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.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Orson Welles

Orson Welles, exhibiting his widely remarked upon "Oriental quality,"

 amidst objects also indicating the beauty and beast of his nature.

Orson Welles. The Boy Wonder, the Great White Hope, the Wunderkind, the Enfant Terrible, the Quadruple Threat, the etc. etc. etc. A man of multiple ambitions and perpetual, frantic, mental motion requires more than one name to account for his being. Interestingly, each moniker too infers a sort of size and magnitude. In time, his physical self would come to mirror the enormity of his intellectual capacity. History would indicate that Orson Welles was larger-than-life, a belief that he too supported by elaborating on his own mythology. You never knew where fiction ended and truth began. However, with Orson, despite the personal BS-ing, despite the flagrant disregard for societal or artistic standards, despite an almost indefatigable urge to disturb, the purpose was always about truth: uncovering truth, discovering truth, interpreting the truth, or even reforming it. But can anyone get to the truth of Orson? Doubtful. However, by dissecting his work, we can more fully come to respect him if not completely to comprehend.

Audiences waiting to get into Orson's voodoo "Macbeth," which included an all black cast. 

Orson's love of Shakespeare and dedication to reinterpreting the master was equal 

with that of contemporary Laurence Olivier. His dedication to politics and black

 rights too was a constant in his life.

Perhaps the fact most key to understanding Orson's nature is his parentage. In effect, he was forced to pay for the flagrant sins of the father and the supposed divinity of the mother. This duality, the good and evil angels whispering in his ears, continuously pulled him apart, putting him in constant turmoil with himself. His mother was the artiste, the musician, and the ambition propelling him toward success, and his father was the seductive, debaucherous, temptation pulling him to ruin. In either case, the result was excess. There was no half-way with Orson, no dabbling, no "perhaps;" there was only full throttle, full-speed-ahead, caution be damned! From an early age, after his mother's death, Orson devoted himself to becoming the brilliant youth she had always taught him to be, indeed told him he was. In fact, his mother's lover-- and in effect, his "step-father"-- Dr. Maurice Bernstein, was perhaps more fascinated with the boy than the woman. Orson would pick up quite a few father figures in his life, all of them compelled to both foster the young man's unique intelligence and artistic penchants and perhaps vicariously live through them. Orson's power and passion for life was seductive and was perhaps more interesting to men because it was always more cerebral than emotional-- though his intoxicating presence certainly affected many women in a more sexual nature. Orson's mother taught him to approach life through his head not his heart, and this effect can be seen in all of his work- cool, calculated, intriguing, but without sentiment. After his father too passed away-- a man from whom he had grown increasingly detached over the years-- Orson carried a heavy cross of guilt, and in turn began mimicking the alcoholic's self-destructive habits. Booze, women, amphetamines, food... excess. Always excess. The stress of living up to his mother's standards and the need to defy them by embracing his father's weaknesses created quite the contradictory individual-- at once intimidating, at once compelling, and always questionable.

During one of his popular "Mercury on the Air" broadcasts.

From his birth to the culmination of Citizen Kane, the story of Orson Welles's life looks like an impossibly perfect existence. Everything he touched turned to gold. In everything he tried, he excelled. Even his imperfections were exhultory, because they were devastating, different, and provocative. This was no ordinary boy. Quoting Shakespeare like he knew what he was talking about while still a tot, becoming the writer, director, and star of school productions at his beloved Todd School in his adolescent and teenage years, and making a smashing debut at Dublin's Gate Theater in "Hamlet" at the age of sixteen (playing Claudius and The Ghost, both decades older than himself), the fascinating youth's vigor was hypnotizing. Every patch of earth he tread upon, he altered. Via the Federal Theater Project and later the Mercury Theater Group in NY, he became the toast of the industry when he produced, wrote, directed, and sometimes starred in shocking vehicles such as "Macbeth," which he brazenly set in Haiti with an all black cast. Shakespeare was a constant fascination for Welles, and he would create several stunning interpretations of his classics over the years on stage and in film. His voice-- that superb, resounding, booming voice-- possessed a natural command, which was needed in such daunting roles and large scale productions. This voice too would lead him to radio, where he infected two-dimensional stories with a vivid and even violent life on the airwaves. Running back and forth from the stage to the recording studio, he would eventually write, direct, and perform in adaptations of Mutiny on the Bounty, Rebecca, Dracula, and most importantly The War of the Worlds, which memorably started a bit of a furor (which despite rumor was completely unintentional at the time). In doing so, he elevated the possibilities of entertainment. It was not just his performance, nor the performances of some of his favorite Mercury players (Agnes Moorehead, Joseph Cotten, or George Coulouris), but the creativity with which he delivered his interpretations that was so interesting. Imaginitive, bold, and inventive, he gave incredible detail to the sound of his broadcasts, even performing in the men's lavatory if he had to to create the illusion of a sewer. It was these qualities that made him a star before he had reached the age of 22, and these same qualities would bring Hollywood calling.

In Citizen Kane-- his masterwork and what some argue 

is the greatest film ever made.

Citizen Kane remains a hot topic of debate among cinephiles. It is genius, or it is absurd. It is the greatest film ever made or the most overrated. As always with Orson-- controversy. Some found fault in the film's coldness, the lack of feeling, the objectivity. Others see this as exactly the point, and they extol its artistic achievements and technological  innovations, which in effect changed filmmaking forever. The use of light, sound, camera angles, and the photography that Orson and Gregg Toland developed together kicked Hollywood in the pants and slapped America in the face. Some weren't ready for it, but ready or not, there Orson was. At the least, Citizen Kane was exciting! Not just because of the uproar it caused in the press, due to the too-close-to-home resemblance of the main character to newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst, but because it indicated a new generation of filmmaking-- art imitating life and twisting it instead of glorifying it. Change, Growth, Possibility: these words were at the very core of Orson's agenda. The likeminded Charlie Chaplin was a fan of the film. Louella Parsons, Hearst's right-hand-gossip columnist, obviously was not. Today, the vote is still split. It was argued that, afterward, Orson's chances for true success were destroyed by Hearst and the latter's battle to demolish not only the film but Orson himself, (which is ironic since the film actually indicated more about Orson Welles than it did Hearst or his lover Marion Davies). But, Orson had his own help in dissolving his heretofore stellar career. There were bright moments ahead, but for the unstoppable boy who grew up too fast, Citizen Kane became the burdensome triumph he could neither duplicate nor live up to.

Filming in Brazil for the unfinished It's All True.

But oh, did he try. After Kane, Orson-- forever putting too much on his plate-- started filming three vehicles at once. The Magnificent Ambersons, Journey into Fear, and the government induced documentary promoting the "Good Neighbor Policy," It's All True. He filmed Ambersons and Journey simultaneously, jumping from one set to the next without changing wardrobe, then left them unfinished and in the hands of the studio-- RKO-- while he went off to Brazil to maintain the Panamerican goodwill initiative between the North and South Americas, only to be swept up in the majesty of the "Carnival" of Rio, the samba, and the saga of the local people. Editing the first 2 films long distance, he basically offered input that was overturned, and both Journey and Ambersons suffered while he nonchalantly remained abroad, dedicated to the task at hand. For this, he too was partly at fault for the massacred remains of both pictures. Draining the studio dry financially-- for Orson only cared about the art not the cost-- RKO finally released sub-par versions of the films that Orson had originally intended and then pulled the plug completely on It's All True, which remains unfinished to this day. The hunt for the original cut of Ambersons makes it one of the most sought after films of all time, though there is beauty in the final cut left behind. Journey into Fear, with its climactic rain-soaked ending, and the remaining footage of It's All True also bear the unmistakable Welles mystique.

The Lady from Shanghai-- in which Orson challenged Hollywood both

by tampering with cinematic style and the perfected image of his 

movie star wife, Rita Hayworth.

In the end, it seems that Orson became overwhelmed by his own ambitions. He held such noble aspirations, but he was never able to carry things off as flawlessly as he had in his younger days. The pressure of staying on top only succeeded in knocking him off his pedestal. But he still had bright moments to come. Between his political stints-- using radio to defend the blinded, African-American war veteran Isaac Woodard, to support FDR for re-election, or to defend himself from assertions that he was a communist-- he revisited the theater, sometimes to exultant effects-- 1947's primeval reinterpretation of "Macbeth" or the racially controversial "Native Son"-- and had moments of cinematic brilliance as well. The nightmarish quality he produced in The Stranger, urging America to wake up, recognize and remember always the attrocities of WWII, the twisted and "somnambulistic" artistic achievements of The Lady from Shanghai with that incredible, indescribable final showdown in the funhouse, or the technical wizadry showcased in the four minute tracking shot of Touch of Evil-- as spellbinding as anything ol' Hitch could produce-- show that the genius was still there. His performance in The Third Man would too maintain his reputation, if only for his contribution of that cuckoo clock monologue. What is most often concurred about Welles's work is his perfect use of sound, which is unprecedented. But more telling perhaps is the visual composition. All of his films work, even when played silently, is hypnotic. Masterpieces to the eyes, one can be riveted, moved, and mesmerized even while not completely understanding what he or she is looking at. What these intercut images relay to each individual are perhaps not always effective, but they are affecting. That was Orson's purpose. He cared little what everyone thought; he cared greatly that people were thinking.

Orson's performance as Harry Lime is what some believe to be his best. 

The seductive, mysterious, and immoral character could only have

 been made charming by a man as equally complex.

Orson's embrace of concept, of taking an idea and bending it (and perhaps breaking it) to his own unique will is what has made his work stand the test of time and continue to engage both fans and enemies. As he aged, despite different triumphs, in Chimes at Midnight for example, Orson's achievements became lost under the immensity of his polemic reputation. He became somewhat of the butt of the joke. The man who had once been the toast of the town, married to Rita Hayworth, and with all the future in the palm of his hand, was now an overweight has-been producing a slew of theatrical flops and doing vocal work on the cartoon "Transformers." To Orson's credit, he never apologized for his girth, but rather used it to full effect in his later films. Perhaps this too was indicative of his shame, a living portrait of the disgusting wreck he had become. He thus apologized and refused to apologize at once. Orson's success, however, lay not in his perfections but in his imperfections; in his daring ability to say what others wouldn't, do what others wouldn't, and try what others wouldn't dare. The result was not always popular, but it was always bold. In his case, the means justified the (at times indiscernible) ends. His eccentric, flawed, and confused body of work thus remains one of the most remarkable to ever come out of Hollywood, simply because it is the product of pure originality.

With Peter Bogdanovich and unknown. Peter was a huge fan and did several

interviews with his mentor.

Martin Scorcese said that Orson Welles was the filmmaker who influenced a whole new generation of directors to want to make movies. Orson wasn't about offering answers, he was about asking questions. He did not want to luxuriate in ignorant bliss, he wanted to instigate intellectual warfare. He took a medium based upon pretty images and fairy tales and helped to turn them into something darker and more nightmarish and equally showed that such exploration was not a crime. While he himself may be held prisoner by his own caricatured self-- mocked even in his lifetime-- his disruption of the Hollywood agenda could possibly be the best thing that ever happened to the imaginative but often uninspired town. He is best compared to his most perfect role and his most highly acclaimed performance: Harry Lime in Carol Reed's masterpiece The Third Man. Not appearing until nearly an hour into the movie, Orson exists still as a dominant presence. The audience waits, growing increasingly anxious for his appearance, and when he finally reveals himself from out of the shadows, his insolent smirk alone produces an indescribable rush worth waiting for. Suddenly, things are more interesting, more provocative, more dangerous. You can't explain why, but Orson always seems to bring "something" to the table. He had more than his finger on the pulse of American life; he was a jolt of adrenaline in its arm. If you compare films made prior to Citizen Kane to those made after Citizen Kane, you will soon be forced to agree that we are all still his junkies.

NOW, THAT'S FUNNY: Part III

William Haines in Are You Listening?

William Haines was no phony. While he may have enjoyed the privileges that a life of luxury could afford, he also never took any of it seriously. It was all a joke really, and while he liked nice clothes and a fancy home, he could just as easily have walked away from it all at any given moment... which he essentially proved when he left the movies. Perhaps this stems from his good, old-fashioned southern roots. Integrity was everything to Billy, and those who lacked it or shirked it for superficial reasons annoyed him. He found the dramatic mannerisms of Pola Negri hilarious. Some found Greta Garbo "mysterious;" he found her stuck up. Others fell for Louis B. Mayer's tearful rages, Billy just laughed. He wanted people to be real: if you had class, you didn't have to invent it, nor cram it down anyone's throat. Thus, it comes as no surprise that one of his greatest foes was the ever exaggerated Elinor Glyn, who sent his BS detector flying off the charts.

Billy wasn't the only one who found the authoress to be an over-the-top, full-of-baloney diva. Clara Bow would jokingly refer to her as "that sh*t head." Chaplin too openly laughed at her feigned, worldly knowledge. But, for the most part, people tolerated her condescending invasion into the Hollywood lifestyle as her erotic books were adapted into screenplays. Billy didn't give a hoot who a person was as long as he or she was honest about it, but he saw Elinor as a walking nightmare of garish concoctions, both physical and mental (see right). The two never got along. Indeed, he called her "Baby Peggy." When Elinor passed out her great stamp of "It" on various actors like Clara, Gary Cooper, and Wallace Beery, Billy did not make the list. In fact, she blatantly told the world that he did NOT have "it," which theater-goers obviously disagreed with in ticket sales. (Others not making the "it" list were: Ronald Colman and Ramon Novarro). This was a jab that Elinor took at Billy specifically because he was immune to her charms, refusing to fall for her ruse of grandeur and grace. Too, he refused to flirt with her, as many men did in the hopes that her public approval would enhance their careers. When Elinor came sniffing around Billy, he just raised an eyebrow, threw off a quip, and ignored her. The insecure Elinor was enraged.

Their battle was quite public, and Billy showed his open irritation, if not contempt, refusing to support the image of Elinor's supreme intellectual and sexual perfection. He made fun of it-- and her snubbing of him-- by saying: "Elinor... said I was a big ham. I replied that the best hams in the world came from Virginia." However, the most memorable confrontation Billy and Elinor had was at the illustrious San Simeon, home of William Randolph Hearst and Billy's good friend, Marion Davies. A frequent guest, Billy was not too jazzed to see Elinor in attendance at one particular party. He happened to overhear her rattling on and on about "It." Who had "it," who didn't, and finally he got fed up. After hearing her list off all the reasons that he himself did not have "it," Billy marched right up to her and said, "Madame Glyn, you, of course, certainly do have 'it,' but you left the 'sh' of it." Elinor's face turned bright red. Billy, undoubtedly, turned on his heels and sauntered off with a smirk and a whistle. Final score: Billy- 1, Elinor- 0.

Another minor rivalry existed between Louella Parsons and Veronica Lake. Ronni (right) could really care less what Louella Parsons thought about her, and she didn't ever get involved in any of the petty gossip that seemed to keep Hollywood spinning, but for some reason Louella took a particular interest in her. Perhaps out of jealousy, Louella often made Ronni the subject of her articles, spreading the slanderous rumors that Ronni was both hard to work with and a temperamental diva. These allegations are strange, as in looking back I find it difficult to find any accounts of unprofessional behavior or rage-fueled tantrums displayed by Ronni on the set. Most of the rumors harken back to her first big movie, I Wanted Wings, when Constance Moore started spreading it around set that Ronni kept late hours and was always up partying. Ronni was actually always home in bed while Connie was engaging in this behavior. However, director Mitchell Leisen believed the tales and gave Ronni quite a roasting. Stories were spread, and soon every one believed that Veronica was causing trouble on this and every set she ever stepped on. Louella caught wind and chose to believe that Ronni truly was the troublemaking brat Hollywood had labeled her as. In her columns, she often reference Ronni was "overrated," either in acting ability or in the looks department. Ronni tried to ignore the negative press, but it did at times get her down. One day, she got a little bit of revenge. She happened to bump into Louella at a beauty parlor. Louella didn't recognize her, which was common since in her off time Ronni dressed down and without makeup. Looking simple and soft, like the girl next door, she overheard Louella comment to her attendant, "What a pretty girl." Not letting the opportunity pass her by, Ronni piped in: "Why don't you write that in your column!" Whoops, Lolly.

 Louella takes aim...

Of course, some of the slanderous portrayals of celebrity naughtiness are true, or at least based on some kernal of the truth. For example, William Haines was rightly referenced as a bit of a party-boy, enjoying nights on the town, get-togethers with friends, and good-natured shenanigans. One of his partners in crime was BFF Joan Crawford, his number one fan and lifelong ally. Joan had a rep of her own, mixing together her own ferocious ambition and unstoppable diligence with her raw and uninhibited sexuality. Joan always got what she wanted, whether it be a role or a man, but her career always came first. For this reason, she rarely got into trouble. She did get others into trouble, however. Case in point: West Point, in which she starred with Billy (left). The story takes place at the legendary military academy, and indeed this is where the cast and crew shot many of their scenes. Joan was already causing a stir on the set by NOT wearing stockings and baring her legs to the world, but she would take her rebelliousness further when flirting with the entire student body. In fact, the erotically charged Joan had no qualms about enjoying her time on campus, so she accepted (or perhaps even made) a date with one of its students. When it was discovered that the cadet skipped his classes to go out with Joan Crawford, he was immediately expelled. However, I doubt he regreted it, and Joan certainly had a good laugh.

Another naughty boy was Montgomery Clift, whose chosen salve for his personal demons was the age old trick of inebriation. Marring his classic good looks in his notorious car wreck of 1956 only propelled him deeper into his personal misery and an addiction to pain pills. Meanwhile, Monty had an ongoing rivalry with Marlon Brando, though they both truly respected each other. They would never be close friends, as competing egos rarely are, but they spent their lives privately inspired by each other, openly criticizing each other, and always trying to out-do each other. In truth, they were very different talents, with Marlon bursting forth on the screen like a lightning bolt and Monty insinuating himself more like an ominous storm cloud. In life, they came off the same way, with Monty being more elegant and Marlon more brash. Not surprisingly, Marlon found Monty stuck up and serious; Monty found Marlon just plain sloppy. Both were fairly quirky characters, though Monty often appeared much more "normal" than the exaggerated Marlon. This made it all the more shocking to learn that Monty was the one in greater personal danger, as Marlon himself would witness. 


Marlon showed his respect for Monty shortly after the latter completed Raintree County, the film which notoriously shows the "before" and "after" of Monty's car crash face. Monty went into a deep depression after the film bombed and he was snickered by audiences aghast at his lost beauty. Marlon surprised him when he drove to his house and begged him to get off the drugs and alcohol. Monty was touched (and surprised) by the concern, but insisted that he was fine... as he downed another vodka. The two buried the hatchet, admitting how impressed they were by their respective performances in A Place in the Sun and A Streetcar Named Desire. It was quite a moment. Marlon explained that he didn't want Monty to kill himself-- it was a waste of talent. Sacrilege! He also couldn't lose his top competitor, his "challenger," who kept pushing him to better his own performances. "You have to stop this nonsense, if not for your sake, then for mine!" he pleaded. Still, Monty was unmoved. But he was inspired enough to get to work on his next picture, ironically with Marlon. The two made The Young Lions, their only mutual movie, though they didn't even have any scenes together. Occasionally Monty would see Marlon lurking around the set, watching him work. Even in this, his darkest moment, he saw that he hadn't lost his touch. If he could impress Brando... Well, 'nuff said.

 A true actor, Monty insisted on creating truthful 
characters from the inside out, such as for 
his role as Noah in The Young Lions,

for which he distended his ears
and put putty on his nose.