting roles, such as the conniving "Hatfield" in Stagecoach or the loyal "Rizzio" in Mary of Scotland. He remains one of many unsung and intriguing fellows in artistic history whose genius to his craft was just as maniacal as his personal demons. He notoriously caused more than one stir with drinking buddies like John Barrymore and W.C. Fields, a group of pals infamous for imbibing their talents and eventually their lives away. The facts are sad in retrospect, yet the brotherhood and prankster shenanigans somehow still make one smile even while shaking the head in "for shame" fashion when pondering the lives of these hard-living fellows. For example, John was particularly lubricated one evening and after giving a cab-driver the wrong address, he wound up spouting orations of Shakespearean verse at Steve Hayes's doorstep. For the record, the two didn't know each other, and John literally had no idea where he was. Steve's pals weren't as accustomed as he (the owner of the popular eatery Googies) to the sudden appearance of a movie star, so they gushingly asked the sloshed actor to join them inside, which he did... after telling them that he was "King Lear." He kept asking for liquor, but after being handed tea instead, decided to show his disdain by urinating off the balcony. John, one doubts, remembered this visit the next day, but his surprised hosts never forgot it.

Marlon Brando (left) is one of those singular guys that is just awesome. He could behave like a punk, skunk, or scalawag, he could be as eccentric as the day was long, but his confidence and diabolical mystery still rendered even his most sinister on and off-screen moments just plain cool. This naturally translated to his sex life, where he pretty much had whomever he wanted. A pop cultural icon who defied pop culture, his dangerous nature worked like a tonic on the ladies. However, he didn't always get his way, despite his strong personality and masterful methods of coercion, charm, and perhaps even hypnosis. Tony Curtis would recall a time when he was roommates with Marlon on Barham Boulevard. The two buddied up while trying to build their acting careers, and naturally, as members of young Hollywood, ran in the same circles. One night, the duo were out at a bar in Palm Springs, when they both took notice of a very attractive girl. As neither fellow had hit it big yet, it is doubtful that she had any idea who they were, but she was definitely attracted to the handsome pair. However, after she boldly approached, she made her choice known. Marlon tried to put the moves on the girl, but she clearly only had eyes for Tony-- who possessed in prettiness what Marlon had in 'tude. Tony didn't know it, but this was a monumental moment in Marlon history. Some time later, Tony went to a party at which Marlon was also in attendance. When Tony walked in, Marlon held up his hand to silence the room and jokingly declared:"There's the only guy who ever took a girl away from me." Clearly, sexual refusal was something Marlon did not encounter often, but at least he took the punch standing up.

Robert Altman, in his 45 years in cinema, carved out quite a niche for himself. He only really produced one major box-office hit, but his work remains intriguing and critically acclaimed for his unique multi-layered style, overlapping storylines, and birds eye view of humanity. If the average director allows you to follow characters through a story, Altman challenges audiences to follow a story through its characters. The effect is disconcerting, yet somehow more real than the more streamlined, conveyor-belt fashion of the majority of products out there. He doesn't extol star power; he translates human beings. The verdict with the public is very divided. You can either take him or leave him. What makes his place in film even more fascinating than his controversial body of work is his graduation into the position of filmmaker. There very nearly wasn't a place for this quirky, definitive character. According to former publicity guru Michael Selsman, Robert Altman got his breakthrough gig directing MASH (cast right) by accident. Michael was in discussions with Darryl F. Zanuck when the mogul was on the hunt for a director to take the helm of this new wartime vehicle. Michael, of course, suggested some of his clients, but Zanuck seemed stuck on The Dirty Dozen's Robert Aldrich. Unfortunately for Aldrich, Zanuck's casting director, Owen McLean, was a heavy drinker and drunkenly transmogrified "Aldrich" into "Altman" when taking the note to make the offer. Thus, the pitch was made to the wrong guy, and unknown TV director Robert Altman got the chance of a lifetime! Everyone may not be a fan, but clearly the Gods of celluloid wanted this guy cemented in artistic history. Crazy, huh?
 

Speaking of controversy, Kirk Douglas's latest literary contribution I Am Spartacus: Making a Film, Breaking the Blacklist is all about it. A fascinating depiction, not only of how difficult it is to make a movie-- let alone an iconic one-- but of mankind's slow undoing of a period of political prejudice in Hollywood, Kirk tells all about his voyage in bringing to film the story of the notorious Thracian slave who tried to take down Rome. The film in many ways is spectacular and holds up incredibly well over time. Somehow, God willing, all the pieces of the puzzle came together-- from the casting, to landing Stanley Kurbick as director, to the financing-- and the masterpiece was made. However, upon its original release, not all of the footage was there that is available today. One very contentious scene between Laurence Olivier's "Cassius" and Tony Curtis's "Antoninus" was originally eliminated for its overt homo-erotic themes. You know the one: Antoninus is bathing Cassius in the giant tub and is asked by his master whether he likes "snails" or "oysters" (left). The snails insinuate a sexual taste for men, and oysters for women. Unfortunately for the bi-sexual Cassius, Antoninus only swings one way. The censors were obviously not having it at the time, and initially asked that Kirk and his team tone down the innuendo making "snails and oysters" "artichokes and truffles" instead. Say again? Kirk refused, after he stopped laughing of course, but this left the scene on the cutting room floor. Later, when the film was re-cut for re-release with the missing footage, the dialogue for the scene had been lost. Thus, Tony had to perform his voiceover once again, which he gladly did, but Larry was unfortuantely already deceased. His wife, Joan Plowright, suggested that Anthony Hopkins step in and perform the dialogue for him, which he admirably did. Watching today, you would never know!

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.