THE REEL REALS: Blanche Sweet

Blanche Sweet

Blanche Sweet was a powerhouse female player in the silent era of cinema, whose onscreen nature seemed in perfect keeping with her name-- which was not an invention, apart from the fact that Blanche was her middle name. Her great beauty and graceful demeanor made the camera immediately fall in love with her, and the American public would follow suit. Her talent as an actress had been long cultivated by treading the boards from her very infancy as an actress and dancer. This in conjunction with her iron guts and angelic presence made her a shoe-in for Biograph and its leading director: D.W. Griffith.

While younger than some of Griffith's other leading ladies-- Mary Pickford and Lillian Gish among them-- Blanche's startling maturity often led to her being cast in more mature roles. While a fairly petite woman, Blanche always came across as large, filling the screen with her charisma and poignant emotional articulation. She was, therefore, not one of Griffith's standard little-girl women but a woman full stop. Perhaps this is why, after participating in many of his poetic shorts, she was selected to star in his first feature-length film, "Judith of Bethulia" (1914). Blanche would migrate to Paramount and continue her successful career working with other big time directors like Cecil B. DeMille ("The Warrens of Virginia") and Marshall Neilan ("Tess of the D'Urbervilles,")-- with whom she would enjoy a scandalous affair, which led to marriage, which led to divorce. (God love him, "Mickey" was never one for moderation, in drink or in women).

Blanche would make a triumphant transfer into the Talkies, particularly with her highly praised performance in "Show Girl in Hollywood," but she surprisingly retired from the screen to return to theatre, later doing some work on Radio and even Television. However, her post-silent career was not as successful, and she allegedly had to take a job at a department store at one point, her days in the idol sun forgotten by the world that had once adored her. Luckily, with the rediscovery of her films and the advent of TV and home video, Blanche's power once again holds sway over those blessed enough to witness her Sweet talent.

TAKE ONE, TWO, THREE: Yen's "Sin" - [Part 2]

... continued from Part 1's focus on Broken Blossoms-- an examination of the Chinese lover in classic cinema.

Some very daring poster art for the provocative classic,
The Bitter Tea of General Yen.

Everyone's favorite American sentimentalist, Frank Capra, left his small town ways to enter the big leagues when he pushed the themes of interracial romance to the brink in The Bitter Tea of General Yen (1933). The plot of this film is not too far removed from Broken Blossoms-- the white woman comes under the Chinaman's care-- though this time the woman is a passionate missionary out to rescue orphans, and the man is an uncompromising warlord who essentially orchestrates her abduction so he can make her his concubine. Despite appearances, the attraction between "Megan Davis" (Barbara Stanwyck) and "Gen. Yen" (Nils Asther) is mutual, but the racist ideologies that Megan possesses make it just as equally brutal. Her shame over her attraction to the "dirty Chinaman" is hidden behind her cutting, prejudicial denial of Yen's own scintillating desires. In his case, his insecurities are compensated for by his strange blend of stoic and sensual tyranny. The initial effect Yen s on Megan is shock. She seems utterly confused by the fact that he actually appears civilized-- aka  "white" in behavior-- when she and Yen meet by happenstance in an automotive collision that locks them fatalistically together. Under Capra's direction, the story is a near visual portrait of S&M.

Who else but "Stany" could portray a heroine with equal parts smoldering pleasure and pain? An actress of boiling intensity and sensual confidence, she gives Megan a depth and curiosity that slowly seeks to overcome her own misunderstandings coupled with an increasingly volcanic sexual appetite. An adventuress on her way to a boring life as a missionary's wife, it seems that Megan's only reason for choosing her fiancé was the proximity a life with him might bring her to danger and excitement-- foreign places, existential exposure, intense exploration. Dressed essentially as a wolf in lamb's clothing, Megan's thirst for life could easily lead her to a dangerous addiction, and her struggle becomes on of concealing her passion for propriety's sake. She would be labeled a perverse whore  and social disgrace were she to admit her fetish for her mysterious captor. Megan knows that her emotions, or more honestly her primal urges, are viewed as "wrong." It is incorrect to want a member of the other race. She has been taught this all her life, and she spouts the rules of decent behavior even as her eyes and body language communicate that she doesn't believe them.

Babs draws her silken robe closer to her body in Yen's presence, but
she also always looks like she's 3 seconds from ripping it off.

Nils Asther brings an interesting twist to his take on Yen. In his career, he was often chosen to play the "other" foreigner, because of his exotic, almost androgynous features and Swedish accent, which I suppose sounded Asian to  studio producers (???). He played the part of the tempting Indonesian with fellow Swede Greta Garbo in Wild Orchids (1929) and the Turkish police chief "Kadar-Pasha" in Abdul the Damned (1935) to name but two examples. His slithers into his role as the sadistic Yen well, who uses his poise and confidence to cover his learned feelings of inferiority to the white race. However, through  his over-eagerness to please Megan, Yen occasionally shows his hand, his vulnerabilities, and equally masochistic tendencies. These breadcrumbs leading to the torrent of his desire emerge in moments of desperation. Still, Yen is a mystery-- a man difficult to make out. He is part calculating, emotional strategist and part little boy who has just had his hand slapped. He is secretly intimidated by Megan just as much as he is drawn to her, thus he presents himself as an unapologetic, compassionless, and sinister beast, utterly confident in the fact that he will conquer her without having to force himself upon her. This, in turn, arouses the suppressed sex-kitten in Megan, just as her superiority and refusals arouse him.

Yen's still waters are kept calculatingly cool in order to camouflage the intensity
of his underlying passions. He appears as the token "dragon man," but he has
incredible class and patience. His mind games are traps that are impossible
to escape, because one doesn't realize she's in one until it's too late.

The sexual chess game of clean, white beauty vs. dark foreigner is one of worthless resistance. Both players refuse to be the submissive victim, and both are too tough to admit their true desire for each other. It is becomes a taut "wait out the clock" situation to see who will break first; who will first kneel to kiss the foot of the victor. As compared to Lillian Gish, Stanwyck is no girl; she's a woman, and a tough one. She may not be totally aware that her unconscious decisions have led her here, to the place of her unspoken pleasure, but she's not a fool. While she feels her fortifications falling to Yen's curious hold over her, she too knows the repercussions such an affair would bring her, and as a worldly dame she's not about to surrender her reputation for one night of objectification. With a piece of the bigotry chip on her shoulder, she is also a bit disgusted by Yen, but his strange spiritualism and mind-boggling philosophies-- which both adhere to and contradict his actions-- slowly reveal the flesh and blood man beneath the fetish. He is the dark knight of fairy tales, and it is by touching her mind and exposing it to the open world she craves as a human being that he starts winding his way around her heart.

The win of Megan's desire over her prejudice is brilliantly evidenced in the infamous dream sequence. Yen approaches her as a hideous creature of racist stereotypes-- a rat-like face, long nails, a hunched walk-- creating a terrifying, nightmarish blend of xenophobic horror. Moving like a twitching insect, he comes to her bed and puts his claw-like hands upon her. She shrinks away, but she is just as sexually fueled by the indefinite polluting of her body as she is disturbed. Her acceptance of what has been described to her as utterly filthy will actually be her ticket out of the life she finds so bland and constraining.  She partially wants to destroy herself. But, before this happens, a savior arrives as if on the apocryphal white horse to save her. Indeed, he is even dressed in white-- the pure color. The masked hero defeats the Yen sub-creature and then tosses off his own mask, which reveals Yen the man. Truth has defeated stereotype. In her fantasy, Megan abolishes all bigotry, enfolds herself in Yen's arms, and thus acknowledges the fact that He is Man, She is Woman, and the only line between them is that which she draws herself.

The Yen creature accosts Megan in her bed, a representative of all her disgusting
prejudices about the "yellow" sexual villain.

The duo are never permitted to kiss, but thanks to the films release prior to the 1934 production code, the implications of this scene are pretty damn bold and certainly made contemporary audiences of the time... uncomfortable. Though Asther is a Caucasian in make-up, stating a blatant message that a biracial relationship was A-Ok was not yet to be. Thus, the total fusion of these two very representative characters-- the Yen and the Yang (bad pun)-- had to be halted. The road block to their union is, of course, death. After Megan's eventual supplication before Yen, the reality of the game hits home. She comes to him dressed as one of his heavily make-uped and bejeweled concubines, and Stanwyck's tearfully broken performance as she applies these goods to her body, as opposed to washing herself clean, delivers perhaps the most obvious message of all. Yen, at the end of the day, is still a thing, whose touch will contaminate and make her a thing. Megan gives herself up to this. Yen, surprisingly, does not. He fixes himself the titled 'bitter' cocktail that takes his life and ends his beloved's suffering.

In truth, the story never really feels like one of love. This could be because the chemistry between Stanwyck and Asther does not have much fire, the source of the heat coming only from the independent tortures that both are suffering alone. (Hate and love are very closely linked). More particularly, it is a story about man's sexual nature. It is a tale of primal eroticism and pure lust, not romance. Human affection and human desire are too very different things, which is perhaps why Yen sacrifices himself to keep from damaging the girl he respects but who he can't be certain will ever give him her heart.

Yen drinks a toast to his 'bitter' end.

The end is complicated, however. Yen may decide to destroy himself to release his lover, but he may also do so because he has conquered her willpower by earning her submission, and the mental destruction of her is more important than the physical. This could have been the entire goal: to prove through this victory that his manhood is just as potent and effective, if not more so, than a white man's. Therefor, he has justified himself above his level as an 'other' and can now die a man. Still, one is unsettled, as if this film is an incomplete thought whose true fulfillment is not hampered by the director nor the actors but by the time within which it was made. In the end, whether he chooses to or not, Yen must die because he must not touch a white woman. Death is his punishment. for even considering the idea. The fact that he is the one to drink from the well of death is loaded with the implications of his own lingering feelings of inferiority over his heritage. Megan, meanwhile, returns to life as if waking from a dream and entering a nightmare-- forever haunted by a lost and unfulfilled passage to ecstasy.

~     ~     ~

Anna May Wong dances dangerously close to the edge of acceptable, interracial
behavior in Piccadilly.

The final chapter of this (overly long) analysis is a bit different, for in Piccadilly (1929), the punished, exotic Chinese character is a female. Anna May Wong herself could represent the Asian prototype in American cinema, both in terms of her onscreen presence and the way she endured and overcame the constraints of the industry as implied by her race. A Chinese laundryman's daughter, Wong was very much the modern, "American girl" in every way-- minus her parents' heritage. Rebellious, ambitious, sexual, prone to slang, and thrilled by the invigorating changes enjoyed by young men and women of the roaring twenties, had Anna been born white, she could have been one of the biggest leading ladies in film. Being of Chinese descent, her triumph of reaching stardom is not only remarkably impressive, it was unprecedented. This is a testament to her talent and charisma, which broke barriers in the industry. Unfortunately, successes like The Toll of the Sea and Shanghai Express are evenly matched by the never-ending slaps in the face she was to receives. Caucasians actresses were consistently given the roles that should have gone to her. Her place in cinema was that of the perpetual, exotic harlot-- always the concubine, never the bride.

Hence, Anna May's escape to Europe, where life and art were a little more liberal and accepting of varying cultures, perhaps because so many diverse peoples were and are more closely clumped together on the continent. Piccadilly was an incredible success for Anna in Britain. The unarguable star of the film, the story that could very well have revolved around the Piccadilly Club owner "Valentine Wilmot" (Jameson Thomas) and his dancer lover "Mabel Greenfield" (Gilda Gray), is totally usurped by and overshadowed by Anna's performance as "Shosho." A washerwoman at Piccadilly, Shosho is witnessed dancing on a tabletop in the kitchen and entertaining her friends when Valentine walks in and sees her. It is perhaps one of the most beautiful character reveals of all time. Valentine is immediately smitten by Shosho-- the graceful movements of her body seem to glide through the air like the literal steam surrounding her. She instantly intoxicates both him and the audience. 




Valentine selects Shosho as his next concubine, but she will prove to be much
more than the complacent, delicate flower he expected. It will be he
who is tamed by her. 

Naturally, after firing her, Valentine makes her a conquest. This time, however, the shame of the affair will all be on him. While a man is more generally forgiven for his sexual deviances, the idea that Valentine has totally fallen under the spell of a member of an "inferior race" is humiliating to him. Thus, he keeps it a secret, particularly from his public paramour, Mabel. Had Mabel merely been replaced by a new, white lover, Valentine would have easily cast her off; however, as Shosho is the living embodiment of the ultimate sin, his attraction to her is dehumanizing to him. She is his dark side, his 'other,' other lover, so Mabel will be kept on as the dutiful beard of sorts for his social self while he indulges his fantasies otherwise.

 

The dangerous but desired perception Valentine has of Shosho is at first the product of his own superficial invention, but later Shosho adopts this false characterization and wears it as armor to both conquer him and trump Mabel. The instigation behind Shosho's transference to a villainess is a both financial and vengeful. She is poor and wants the financial support of Valentine, and she is also aware of her inferior standing in society. Her early efforts to rise above both her situation and the social stigma attached to her are later become insufficient. She later craves more than equality-- she wants domination. Thus, when Valentine offers her a chance to perform at the club, Shosho doesn't foolishly grab at the offer nor fall into his sexual trap. She sets one of her own. Before she surrenders to him bodily, she must possess his soul. Longevity will give her a stranglehold over him, and she does not want to be brushed aside as any of the many previous women he has surely gone through like cigarettes.

Shosho takes a fatal swing at the mass of salivating men around her and
makes them her willing suppliants. 

Her winning play is her initial performance, for which she has managed to custom order a gorgeous, expensive outfit for the show, already revealing the power she has gained over her patron. The dance sequence itself is a breathtaking number in which Shosho acknowledges the power of her sexuality and uses it to her advantage. In this moment on stage, with her entrancing, ghostlike movements, she doesn't just own Valentine; she owns all of London. As Shosho continues to spin Valentine into her seductive web, Mabel inevitably catches on and confronts her enemy with a gun. To steal a man from a white woman, the same one who once looked down on her as a mere peasant, is the true jewel in Shosho's crown. Unfortunately, her scandalous ladder-climb ends the only place it can: in death. When she is shot, it is assumed that jealous lover Mabel pulled the trigger, however-- shocker of shockers-- Shosho's friend "Jim" (King Hou Chang) steps up to admit his own guilt and saves Mabel from blame.

Jim's heroism in this act of defending Mabel is also the ultimate insult to his race, as he chooses the protection not only of the white woman but the white race's superiority over the life of Shosho, the woman he loves. However, his murder of her-- a disturbing and gloriously shot sequence-- was one committed less out of jealousy and more as that ever necessary racial punishment. Using the white man to "get by" is something he for which he could forgive Shosho, but she became too greedy. She tried to escape her place in the caste system. Had she become but another one of Valentine's submissive whores, her actions could have been forgiven, but her refusal to obey the laws of alleged modest Asian attitude and social acquiescence was not to be borne. She dared to cross racial lines, and even her brain-washed brethren believed that she had to be stopped. 

Shosho's single eye communicates her sheer shock and terror at witnessing her
friend take aim. One can see how Anna May's performance as a sexual
infection influenced the Asian horror villainesses to come in later films
like Ju-on, Audition, and Ringu.

Despite the dismal ending, this film is spectacular. Beyond the resonating thematic questions it poses, the photography by Werner Brandes and smooth direction by filmmaker/producer Ewald Andre Dupont, are still impressive and transcend the majority of the over-packaged visual stimuli that we're met with on the modern screen. (There is also a surprise Charles Laughton appearance-- never anything to sniff at). Best of all, the film is all Anna, and even as the moderately innocent girl metamorphoses into the Tiger Woman she becomes, you don't blame her. You empathize. In fact, you envy. The success of Piccadilly rests on the fact that the audience is rooting for the villainess because, beneath it all, the villainess is the true victim of the scenario.

~     ~     ~

Lon Chaney as "Yen Sen" in Shadows. The plot of the film concerned the
Christianizing "the heathen," yet Chaney's depiction of the moral and
strong-hearted laundryman did more to reveal the prejudice and
cruelty of the white race and their unjust, uncivilized natures.

All three films depict the societal imposed fate of the Chinese race to be one of inescapable servitude. The culture of the times in which these films were made, particularly the silents, were pleased with and un-intimidated by the people whom they viewed as automatically inferior. The Caucasian majority treasured this minority's modest ways, strict customs, and unobtrusiveness. They did not want these images to change in reality, so they made films perpetuating and perhaps even enforcing them, however subconsciously. Unlike other racial groups, Chinese characters in film were often allowed certain liberties, despite the derogatory way in which they were portrayed. In part, these films project our fascination with them and their beliefs, which we find strange and unusual, yet we simultaneously envy. They are seen as a "simple people" in touch with another, purer level of existence, and they also seem to know something that we do not. Perhaps for this reason alone-- for the questions they raise about our own morality, our values, and our own idols (from movie stars to Jesus Christ)-- the Caucasian ruled industry punished them cinematically. The line in the sand was therefore drawn, and the warning given. While we may live in an multi-racial world, at least in the old days of cinema, there was no room for interracial romance.

TAKE One, Two, Three: Yen's "Sin" - [Part 1]

Despite the obvious discomfort the title of this little ditty inspires today,
Chaney's studied, soul crushing portrayal of Chinaman "Yen Sin" in
 Shadows was one of the most socially groundbreaking in film, and
the film was deemed one of the most important of the year. 

As an artistic medium, the realm of cinema is fueled not only by the desire to entertain but by the desire for change. One can stare at a painter's perfect replica of a bowl of fruit, but it is the surreal, impressionistic, cubist, what-have-you interpretations that draw the most mental attention. At times, we don't like being provoked or prodded from our comfort zones, but our minds also subconsciously relish the opportunities such instigations reveal-- whether the our response is to slam the door shut or kick it wide open.

Film has contributed greatly to mankind's discovery of himself-- emotionally, intellectually, and socially. There are steps forward that often look a lot like steps back. For example, unpacking prejudice has not been a challenge perfectly met by the industry. The ways in which different races, sexual orientations, religions, etc. have been portrayed on screen fall anywhere between the realm of outright bigotry and emphatic reevaluation. Somewhere in the median is the awkward attempt to "classify"-- to define our differences and thus quell our panphobia by making the conflicting, different faces around us manageable. Categorical. The obvious cliches become accepted facts that pepper public perception, even if they can sometimes be true. (I am a blonde white girl from Kentucky, so I can neither confirm or deny whether there is some strain of goat DNA in my bloodstream). With the usual mixed messages, various mediums have often made great steps to abolish stereotypes by cringingly abiding by them at the same time (see former piece on this effect on the African American demographic here).

Some of the most fascinating justifications Hollywood has given for man's occasionally blatant racism is the depiction of the "other" as a sexual threat, a mere fetish, or an outright perversion. Second only to the African American stereotype-- who was and often still is broadcast as a violently potent and thus feared sexual group-- is that of the Chinese. Shrouded in mysticism, the "oriental" class of film characterization is projected as literally from another world. China is not another country; it is another planet. Their customs, their religion, their collective way of life, is both embraced and condemned in the films of the past. On the screen, they are silent, ghost-like creatures who move in small, shuffling steps and appear always in clouds of opium smoke. Their posture is nearly inverted, as if they are making themselves purposely smaller and less imposing, apologizing for their presence in the white man's shadow. 

Sessue Hayakawa, the unexpected Japanese film star, played Chinese characters
interchangably in his career. Here is plays the sinister villain betraying well-
established racial lines in Cecil B. DeMille's bold film The Cheat.

For the most part, the Chinaman is represented as humble, obedient, and-- to the caucasian eye-- humorous in his ancient, spiritual ideas and backward social indentity. He is a non-progressive, stuck in the past. He is a strange pet, an alien, thus naturally viewed as asexual for comfort's sake. The women of Chinese descent, conversely, are portrayed as beautiful and servile, sexual objects. They don't talk back. They don't even raise their voices. This is comforting. The Chinese in film seem to "know their place," in other words. Their subservience makes them less threatening than the African American, whom is identified automatically as a possible enemy-- a product of our subconscious fear that he will rise up and vengefully pay us back for our prior, inhuman enslavement of them. The Native American is similarly labeled a savage-- who too holds an understandable grudge-- because we color him onscreen with the war paint of our own design. We stole his land after all, so we must cast him as the demonic beast of the West desperately need of civilizing and likewise viewed as a threat to civilization to apologize to ourselves for it. The Chinaman is different. He was a visitor-- not an invader nor a captor-- to our land after we had claimed it. We don't fear him but instead view him with a dormant, skeptical eye. That is, at least until he tries to play lover...

The fetishist perspective of the bold, romantic ladder-climbing minority is overflowing with messages of insecurity and discrimination. As the early days of heavily censored Hollywood would not allow for even the intimation of a sexual relationship between members of two different races, the fate of the Chinese-American's visual storytelling was left in the hands of white actors in "yellow face." The effect, when not in the hands of artistic empaths like Lon Chaney, produced a cosmetic nightmare: an exaggerated, serpentine gaze, a tightened face free of character, and a thin lipped hard line for a mouth. The women were allowed more beauty, portrayed as exotic flowers to feed a man's sensual curiosity, but they too were displayed with the subliminal context of distaste if not disgust. They are creatures, play things at best, but never respected as wholly human. They are but half real-- not wife material, in any case. Both male and female, they are relics of a time that no longer exists and perhaps never did; strange fossils who simply refuse to expire.

In my examination of these themes, I had a plethora of films to choose from: Where East is East, The Mask of Fu Manchu, The Letter, The Toll of the Sea, Mr. Wu, The Good Earth, up to the more contemporary The Lover. I've selected three of my favorites, which will varyingly abide and examine the common through line of interracial romance. In all cases, the Chinese counterpart is deemed correct in the passionate worship of the white woman (or man), but to try to take this obsession to a place of reality is read as a damnable thing. The price paid is always death. The subjects: Broken Blossoms, The Bitter Tea of General Yen, and Piccadilly.

~     ~     ~

Lillian Gish seeks comfort from Richard Barthelmess-- but only at a
respectful distance-- in Broken Blossoms.

One would hardly list D.W. Griffith as a pioneer of unbiased racial translation, but for all his seeming disdain for the African American element, his opinion of the Chinese in Broken Blossoms seems to be much more appreciative. At least in his own imagination, and the way he presents Richard Barthelmess as "The Yellow Man"-- literally, that is his name-- Griffith has an at least superficially poetic view of the race. All of the romantic ideals he preaches throughout his films-- innocence, purity, a desire for good-- are displayed by Barthelmess in a surprisingly moving performance of conflict and heartbreak. That being said, Yellow Man may be allowed elevation in a spiritual sense, but socially there can be no line stepping. He is still referred to as "Chinky"-- an alleged term of endearment.

The plot concerns Yellow Man's unspoken love for "Lucy"-- Griffith's ultimate muse, Lillian Gish. Gish uses her usual incandescent emotional brawn to portray this diamond in the gutter angel, who lives in terror of her father. Dad is "Battling Burrows," (Donald Crisp) and he violently abuses Lucy verbally, physically, and probably sexually, consequently molding her into an impossibly sad wisp of a girl, both stunted in maturity and broken in spirit. After one of her thorough lashings, Lucy stumbles and collapses into what turns out to be Yellow Man's store. He finds her on the verge of death. The doting lover takes her in and nurses her back to health, all while living out his greatest private fantasy-- to be under the same roof with the woman he loves and give her what he can of his heart. Of course, he has to hide the truth depth of his feelings. He is dirty, and she is clean.

The sheer, hysterical terror that Gish exhibits on her face and in her body
when Burrows is near may seem exaggerated and overdone in by today's
standards, but the poignancy of her emotional abandon in the role still
kicks you in the gut.

Griffith does manage to push the envelope here. As usual, while portraying Lucy as a girl-woman-- a feat only an actress of Gish's wisdom and emotional gravity could accomplish with believability-- he too uncovers Yellow Man's sexual side. Beneath society's definition of him as a somewhat androgynous creature, he exhibits the same pulsating, carnal desires of any man. This is a battle that he seems to wage with more success than his white male counterparts. In truth, Yellow Man came to Limehouse, the film's setting, in the hopes of spreading peace and the Confucian ideals of goodness. Yet, in the sophisticated yet oddly untamed space of the Limehouse district, he has has met with little success and instead finds himself accosted at every turn by tempting opium dens, gambling joints, and willing prostitutes. The presence of  Lucy-- the pinnacle of all his sexual torment, now within arm's reach in his home-- demands a restraint that he is barely able to muster. 

In truth, the two lost souls of Yellow Man and Lucy possess an astounding chemistry that makes the audience beg for them to embrace as lovers, and this was assumedly as true during the time of its original release in 1919. However, social mores clearly would not allow such a thing to happen. Ergo, in the story, Yellow Man's yearning sexuality, which grows clearer to Lucy every day, is established as fearful to her. The way she looks at him as he makes his smoldering approach, looking at her like a sinister monster-- a still impressive sequence-- is not a result just of the resultant fear of men her abusive father has stained her with, but that of her own prejudice. Seeing her response when he considers touching or kissing her alerts Yellow Man that he cannot go too far with his affections.

Lucy unconsciously rejects The Yellow Man's intimacy in life, but will
such prejudice and irrational fear follow them to the other side?

The tragedy of this piece is foretold in the title, and the impossibility of the biracial union innately curses at least one of the film's tragic characters to death. One would naturally suppose that the martyred nature of Yellow Man, as Barthelmess has compassionately translated him, in addition to his status as the "other" character-- the eternal, minor minority character who is immediately disposable-- would make the Chinaman the prime candidate for this necessary assassination. Griffith's alternative choice is actually quite liberating. It is Lucy who is killed by her brutish father, then Yellow Man slays him in revenge, and finally takes his own life. The fact that Yellow Man dies for love makes him an unprecedented, heroic character of the 'other' ethnic persuasion. Additionally, Griffith gives the duo a fairy tale ending in an unexpected way. Their voyage to the realm of the after life-- which is marked by the banging of the Buddhist gong-- presents the possibility that the two "broken blossoms" may bloom as lovers there on the other side in the purest sense possible: as the blending of two souls: skinless, faceless, and formless. What is criminal is that this is the length they had to go to attain mutual peace.

This film is truly a beautiful story, and in my opinion it is Grffith's greatest and most unpolluted triumph in terms of story. Obviously, it can clearly be argued that Griffith's respect for the Chinese character exists only because this "sub-group" of humanity is depicted by him as a supplicant before the ethereal, white female. In addition, the director probably vicariously entertained his own sexual fantasies in the story, as was his wont. The male focus on the untouched, virginal female is naturally driven by the desire to make the object unclean in the possession of it. Ergo, the hidden notes of Yellow Man's undeserving, inferior hunger are his Griffith's own.

The positive aspect, of course, is the naked display of goodness and raw humanity present in The Yellow Man. This character ignores his own urges to protect the innocence of the image that Griffith would secretly love to desecrate. The Chinaman betrays his own conscience and religion to avenge Lucy's death, and his personal shame for this makes his suicide even more necessary. Yet, one leaves the story with the subconscious knowledge that it is we-- people in general-- who are the cruel villains and predators of the world, our own savagery destroying what remains of its beauty through our ignorance, cruelty, bias, and fear.

Barthelmess's Yellow Man, while possessing the serpentine gaze, was still
able to overcome the cliches of his character to give him an honest,
sensual, and vulnerable quality that helped balance the racist
images the film may have ignorantly projected. 

Gorgeously shot with Griffith's incomparable eye for detail and visual texture, the environment created is both entrancing to look at and lush even at its disturbing. There too are superb performances  by all concerned, particularly by Gish whose gut-wrenching presentation of fearful hysteria signifies the great torture that her life has been. The moral messages are mixed, but this film, even when awash with controversy, is a sterling example of silent cinema at it best. How do the others fare???

To Be Continued with interpretations of both The Bitter Tea of General Yen and Piccadilly...

If You Love Charlie...

... You Will Buy This Calendar!

Support the preservation of silent cinema. The 2013 edition is dedicated to Flying Machines!

Go HERE to place your order, "Please" and "Thank You." (On behalf of Chaplin. And Keaton. And Swanson. Oh, and Pickford... And Valentino... And Gish... And Chaney, etc, etc, etc...).

BITS OF COINCIDENCE: Part XII

Clara Bow enjoys spreading her wings in the glowing light of her celebrity.

Who knew??

Clara Bow wasn't always the "it" girl. In fact, during her youth, she probably felt more like the "ain't" girl. No money, no affection, no reason to keep going... All she had were her dreams. Her only fuel was her love of the movies and her hopes of one day being a movie star. As such, some of the celebrities that kept her mentally and emotionally nourished during her harsh, tender years became heroes in her mind and heart.

Movie stars quickly learn of their unnatural appeal to the public. Fan letters, autograph hounds, screaming pedestrians, et al, tip an actor off that he has accrued some level of worship. There is no way of calculating the number of fans that Wallace Reid, for example, encountered during his life. Certainly, he would give a smile and a handshake, offer his John Hancock, wave his hand, and move on his merry way when meeting a fan. These moments were touching, of course, but they were also frequent, and thus anonymous, drops in the bucket-- too many faces to recall. Therefore, Wally had no way of knowing that one of the gushing girls waiting for him outside a Brooklyn theater during one of his publicity tours was none other than a thirteen-year-old Clara Bow, who had stood for eight hours just to catch a glimpse of him! This would have made a great story, had Clara ever had the chance to tell him after she became famous herself. Unfortunately, right as Clara was hitting Hollywood, Wally was drowning in his morphine addiction, which would claim his life within a year of her arrival. Ironically, Clara's future husband Rex Bell (George Beldam) would know Wally well, since the former caddied for him during his high school years. Of course, Rex had easier access to the star, since he grew up in California. He also started a charity rodeo with his classmate and future star: Joel McCrea. (Clara avidly read star publications, like the left example with her idol Wally gracing the cover).

Needless to say, when Clara hit it big, she took advantage of her resources. She was never a pushy nor selfish person, but she was incredibly warm and loved to make new friends. Being in close proximity to people that were so illustrious, after a life of living in the slums, must have made her feel like a very grateful sore thumb. Naturally, some movie stars were a bit too snobbish for her taste, and considered her earthiness and lack of pretension far too "low class" for their high-fallutin' ways. Her fans would still adore her and do almost anything to get a piece of her. One up and coming actor was very pleased when Clara showed an interest. The play "Dracula" was all the rage in the late '20s. As such, when Clara had a chance to catch a show, she grabbed her pals and high-tailed it to the Biltmore Theatre. She was particularly intrigued by the atypically handsome leading man, Bela Lugosi (right). The Hungarian actor barely spoke English but had somehow found a way to memorize his lines for the devilish role and would consequently sink his teeth into the American audience. After seeing him onstage, Clara was smitten. She used her clout to go straight to his dressing room and extend her praise for his performance. After some half-hearted and broken conversations, which neither probably understood, Clara invited the blushing actor over. Bela appreciated her kindness, and became an occasional visitor to her cottage, although in this case there was no funny business-- Clara gave him the spare room and shared her bed with BFF Tui Lorraine. Yet, there was a tryst of sorts at some point, for Bela, the world's most famous vampire, would sometimes pull a friend aside, lift up his shirt, and indicate a series of love bites on his body. He would then smile and utter one of the few English words in his vocabulary for clarification: "Clara... Clara..." Their love affair was short lived, but the starlet definitely left her mark.

Greta Garbo (left) could certainly relate to the strange disassociation that the foreign Bela must have felt on American soil. Being outside of one's native language and familiar territory can induce definite feelings of melancholy and loneliness. When Greta first started working at MGM, she struggled emotionally. She missed Sweden, and strangely, she missed the cold. New York was preferable to California, but she went where the contract was. Things hadn't much improved by the time she began filming The Temptress, her second American made movie. Her first film had not yet been released, no one knew who she was, she still hadn't made any real friends, and when she received word that her elder sister, Alva, had died, she was absolutely devastated. To her surprise, she received a consolatory bouquet of flowers from an unlikely source: Lillian Gish. Somehow, the senior screen phenom had caught wind of Greta's misfortune, and being an innately intuitive woman, she probably gleaned from all she knew of the strange young woman that she was feeling pretty lonesome, out of place, and could use a friend. In her vulnerability, Greta-- who was still the shy Greta and not yet the aloof Garbo-- approached Lillian on the set to offer her gratitude. As Greta was still uneasy with English, she and Lillian had trouble communicating, but they seemed to understand each other and soon were sobbing in each other's arms! Greta was eternally grateful, and she even hung around several times to watch Lillian work. Lillian taught Greta the ropes, and may have done too good a job. After Greta was nursed back to emotional health, her first release, Torrent, would totally overtake Lillian's La Boheme at the box office! Perhaps Lillian knew it was time to pass the torch.

Lillian's big heart and depth won her many friends in life and

many fans through her work.

Louise Brooks's (right) first love in life was to dance. As a teen, she signed up with the most prestigious dancing instructors of her time, Ruth St. Denis and Ted Shawn, who ran the Denishawn dancing company. Her talent, grace, and intensity, quickly moved her up the ranks in the troupe and got her noticed by her instructors. Ted adored her unique gift; Ruth was annoyed by her obstinacy. In any case, after finishing up a tour, the group of dancers settled down for a summer session at the infamous Meriarden arts colony in Peterborough, NH. There, Louise made her first real friend on the road. Barbara Bennett had been sent to Mariarden because her artistic family deemed her unfocused and undisciplined. Naturally, she and Louise gelled. Louise enjoyed Barbara's lack of phoniness. In fact, the first time Barbara spoke to Louise it was while Lulu was stuffing her face with pie: "Hello, pie face," Barbara quipped. They became thick as thieves. After the summer ended, Barbara and Louise both returned to New York, and Louise quickly found herself kicked out of Denishawn after she and Ruth locked horns in a final confrontation. As such, she turned to Barbara, who invited her into her posh family's life. Louise from Kansas absorbed all of their cultured, manicured ways, learning diction and table manners from them. They were happy tutors and she an apt pupil. Of course, she knew all of the Bennett family by reputation: Parents Richard and Adrienne were both big actors. Barbara's eldest sister, Constance (18), was already making waves with her acting talent as well, though her younger sister, Joan (13), hadn't yet had time to hit her stride. In time, both would enjoy fame that would eclipse their parents'. Barbara, the unruly middle child, never caught the entertainment boat, but Louise still liked her the best. She thought Joan was sweet too, but, to speak plainly, she thought Constance was a total b*tch.

Hollywood royalty: acting sisters Joan and Constance Bennett.

Ginger Rogers (left) was riding high after her stage success "Girl Crazy." The musical had earned her multiple kudos and also a contract in Hollywood with Pathe Studios. Things were certainly looking good! When she and mother Lela boarded the Twentieth Century Limited at Grand Central Station, neither believed that life could get any better. It could. No sooner had they arrived, than friend Harold Ross alerted them that the two most famous performers of the American stage were to be aboard with them: Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne. Ginger couldn't believe it! Of course, as she was an up-and-coming song and dance gal, she didn't think that she would have much to offer the acclaimed duo in the way of conversation. After all, she was just a newbie going to the low level Pathe, while they were signed at the OMG MGM! Yet, Harold still managed to set up a dinner for the two parties. Ginger was intimidated of course, but she found the husband and wife team delightful, and even felt that they were more nervous about their latest Hollywood venture than she was about hers. They were prepping to film their stage hit, The Guardsman, for the screen. They started asking her advice! What directors did she like, what kind of make-up tricks was she using, etc? Ginger offered whatever help she could, but admittedly, she knew little. Perhaps the Lunts had sensed her upcoming genius. Their talents would never translate to cinema, while Ginger was about to take the world by storm!

Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne: acting dynamos and soul mates.

Few would peg Clark Gable (right) as the sensitive type, but he had much more going on inside than he ever let his carefully crafted, macho image indicate. Many would assert that he based his future characterizations on his personal hero, tough guy Victor Fleming. On the screen, he tried to be the man he wanted to be. In life, he was much more insecure. For example, he had a love of poetry and literature that he kept a secret, because he didn't want it to tarnish his hard-edged demeanor. When "Clark Gable" was born on the screen, he was born big. After A Free Soul, his cocky bad boy with a side of charm was golden at the box-office. But Rome wasn't built in a day, and the struggling, self-doubting actor had had to work his way to the top like everyone else. Sometimes, progress didn't seem to come fast enough, and he would give up on himself. For example, he landed the lead role in the play "Scars" and received positive reviews for his performance in the boy to man story of a war draftee-fighter-survivor. However, when the play itself got negative feedback, he dropped it like a bad habit. Always second-guessing, he didn't have the confidence to see it through. If it weren't for the women in his life, Clark probably wouldn't have gotten anywhere. In the end, he had good reason to quit the play: it was far too choppy and uneven. Still, another actor picked up where Clark had left off when the play hit New York. The new leading man who stepped up to the plate? Spencer Tracy. The play's title was changed to "Conflict," but although Spence put his guts into the part, earning even better reviews than Clark, the play still folded by April of 1929. He would move on to "The Last Mile," a jail-themed play, which luckily turned out to be a hit. (Clara Bow allegedly was in the audience for one of his powerhouse performances, but no love bites this time). Spence and Clark would later become BFFs in Hollywood, and probably --as part of their competitive hijinks-- would tease about their earlier shared stage experience.

Spencer Tracy, looking oddly dapper in one of his theater publicity shots.

HISTORY LESSON: The Sex Bombs

Clara Bow gives the people what they want: sex.

The objectification of women in film is nothing new. From the advent of the medium, filmmakers, studios, and even sometimes the actresses themselves, have used their beauty and sexuality to reel in viewers, build up a fan base, and maintain mankind's engrossed attention. Sex is power. The sexual muscle is the easiest one to flex, mostly because we do so unconsciously, subconsciously, and unwittingly, countless seconds of every day. From a business stand-point, it makes sense to appeal to our sensual selves. Show a pretty face, a bit of leg, a pair of breasts, and voila! You've flipped the switch. You have our attention. Women aren't innocent either, salivating unapologetically over bare, muscular torsos and perfectly formed asses when the Joe Manganiello's of the world take the screen. But when does this purely visceral, instantaneously physical appeal become too much? Particularly with regard to the female form-- which is continually scrutinized, perfected, and promoted as being thin, voluptuous, barely clad, and above all young-- there seems to be a continuing saga of damage with regard to the pin-ups, love goddesses, and sex icons that we visually fornicate with, fantasize over, and eventually cast aside. But who is the real victim: the girl in the ever-erotic pose or the voyeur gawking uncontrollably. What is a sex-object, and can the pawn just as equally be the player???

There was a point in time when Theda Bara was regarded as the sex-siren of the screen. Fashioned by Fox, Thedosia Goodman was built from the ground up to be a dangerous, foreign temptress. Her sex-appeal was desirable because it was bad. With her coal-black eyes and opulent figure, not to mention jaw-droppingly revealing clothing-- particularly in those times (left)-- Theda as "the vamp" was the embodiment of sin. If Sex was the Devil, then she was one of his minions. Much as Cecil B. DeMille would use religious plotlines to delve into his own naughty sensibilities, Theda was the warning of evil that we were all meant to learn from-- i.e. the "slut" you were not to do or be-- and while learning the lesson, we got to indulge in her sins along with her-- "win-win," as they say. The issue with Theda's highly specific and sexual film persona, like many of the ladies to follow her, was that it boxed her in. The character, both public and private, that Fox designed for her was so well-ingrained in the public consciousness that she could not escape it. Thus, when the fad of "Theda Bara" had lost its allure, so too did Theda lose her career. William Fox had drained every last ounce of coin that he could and cast her aside. She became, thus, the aged whore-- used up and no longer desired. Her career on film was over as of 1926 when she was just over 40-years-old. Age, of course, could have also had something to do with it. Hollywood needed young blood; Theda was old hat. As her persona and sex were inseparable, she could not translate to other genres. Her identity as a siren completely derailed her career.

Herein lies the conundrum of being a woman, which is only heightened through the celebrity experience. Walking the fine line between being attractive and becoming an ornament is not always easy. Women that were able to maintain their independence and thrive in the world of film were those that thus entertained and defied sexual conventions. Marlene Dietrich was dripping with sex, but she too swapped genders from time to time to maintain her own unique identity. Mary Pickford emitted a subtly sensual eroticism that always played second fiddle to the often tomboyish, head-strong independence of her heroines. Katharine Hepburn strutted with the confidence of a man, wielded her worldly intelligence mightily, and occasionally showed up in a dress and reminded people that she was a quite beautiful woman (right), particularly when making eyes at Spencer Tracy. However, these women had personalities. Norma Shearer, Gloria Swanson, Carole Lombard, Barbara Stanwyck, Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, etc-- they all had sex, but they all had their own unique edge that allowed them to indulge in lengthy careers and the continued worship of their fans. Many used their sexuality to get a leg up in the business, and once they had gained a foothold in their own careers, used their newfound power to cement protective contracts and personally guide the direction of their business affairs. The success of these ladies was contingent upon the fact that what they had in bod', they possessed even moreso in brains. Thus, they would distract the man holding the check book with one delicate hand and slap him fiercely with the other. Their ambition gave them a killer instinct that made them impenetrable.

Not all women were so lucky. Not all were so shrewd. Clara Bow is a prime example. Clara's success was certainly aided by her extraordinary beauty and unapologetic sensuality. The carnal desire that she displayed in her films was the first of its kind-- at least coming from a woman. Girls were used to being hooted at, jeered over, propositioned, insulted, etc. Suddenly, with Clara in the driver's seat, it was the male sex that received this sultry level of objectification. In It, when Clara sets her sights on Antonio Moreno, her eyes light up in excited lust and she spouts out, "Sweet Santa, give me him!" In Dancing Mothers, she shamelessly pursues Conway Tearle, and won't take "no" for an answer, even when it means he has to carry her bodily out of his home. In Mantrap, Clara makes a sport of sex, attaching herself to any man-- and she appreciates all types-- who strikes her fancy. Clara's saving grace in portraying such sexually forward women was her warmth and depth. Her predatory nature was tempered by the humor she injected into her performances, as well as the pathos that-- when allowed time to shine-- revealed that she wasn't some over-sexed trollop, but a flesh and blood woman whose sexual nature was but one aspect of her invigorating and fully formed personality. Yet, Paramount didn't support her growth as an actress. Clara was the ace up the studio's sleeve, and they played the sex card where she was concerned over and over again, until fact and fiction began to collide. Clara's true self eventually merged with her screen self, which always possessed more confidence and power than the real her. Her popularity, it seemed, was dependent upon her appearance in sexy dresses, lingerie, or even less. The bare-backed shot of her in Wings was a big shocker in its day, which had no place in the wartime film other than to give the audience what it wanted: Clara nude (left).

In time, it would prove that Paramount had done its job too well. Clara's raucous private life became serialized scandal in the press, which had previously praised the former qualities that they now used to label her as a "slut." Never taking time to give Clara well-written material or to allow her roles to mature as she did, she maintained her onscreen presence as the fun-loving, good-time girl with a heart of gold buried beneath an erotic veneer. Like Theda, people tired of this. They didn't tire of Clara necessarily, and the success of her career and longevity can be attributed to both her talents as an actress and her charismatic and attractive personality. Her goodness always effected her audiences more than her skin. The failure of her career, exempting her personal stresses and the effect of the talkie revolution, is almost entirely dependent on the short-sightedness of the studio, who did not allow Clara to be more than a sex object, or do more than be sexy. It is a tribute to her that she was able to give so much with the shoddy material she received as to make it in the business at all. Any number of her films, without Clara Bow in the lead role, would have been quick-fix B-movies and footnotes in history and not the box-office sensations that she made them. Her downfall was in the fact that she was denied her identity and sold the idea that she was a sex-kitten and nothing more. As she wasn't the Hell Cat and ambitious diva that many others in the industry were, she didn't fight back but played along until she was played out. At least she had the glory of taking her final bow by choice.

Clara's career was echoed in that of Jean Harlow and Marilyn Monroe. Unlike Clara, neither of these ladies quit Hollywood. Their early exit was determined by their deaths. In both of their lives, Jean and Marilyn had moments of reflection and pain over the fact that they were looked upon as desirable fixtures for the male gaze and nothing more. Jean took a more light-hearted approach to it, her sexuality thus appearing accidental and just as comical in her films as it was enticing. Her screen presence was very much like Clara's, yet with more of a bitterness. Clara openly indulged in sex; Jean's girls mostly accepted sex as a means to an end, until a charmer like Clark Gable or Franchot Tone entered the frame and convinced her that there was still life to be had. Jean's heroines were strong and worldly, where Marilyn's, particularly earlier in her career, were oblivious, if not ignorant, if not completely vacant. Marilyn's form of sexual attack was, "Who, me?" rendering her, like Clara and Jean, as non-threatening. Yet, as a business-woman, there was nothing about her screen presence that was not carefully studied and constructed. Her lack of self-esteem and value as a child had only been quelled when she began receiving attention as a well-formed teen. Thus, she only believed her sexual self had the capability to gain, in essence, love. She learned how to use it to get what she wanted. Yet, when she tried to undo the damage, she could not completely let go of the only pleasing aspect of her character that she had ever had any confidence in-- her body-- in order to translate to an actress of any real repute. Even when critically acclaimed and recognized for her performances, the stigma of "bimbo" was always attached. Even after her death, her talents as an actress are recognized second to her reputation as a sex icon. She is recalled in still images-- her skirt blowing up in The Seven Year Itch-- or as as a joke-- the tramp that screwed the Kennedy brothers. (Jean pulls a Clara and reveals bare back in Hold Your Man, right).

Thus, the plight of the sexual woman is that she allegedly gets what she asks for, but she asks only for sexual recognition after she is initially denied her humanity. Beauty is both glorified and punished in the same breath-- the Virgin and the Whore scenario. I'm reminded of an image from Belle de Jour wherein Catherine Deneuve is pummeled with mud-- one of her sexual desires is to be debased. The audience watches with rapt attention, enjoying in her defamation as her character too relishes in it. Taking this moment and applying it more figuratively to women in the Clara-Jean-Marilyn chain of sexual heroines, a disturbing connection can be made. The director yells, "action," the woman rolls in the metaphorical mud for our amusement-- turning us on, debasing herself, and theoretically liking it-- and we watch. Yet, she is the only one who goes home dirty. The director is clean. The studio is clean. We're clean. Thus, the women that we eagerly watch pollute themselves for our amusement as sexual playthings and toys, are applauded for their eroticism but raped of common decency and mutual respect. When they take efforts to escape the sex bomb mold carefully created for them, they cannot ever wash themselves clean. When it comes to the Bond girls, topless horror actresses, Playboy bunnies, we salivate but we internally condemn. As such, when Marilyn Monroe died, Clara was intensely sympathetic, publicly stating that she understood the pressures of being a sex symbol and how they weigh on the soul. Her insinuation, of course, was that Marilyn's existence as a beautiful thing crippled her hopes of being a beloved woman. One wonders, since Jean Harlow passed away at the age of twenty-six, whether the same self-same burden too took its toll on her? She certainly bore similar stresses: she couldn't even win the commitment of William Powell in matrimony because he didn't want to be married to another bombshell-- Carole Lombard being the first. (Marilyn is cornered, left, and at our mercy, but does her duty in giving the impression that she likes being our prey).

There are a series of women that were fashioned to be sex-goddesses who crippled under the pressure. Some of them rebelled by sooner or later flipping Hollywood "the bird" and getting the hell out of town-- Greta Garbo, Veronica Lake, Kim Novak. Others suffered, simultaneously seeking to destroy their own beauty yet being equally distraught when it began disappearing, thus leaving them powerless-- Ava Gardner, Bridget Bardot, Lana Turner (right). Hollywood would thereby seem to teach us that you cannot be beautiful and a human being at the same time.  Those ladies who failed to calculatingly play "the game" found themselves unwitting members of a decadent menagerie-- a collection of butterflies pinned to the walls of Hollywood's sexual catacombs. Yes, 'sex is power,' but it is a heavy burden to carry. Like the bully on the playground robbed of his big stick, a sex object without her sexuality feels even more naked than she does in the buff. Colleen Moore, like Clara Bow, was a flapper, but her persona in Flaming Youth was more that of a quirky girl gone innocently haywire than that of a tramp on the loose. She possessed the spirit of the "flapper" generation, but was not one of its sexual prey. She had enough of a mogul mentality to make it in the business on her own terms. Louise Brooks, in her own retaliation, merely defected. She refused to trade her brains to make a buck, became disgusted with Hollywood, and simply left. Clara, in comparison, is thus a victim as much as she is her own villain, in that she let Hollywood do with her as it may with no resistance. Buried with her is a graveyard of women who listened in their youth when they were told to believe that they were no more than a pretty face: Rita Hayworth, Carole Landis, Barbara Payton, Linda Darnell, Hedy Lamarr, Jayne Mansfield...

Ava sits enticingly atop a phallic stick of dynamite because...

who they Hell knows why?

The "sexification" of daily life has only intensified. More and more it seems that Hollywood is selling nothing else, (yet they refuse to notice that we are buying fewer tickets). The audition process for females continues to escalate into total dehumanization and objectification. Women are measurements on a resume, they are types, they are placed into a category and when one doesn't fit, she is not allowed entre. Then there are the Frances Farmer's who try to make it on their own terms, refusing to just sit there and be pretty. Her sanity paid the forfeit. Those who obey the stereotypes and try to make it, often quickly fade into obscurity or are remembered as some bit of pop cultural trivia (Raquel Welch). The women that amazingly last are those in the Lillian Gish category, whose beauty never eclipsed her soul. Her talent was applicable at any age. Her longevity may be echoed by Nicole Kidman or Cate Blanchett or Reese Witherspoon, for their beauty and sensuality is secondary to their character. In whatever fashion, some manage to escape the sex label. Those ladies who do not, who compromise or are compromised, are never able to undo the stigma. It is their identification as beautiful, empty vessels by the public-- which demands such sexual props as constant visual stimuli-- that eradicates their chances at publicly recognized evolution. It would be too baffling to eliminate these erotic templates from society-- you can't stop the natural human reaction nor the mental signals that fire at the sight of a beautiful woman. Yet, is her victimization as an indicated "object" an unavoidable conclusion to this pulse of uncontrollable adrenaline? What is it in our natures that continually chooses to hate what we simultaneously love? Are we not responsible for the road of abandoned, once beautiful bodies?