HISTORY LESSON: TV Movie [Stars] - Part 2

The beautiful Ava Gardner shows her versatility as a special celebrity

guest on the quiz show "What's My Line?"

I Have to Be Home by 8:00, Because...!

There were definitely some major successes in the Movie to TV migration. Whether certain personalities were simply better suited for the small screen or were likewise more seemingly approachable and likable, there are a handful of Lords and Ladies who amplified their power simply by taking their comfy place in people's living rooms. One such person was comedian extraordinaire Groucho Marx (left), whose grease-painted mustache had long been replaced by the real thing. Always a popular guest and the hit of every party he attended, it only make sense that he be the favorite part of any piece of television he poked his ever-rolling eyes into. Not only was he regularly offered guest host spots on the likes of "The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson" or "Tonight with Jack Paar," he also participated on "What's My Line?" and even an episode of "Hollywood Squares."

Clearly, America was still Coconuts for him. Thus, after an improvised radio broadcast with Bob Hope sparked the idea, he became the host of his own game show on NBC: "You Bet Your Life." If you've ever noticed that a duck is often associated with Groucho, look to this show for the reason-- in addition to Duck Soup, of course. The format was simple. Average, American guests would be invited on the show where Grouch' would improvise, make conversation with them, and poke fun (right). In essence, he used his wit to draw out many a laugh from the viewing audience as the embarrassed participants turned beet-faced at his shenanigans. Finally, the guest duo would be asked a series of questions from a category of their choosing. In addition to this, there was a "secret word" that Groucho would try to get the players to innocently say in the midst of conversation. If they accidentally uttered it, the infamous duck would descend from the ceiling with a $100 bill in his bill. The show was such a success that the metaphorical ball was later passed to Bill Cosby as host in 1992, but Groucho-- as usual-- was the instigator!

Women in particular seemed to have luck with television, as in the following two examples. Perhaps this is because actual housewives and stay-at-home moms were able to use TV as a daily gateway to the outside world, which their husbands so often took for granted. Having classy, strong, and relatable women telling their stories for them seemed to be a gift from heaven for den mothers, but the fellas enjoyed these shows too. The case of Donna Reed is particularly fascinating. In a little over a decade, Donna had worked her way up from supporting roles in Shadow of the Thin Man and The Courtship of Andy Hardy to an Oscar win for From Here to Eternity. A shrewd business woman, she experimented with television cautiously as it slowly gained its dominion, and in 1958 she signed on for her own series, appropriately titled "The Donna Reed Show" (left). 

Very similar to the recent hit "Leave It to Beaver, " the show was a tribute to the all American family-- or at least the all American family dream-- where misunderstandings and common family problems are humorously and touchingly dealt with. The moral of the show hit home for most viewers with its uplifting storylines, which boosted morale on the home front, and promised not so much that good will come if you do the right thing, but that doing the right thing is just the right thing to do. It was a huge hit that earned Donna a Golden Globe and ran successfully for 8 seasons. Finally, after preaching that a family that sticks together stays together, Donna was burnt out by the weekly demands of the show, and the series came to an end. Donna worked intermittently on other series-- "The Love Boat," "Dallas"-- but with the unprecedented success of the show behind her, she soon put TV behind her too.

Doris Day was always a fan favorite. With her cheery onscreen persona, bright and crystalline singing voice, and average American gal disposition, she became a huge movie star and an obvious candidate for television success. Yet, with a surprisingly complicated and sometimes devastating personal life contrasting her public identity, Doris's entertainment career was both an emotional saving grace and a hefty burden that added to the intensifying pressure cooker of her sanity. But, a girl's gotta eat. Thus, when her contribution to cinema came to a halt in 1968-- after television had more than injected its influence over the American way of life-- she made the jump to CBS to star in her own series: "The Doris Day Show." Despite the show's title, Doris's character was not named Doris Day on the show but Doris Martin-- just as Jean Arthur was Patricia Marshall on "The Jean Arthur Show" and Donna Reed played Donna Stone on "The Donna Reed Show." The lack of creativity in the show's title was simply a marketing ploy by the network to benefit from the celebrity's star power and get viewers to tune in. (Doris in the Season 2 Christmas Special, right).

With Doris, CBS knew they were getting plenty of bank for their buck. Doris's program ran for five seasons but progressed in a very peculiar fashion. The fish out of water plot line essentially followed Doris's widowed character and her two sons as they moved to the country from their posh city lives and bunked up at her family's farm. The usual chaos and hijinks ensued. Strangely, every season altered after the first, with Doris and her sons changing locales, she changing careers, and eventually the sons disappearing from the story completely. Still, the awkward nature of the storyline did not stop viewers from watching one of their favorite celebs every week. It did surprisingly well, and due to its lengthy run (in a world where most series were lucky to make it one season if any), it can be reasonably considered a bona fide success. 

After "The Doris Day Show" came to an end in 1973, Doris basically retired from acting, though she did have another series as a talk show hostess on a program entitled "Doris Day's Best Friends." On the show, she would reminisce with old showbiz pals about the good ol' days on the silver screen and, once again, allow the production company to capitalize off aging nostalgia for Hollywood gone bye-bye. Her first guest on the show was none other than Rock Hudson, her three time collaborator and good friend (left in Lover Come Back). This was, of course, a remarkable moment for viewers and Doris herself, who hadn't seen her former co-star in years. Unbeknownst to her, Rock was already deep in the throes of his battle with AIDs. He had been aware of his illness for a year, having been diagnosed in 1984. When he made his appearance on the show in 1985, his shocking weight loss and sickly disposition had a shattering effect on Doris. Rock would announce his disease mere days after the broadcast and would pass away in less than three months. Thus, what was meant to be a beautiful reunion was practically the bittersweet final note to her pitch-perfect career. "Doris Day's Best Friends" would continue for one season and 26 episodes. Aside from occasional personal appearances, Doris would bid Hollywood farewell, and much like her earlier Doris Martin character, return to a simpler and more private life away from chaos in Carmel, CA.

It's Show Time!

The business of Television is hard. No matter the talent behind the show's writing, nor the creativity of the storyline, nor the appeal of the performers, the comprised efforts don't always result in a hit. Nothing is surefire. All sorts of factors can effect a show's reception-- a competitive time slot, varying audience tastes, a poor chemistry amongst the cast, etc. What seems a possible runaway hit on paper can often tank on the air. Famous or not, TV is a gamble for anyone. A bunch of unknown, struggling actors shot to fame on "Friends" in 1994, and the show ran for 10 seasons; acclaimed actor Dustin Hoffman took at stab at "Luck" in 2011 on HBO only to receive poor ratings, and now the show's tenuous second season hangs by a thread. To even produce a pilot is a success. To be picked up by a network is a glory rarely received. To make it through an entire first season is astounding. Those few programs that run for years and really grip the public are pure miracles. There aren't many, and there are even fewer that will be remembered as classics after the series finale, but some of our superstar wonders were actually able to dine on an exclusive slice of TV heaven instead of sulking over a plate of humble pie.

Loretta Young was a lovely and vulnerable looking young girl when she landed her first major role in the Lon Chaney film Laugh, Clown, Laugh in 1928. Over the next 25 years, she would develop into a powerhouse female lead in numerous major motion pictures. Known as the "Iron Butterfly" for her killer combo of delicate, pre-Raphaelite beauty (left) and a tough and ambitious business savvy, Loretta boasts one of the most impressive resumes in cinematic history. Realizing quickly that television was the wave of the future, she wasted no time in jumping head first into the new medium. Her series, "The Loretta Young Show," was another anthology series that produced a fresh drama every week. She was the first woman to host her own show, and her grand entrance at the beginning of every episode in a new, drop-dead-gorgeous gown was the perhaps the most eagerly anticipated moment of the program.

Like Errol Flynn, Loretta would do an introduction at the episode's opening, and the story would commence with a different plot each week-- akin to the TV movie-- with varying actors. She sometimes would appear in an episode herself. The glamour plus the salivating drama made Loretta's show a huge success that ran for 8 seasons on NBC from 1953-1961. In 1963, she switched networks to CBS to appear in another series, "The New Loretta Young Show," this time strictly acting as a widow who supported herself as a freelance writer. Yet again, though the title bore her name, Loretta played character Christine Massey. The tone of the show bore touches of both drama and comedy, but it only lasted one season. Audiences apparently wanted Loretta to appear only as her glamorous self. Fifty-years-old by the time filming ended, Loretta enjoyed working on a few TV movies and settled into retirement a very wealthy woman-- not to mention a big and small screen legend.

The award for consistency and duration goes to one of the great funnymen of history-- and good pal of Groucho Marx-- Jack Benny (right). From vaudeville, to radio, to film, Benny seamlessly translated his humor to any given outlet. With his always immaculate comedic timing, hilariously underplayed facial expressions, and somehow likable buffoon characterizations-- imagine an uptight Steve Carell in "The Office"-- there was no one immune to his jocular abilities. Unafraid of being the butt of his own jokes, Benny's most infamous persona was that of the irritable miser who both refused to admit he was older than 39 and played the violin abominably (although he was a great proficient in reality). His great gag was the hold-up sketch. The mugger would point his gun and yell, "Your money or your life!" to which, after a breadth of silence and more prodding, Benny would reply, "I'm thinking, I'm thinking!" His great success, specifically on the radio on "The Jack Benny Program," was quickly transferred to television in 1950 on CBS where it ran for fifteen straight years.

Previous to this and during the show's run, he would make appearances on other programs, including the "GE True Theatre" and "The George Burns and Gracie Allen Show," but with  his own primetime spot, he blew all other competition out of the water. His was the show everyone wanted to watch and no one wanted to miss, including everyone from the town butcher, baker, and candlestick-maker to JFK himself. As was the general standard of the time, at each show's beginning, Benny would come out to greet the viewers with an opening monologue and likewise finish the show with a closer. In between, anything was possible in the life of Jack Benny. So closely was he identified with his TV character, that a cab driver, for example, was shocked to receive such a large tip from him in real life! In the end, counting its radio days, "The Jack Benny Program" ran for three decades, finally coming to a conclusion in 1965, the last year of which was filmed at NBC. Benny would bow out while still on top and his presence in the homes of many was deeply missed. Luckily, he would still pop up from time to time on "The Bob Hope Show"or "Kraft Music Hall" before his death in 1974.

Of course, despite Jack Benny's long term hold on the public, there is but one person who is forever identified as the all-time favorite TV personality: Lucille Ball. After struggling vainly for years in her attempts to become a film actress, Lucy could never seem to achieve success at the B-level of filmmaking. Despite her great beauty, there was an earthy, unfinished quality that kept her from being a glamour queen of the silver screen like Carole Lombard. Despite her talent in acting, audiences had trouble relating to her intensity or emotion the same way they could with Katharine Hepburn. It was her union with the ambitious Cuban bandleader Desi Arnaz and her coincidental gig on the radio program "My Favorite Husband" in 1948 that brought her the opportunity of a lifetime. When a deal was struck to take the show from the airwaves to the TV set, Lucy brought her husband and collaborator with her, and the rest is history for eternity. The over-the-top comedy of the Ricardos was hilarious, decent, and relatable. Through "I Love Lucy" (left), the lady herself proved that a woman could be both attractive and a total ham-- and even a basket case. Despite her frustrating antics and the unbelievable amount of trouble she caused each week, she also made a bold feminist statement that a woman need not be perfect to be loved. It was all the varying shades of both devotion and insanity that drew Ricky Ricardo to his red-headed, adorably vexatious bride. Through Ricky's performing career, the trials of parenthood, and from New York to Hollywood to Europe and back, the Ricardo family endured both despite and because of their mix of irritation and passion.

Unfortunately, the real life marriage of Lucy and Desi would not fare so well. Their turbulent and stormy union, which had made such beautiful music publicly, was a private Hell. The "I Love Lucy" show enjoyed six seasons of phenomenal success despite the increasingly venomous relationship the couple shared behind the scenes. Agreeing that the show was worth saving even if the marriage wasn't, "I Love Lucy" changed in format for its 7-9th seasons, becoming hour long episodes that roughly added up to four per year. The guest stars continued, with everyone from John Wayne to Milton Berle making an appearance at some point during the 9 years of "I Love Lucy" and  "The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour." Yet, it finally became clear that the temperaments of the two stars could not bear much more. The program came to a close in 1960 and Lucy left Desi and co-star William Frawley behind to start her own series with Vivan Vance, otherwise known as Ethel, who reluctantly agreed to continue the next chapter of the characters' friendship on "The Lucy Show" (right). This storyline involved the new lives of the widowed Lucy and the divorced Viv, which was clearly a popular plot instigator for a lot of aging female actresses on TV at the time. While Jack Benny-- who shot his own program at the Desilu Studios-- made a few appearances on this series, and several other guest stars popped in, the show's success would not match the brilliance of the original. Still, it lasted six more seasons and was later followed by "Here's Lucy!" which followed a new Lucy Carter as a widowed mother of teenagers again making it on her own. This made it for 6 more surprising seasons, mostly due to Lucy's power than to the show's material. Her final stab at TV came in the brief, single season series "Life with Lucy," now portraying Lucy Barker and her adventures as a grandmother. 

From 1950 10 1986, Lucille Ball made a huge impact on the world of Television, giving it an integrity born of her humanity, drive, and humor that made it more welcoming to those still-questioning film celebrities who feared this mysterious new vehicle for their talents. Clearly, not everyone would enjoy Lucy's success, and in truth, with her personal anxiety, she never really did either, but "I Love Lucy" in particular remains the show that took the little engine that could and made it an uncompromising force of overwhelming power. Today, because of the foundation that people like Ball, Benny, Young, and numerous other personalities of boob tube fame made, the world of television continues to grow exponentially. From "The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson" (1962-1992), to "Bewitched" with Elizabeth Montgomery (1964-1972), to "The Cosby Show" with Bill Cosby (1984-1992), to "30 Rock" with Tina Fey and Alec Baldwin (2006-2013), the medium continues to expand. NBC, HBO, FX, sitcoms, soaps, dramas, live, recorded on DVRs, and available post-season on DVD, we continue to expand the possibilities of entertainment, which may not be as focused nor as controlled as it once was but is certainly more varied. Though the presence of thousands of channels can be overwhelming, there is literally something for everyone. Thus, single-theater towns temporarily inhabited by rotating cast of players merely passing through on their vaudeville circuit has become a chosen program on demand starring your favorite actors at the touch of your fingertips. 

Don Adams would portray the incompetent secret agent Maxwell Smart on "Get Smart" 

in the late 1960s on television and, in a role reversal, Steve Carell would bring
the same character to life in the movies in 2008.

While one may often question the integrity of "What Would Ryan Lochte Do?" one can be reminded of the great creativity and bold behind-the-scenes choices of programmers, producers, writers, and actors by seeing glimpses of past brilliance in today's more intriguing, provocative, and evocative series. Lucy can be found in Amy Poehler, the dramatic Loretta Young style may be glimpsed through series like "The Good Wife," and Jack Benny's unconventional family humor has been updated and modernized via "Louie." The couch has provided a more comfortable place for us to participate in and observe our ever-changing society as it grows, changes, and stays the same. And so, as Sonny and Cher said, "The beat goes on..."

HISTORY LESSON: Performers in the Pen- Part I

Robert Mitchum enjoys a cigarette in prison, ironically

when he was arrested for smoking something else.

When Robert Mitchum was interviewed regarding his work on Crossfire (1947), a press agent asked him why he chose to perform in the film (in the role of "Keeley"). His response was: "I hate cops." This retort was mostly the product of his nonsensical and irreverent style-- he didn't care much for studio publicity-- but it was also partially true. Having several brushes and skirmishes with the law, Bob had certainly earned a touch of antipathy toward the police force. However, any personal anger was diluted by his equal sense of humor about his sketchy past, which at least supplied him with plenty of material for his favorite hobby of storytelling. He wasn't the only one with an entertaining or embarrassing stain on his history. Over the years, the very public brother- and sisterhood of celebrity cellmates has only increased. Today, they seem like a piece of daily news, but back in the day, when movie stars' reputations were protected at all costs, their little, legal slips and slides were better hidden-- and thus all the more scandalous when they landed on the front page.

Bob didn't have to delve too deeply for his characterization of resentful ex-con

"Max Cady" in Cape Fear, having spent some time 

"in the clink" himself.

Bob had an early start in building his criminal record. He would later joke that he had been arrested at least 37 times in his life, but this was probably more of that legendary Mitchum exaggeration.  However, there are several events of which the public is now aware. For starters, Bob was arrested for vagrancy when on a train-hopping kick in his teens. Many towns held a grudge against these legions of traveling bums, who wandered in and out of various communities, muddying up the view. Thus, when Bob hit Savannah, GA-- where he was innocently picking up some money that his mother had been kind enough to send-- he was immediately accosted and taken to the station. Bob always maintained that he was arrested for simply being poor. The county tried to tack a shoe department burglary onto his charge, but even the judge had to admit that this was ridiculous. He did spend 7 days in Chatham County Camp No. 1 for the vagrancy charge, but when he learned that the guards had a tendency to extend sentences in order to keep incarcerated laborers on the chain gang, Bob promptly took a run through the woods and escaped! He found life safer at home in Delaware.

In April of 1945, while enjoying an increasingly promising career in Hollywood, Bob arrived home exhausted (and probably tight) one  particular evening to find the police at his house. It seems that his wife-- Dorothy-- and his neighboring mother and sister had gotten into quite the quarrel. Both sides were very possessive of Bob-- his wife thinking that she deserved his full attention, and his blood relatives thinking the same. The cat fights were constant. Needless to say, Bob was both miffed and stressed with all the B.S, and in a fit of misdirected animosity, he lashed out at the officers and told them to arrest him: "Let's go downtown right now, motherf*ckers!" They apparently took his request literally, for a fight ensued, and Bob was booked. Originally handed 180 days, he later opted to accept the more patriotic, military option, joining the America troops overseas. This ploy was most probably a studio push to protect his image. A soldier looked much better than a convict.

However, no sooner had he gotten back than Bob and his pal and body double, Boyd Cabeen, raised some more Hell. Suffering exhaustion during the dual shooting schedule of Desire Me and Undercurrent, which left him hopping back and forth sometimes thrice a day between RKO and MGM, Bob and his drunken cohort decided to enact a little boyish tomfoolery. More than tipsy, the duo returned to MGM after a round of drinks, wandered into wardrobe, and started pulling any and everything they saw off the shelves: hairbrushes, hairdryers, Lucille Ball's wig, etc. Bob gifted the hair dryer to his wife, probably while swaying proudly in their front doorway upon his homecoming. MGM's own Chief H.Q. Hodgett later got down to brass tacks and located the infidels, who had been clearly witnessed in their revelry by several people. Bob was called while on the set, wherein he admitted to his participation in what he called a "gag," and the stolen objects were retrieved.  The studio didn't press charges, but did fine RKO-- Bob's home studio-- for damages. (Lucy may have been haunted by the mysterious Boris Karloff during Lured, but it was Bob and his sticky fingers that she should have feared at this time, right)!

Another small faux pas occurred much later while behind the wheel of his Jaguar. When pulled over for speeding, Bob, at first, was casually shooting the breeze with the policeman peering into his car. Then, taking a look around, he asked the cop if he had any "witnesses" to his vehicular debauchery. The answer, considering the emptiness of the dark, quiet street, was naturally, "No." With that, Bob yelled, "Bye-bye!" and sped away. A warrant was issued for his arrest for speeding over 70 mph, evading arrest, and resisting an officer, which combined could have landed him in the clink for five years. Looking a bit sheepish in the courtroom, the Judge was lenient with Bob, lessening the charges to just speeding and "delaying an officer." Bob was fined $200 total for his lead foot.

For a man who loved freedom, driving anywhere-- and fast--

 was second nature to Bob.

Yet, this is not the most notorious of Bob's legal woes. Every actor seems to have a stigma hovering over him. For Errol Flynn it was the statutory rape trial, for Rudy Valentino it was the "powder puff" label, and for Richard Gere it is that lingering gerbil rumor. For Bob, it was another thing entirely: Marijuana. Bob would be the first to admit that he loved the stuff. He found it mellowing, reassuring, comforting, and honestly just enjoyable. He began his love affair with Mary Jane at a young age and, being the eternal scholar that he was, had educated himself on every genus of the delicious weed available. He even grew his own crop and, like a wine connoisseur, could tell friends exactly where each bud was cultivated just by taste. (Show off). However, as the substance was and remains illegal-- that is, unless you suffer from insomnia, anxiety, or dancing, banana hands, and have therefore obtained a magical pot card-- it wasn't exactly a positive thing for him to be so nonchalantly indulging in the vice. Indeed, he should have feared the reefer...

Bob had formed a friendship with the struggling actress and social castaway Lila Leeds (left) in 1948. Enjoying a brief and bumpy career in the industry, Lila was trying to make a comeback, and gaining a pal like the unpretentious Mitchum-- a real find in Hollywood-- gave her a little more confidence. However, she also had a growing addiction to various inebriates, including Bob's shared passion: cannabis. Thus, she and her roommate Vicki Evans invited Bob and his friend, real estate agent Robin Ford, to their place for a little late night game of puff-puff-pass. Bob and Robin arrived, not knowing that the police had been staking out their hostesses' pad in Laurel Canyon. As soon as Bob took his first drag, the door burst open, and the toking foursome found themselves under arrest! Due to the irregularity of this strangely coincidental arrest, all signs pointed to a set-up. After all, the cops hadn't barged in on Lila and Vicki, who had been imbibing all evening, but had waited for the big name star to arrive. Conspiracy theories ran amok: Lila thought that she had been set up by Vicki, Bob suspected his former business manager, others believed that either the studio magnates or the district attorney were simply making an example of him. There was even a theory that Mickey Cohen had orchestrated the whole thing, though his reasons for doing so remain unclear.

In any case, Howard Hughes of RKO put on his hero cape and arranged for Bob to have the best lawyer, the infamous Jerry Geisler, who would be representing Bob on two counts of possession and conspiracy to possess-- totaling 6 years in jail time. Mitchum posted bail at $1000 after enjoying some laughs in jail for the cameras, and Geisler got to work. While the counselor agreed that something odd was afoot, he could not prove who it was that had "framed" Bob and felt that a public delving into his client's past and private life could damage the star's career irreparably. Thus, he threw Bob on the mercy of the court, asking that they decide his innocence or guilt for the "possession" charge in accordance with the "conspiracy to possess" count. They would therefore be judging Bob's fate "on the basis only of the transcript of the testimony before the Grand Jury." It was agreed. In the end, both Bob and Lila obtained a one-year sentence, which was lessened to 2 years of probation, including a 60 day sentence. 

Bob may be getting a little irritated with the photography

at this point...

This was how Bob found himself Prisoner #91234 at the county jail and later at Wayside Honor Farm, where he wore overalls and did hard time doing farm labor. Despite the chili from Barney's Beanery that friends brought or all the candy bars that Hughes consistently sent him-- a specification the latter found necessary for Bob's health-- Bob still worked off whatever weight he had and became nearly as thin as he was in his youth.  He also sobered up and took stock of the pain and humiliation that he had caused his wife and children. In addition, because of the fines and legal fees, he had been forced to sell his family's home, and the debt was piling up. One innocent night of social smoking had left him cooked. Thankfully, the eccentric Hughes like Bob, and courteously loaned him $50,000. In the cold light of day, Bob started to feel properly guilty, though he maintained his amused demeanor before the hoards of visitors and press hounds. He did his time and, needless to say, was overly grateful when he was again free. For a man who hated walls, jail was pretty much Hell. 

Probably a posed shot for the press to indicate his

"good behavior" to the public.

Fortunately, the public-- at least the younger crowd-- thought Bob was all the more "cool" for his latest transgressions. His "badness" was exactly what they liked about him in the first place. However, this particular arrest was a stain on his life that he would never outrun, and it also probably led to the industry thereafter never taking him seriously, despite his impressive resume and mind-blowing work on the silver screen. 

To add insult to injury, the woman who owned the property that Lila had been renting in Laurel Canyon-- the scene of the crime-- put her couch up for sale after she had evicted the naughty starlet. The listing was as follows: "Charming sofa and arm chair, new slipcovers hide cigaret [sic] burns. Robert Mitchum sat here." Apparently, the dough she got for the furniture wasn't enough, for she later sued Bob for the damages he had allegedly done at the now notorious 8443 Ridpath house, though he had been there mere minutes before the police barged in.

Sporting a mustache, Bob had clearly been incarcerated for awhile

when this picture was taken. But is he packing or unpacking?

*In other jail bait news, Robert did time at Wayside with tennis player Bill Tilden, though they never saw each other. He also filmed The Wonderful Country with baseball player Leroy "Satchel" Paige, who was specifically let out of prison to perform his role in the picture. He had been serving time in Florida when Bob requested him for the film.

More faces and disgraces to come next week!

Bob and Robin.

To be continued...

CAST AWAYS: Part X

Can You Imagine...

Spencer Tracy was ecstatic about receiving the role of J. Aubrey Piper in 1934's The Show-Off. The film was to be a reincarnation of the earlier silent success starring Ford Sterling and Louise Brooks of 1926, which in turn was adapted from the Broadway play that hit the boards in 1924. Revolving around an obliviously arrogant "entrepreneur" who blows his girl's money and thus his own faulty reputation, the role of Piper allowed Spence to indulge in his comedic side while rounding out a complex and convoluted character. But the role initially was to go to another Tracy: Lee Tracy. Lee had performed in the play on Broadway, so it was only natural that Metro purchase the title to bolster their growing star's career. Lee had experienced recent cinematic success in Dinner at Eight and Bombshell, and a reprisal in The Show-Off seemed to be just the ticket to push him over the edge into super-stardom. Unfortunately, Lee had a bit of a drinking problem. When shooting Viva Villa! in Mexico, Lee got hammered and urinated off his hotel balcony, which was doubly unfortunate, since it occurred during (and on top of) the Revolution Day Parade. Needless to say, the Mexican Cadet Corp. was insulted, and MGM was thrown into publicity mayhem. With Lee suddenly ostracized to No-Man's-Land and his contract terminated, Spence nabbed his role in The Show-Off-- allegedly via the support of Irving Thalberg and Frank Morgan, who encouraged MGM to borrow him from Fox. It would be his first time on the lot, but not his last. Ironically, the alcoholic addictions that lost Lee the lead in The Show-Off would be shared by Spence, and MGM would be in constant uproar trying to cover-up his own bender shenanigans once he signed with the studio.

Lee Tracy, giving his best "thirsty" face.

Spencer Tracy and Laurence Olivier (left) had a mutual respect for each other's talents. Spence marveled at Larry's intricate characterizations, and Larry envied Spence's natural fusion and delivery. They had long wanted to work together, having struck up an acquaintance around the time that Spence handed Larry's wife Vivien Leigh her Oscar for Gone with the Wind at the 1940 ceremony. Spence had even helped coach Larry in his Midwestern accent for the film Carrie (1952). However, time, distance, and Burt Lancaster separated them. The Hecht-Lancaster-Hill production team approached Larry to perform in the ensemble cast of Separate Tables of 1958 in the role of Major Angus Pollock. Larry read the script and was highly intrigued, particularly since he thought Spence would too be superb in the role of John Malcolm. He alerted Spence to the project, and Spence equally became excited, but he worried that producer/actor Lancaster would want the role for himself. Larry assured him that Burt had indicated his support of Spence in the role, so it seemed like a done deal. Thus, Larry accepted the role of Pollock with the stipulation that Spence perform opposite him in the cast. Unfortunately, Burty had a little change of heart and did in fact decide to take on the role of Malcolm himself. Thus, both Larry and Spence were out. The role Larry was to play went to David Niven instead and earned him an Academy Award.

Burt Lancaster gives Rita Hayworth a light in Separate Tables. Working

with Hayworth was probably reason enough for him to swipe the role 

from Spence.

Nonetheless, the denied duo hoped to reconnect on a later project, and 1961's Judgment at Nuremberg seemed to be their chance. Stanley Kramer had approached Spence about taking the role of  Judge Dan Haywood early on, as the two had successfully collaborated previously on Inherit the Wind. Imagine Spence's double pleasure when he learned that Kramer had approached Larry about taking on the role of guilt-ridden Judge Ernst Janning. Finally! As the conflicting moral compasses and counterpoints in the piece-- mirrored by the opposing counsels of Richard Widmark and Maximilian Schell-- the project would pit the greatest American actor against the greatest British one, who would be employing a noteworthy German accent no less. Unfortunately, Larry was unavailable. He was performing on the stage in New York in "Becket" at the time. In addition, he was insecure about taking on the role of the aged Judge because of his relationship with the much younger Joan Plowright, whom he would marry the July before the film's release. Thus, Burt came on the scene and snagged the role out from under Larry yet again. It was regrettable for many concerned, including Kramer, who was not overly pleased with Burt's performance in the role. When imagining Spence and Larry going mono e mono, it is easy to see why. Spence didn't let it bother him too much, though he did kid Burt about his overpriced salary and credit demands. He and Larry never did work together.~~~~ In addition, Julie Harris was almost cast in the role of Irene Hoffman until Kramer opened a newspaper, saw Judy Garland's face, and handed the role to her instead. He too thought of writing in a role for romantic duo Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward to add an edge of sympathy to an otherwise heavy piece of filmmaking. Instead, he wrote in the character of Mrs. Bertholt and gave that role to Marlene Dietrich. The relationship she would have with Spence's Dan Haywood added just the layer of humanity Kramer was looking for.

Spence objects! "Stop plot-blockin' my pal, Burt!"

Speaking of Paul and Joanne, when the decision was made to turn the musical sensation Oklahoma! into a film, both of their names were thrown into the pool of possibilities for the characters of Curly and Laurey respectively. James Dean was also a Curly candidate. In addition, both Eli Wallach and Marlon Brando were suggested for the sinister role of Jud. Mamie Van Doren also campaigned for the role of Ado Annie, but when her acting coach casually mentioned the part to her own daughter, Gloria Grahame, she went after and received the role-- tone deaf though she was. This original, hypothetical Method cast seems a bit absurd in retrospect, for they would have put quite a different spin on rural life in the central U.S. Marlon would ironically perform in another musical the same year, Guys and Dolls, but I think it can be agreed that singing was not his forte. Certainly, the casting of any of these earthy actors would have given the film a more dangerous edge, but since the overall attitude of love, farm life, and spontaneous singing asks us to engage in a blissful sort of fantasy, it is perhaps best that the film was cast as it was. Shirley Jones made her screen debut as Laurey after Mike Todd saw her perform in the stage version. (This too was the first film produced in Todd-AO). And while Gordon MacRae had a little trouble keeping his Curly locks "curly," and Rod Steiger as Jud struggled with Agnes DeMille's choreography in the dream dance sequence, Fred Zinnemann's big budget tribute to the staged version has remained a classic. I mean, I love Jimmy as much as the next person, but I have trouble imagining him crooning about a "pretty little Surrey with a fringe on top." (Shirley Jones is with Gordon MacRae, left).

James Dean and Paul Newman screen-test for East of Eden. Jim would nab
 the role of Cal Trask, but Paul would miss out on brother Aron. Both 

would miss out on Oklahoma!

Another musical, Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942), proved to be tough to cast. When George M. Cohan set about putting his life story on the screen, he was very particular about whom he wanted to play him. The notorious, patriotic song and dance man originally set his sights on the elegant and supremely talented Fred Astaire (right). After all, Fred could both sing and dance well. Too well. Fact was, George wasn't really much of a singer so much as he was a melodic talker. And his dancing, well... Let's just say that he moved rhythmically. He was not the accomplished technician of taps that Fred was. As such, Fred couldn't see himself in the role, if only because what he possessed in swagger he lacked in pomposity, a necessary feature in duplicating Cohan. When Ed McNamara heard about Cohan's plight in finding his perfect twin, he suggested friend James Cagney. George was not sold. First of all, Cagney was known as a fiendish gangster onscreen. For a man who was known for toting Tommies to suddenly be twirling a baton seemed... unlikely. Secondly, Cohan didn't think Jim was enough like himself, as good an actor as the latter may have been. Still, Ed knew his pal's talents and continued to prod Cohan. "Can he sing?" Ummmm.... More or less. Finally, after meeting Jim and talking over the character, Cohan accepted. Jim was a gifted dancer, so Cohan's moves were simple for him to recreate, and he mimicked his pointed toe stroll perfectly. Jim's so-so vocal skills also worked well, since they echoed Cohan's own sub-par voice. The film turned out to be a triumph for both men. Jim remembered the dance scene in which a single firework lights up the stage as the pinnacle moment of his career. (Ironically, Jim tried and failed to get a project going with friend and personal hero Fred Astaire about a vaudeville duo and their ups and downs. He approached Sol Siegel about the idea, but it never came to fruition).

James Cagney makes beautiful music with attitude as George M. Cohan 

in Yankee Doodle Dandy. Joan Leslie is to his left.

The film Ball of Fire of 1941 needed a leading lady who possessed all that the title implied. With Gary Cooper already signed on to play the highly intellectual and sexually innocent lexicographer on the hunt for the latest American slang, a polar opposite was needed to shake up his world. The role of Sugarpuss O'Shea was that of a showgirl on the run from the cops, who in turn are after her no good boyfriend, Joe Lilac (Dana Andrews). She holes up with Cooper's Betram Potts and his fellow professors, seduces him for safety, and winds up falling in love. Top draws Ginger Rogers and Carole Lombard were offered the plum part, but both turned it down. Then Betty Field and Lucille Ball (left) were tested. Ball seemed perfect! A fiery redhead, who up to this point was known for her roles as gangster molls and showgirls, she definitely had the look and persona to pull off the part. However, Coop had other plans. He recalled co-star Barbara Stanwyck, with whom he had just worked on Meet John Doe. She had been a level-headed pro with the chops to match, and she had impressed him on the set. As such, he suggested his friend for Sugarpuss and... voila! Having just starred in The Lady Eve, Babs had already proven that she knew her way around comedy. After turning Henry Fonda in the earlier film into a befuddled lost puppy, there was no doubt that she would be able to run circles around Coop's similar character in Ball of Fire. Barbara's mix of sensuality and smarts made her role more than just a pretty, talking prop, and her delivery of Billy Wilder's dialogue was cinematic gold. In the end, the combo of witty wordplay and Babs's able seduction of Coop proved to be "yum-yum" to audiences everywhere.

Gary Cooper and Barbara Stanwyck make an example of

explosive, comical, screen chemistry in Ball of Fire.

BITS OF COINCIDENCE: Part IX

Linda Darnell felt like a star-struck fawn when she began working
with her acting heroes. Little did she know that she would
 in due time become one of the inspirational elite.

Just as the integration of sound in film created an uncomfortable tension between the silent generation and the studio era, so too would the invention of Television topple Golden Era Hollywood's ivory tower. Changing fads, younger audiences, and this new feat of technological competition would-- along with age-- humble many of cinema's greats. The more business savvy Gods and Goddesses immediately hopped on the gravy train, such as Loretta Young who starred in her own TV show. Other, older curmudgeons found it difficult to acclimate, like Clark Gable, who let his MGM contract run out and then sought semi-retirement. Linda Darnell became one of the many who was left to walk a crooked line between sudden, grateful independence from studio control and complete and utter bafflement at what to do next. Like many of her generation, too young to retire and too old to appeal to the new method-acting trend, Linda did a little of everything: the occasional, poorly made film, some television, and most importantly the stage. It was on the stage that Linda believed she truly learned to act and to carve out characterizations that went beyond simply hitting marks and giving good face to the camera. The various plays she did-- A Roomful of Roses, The Children's Hour, Critic's Choice, etc-- were sometimes successful and sometimes flops, but the experience was still an enriching one for her. With mostly positive reviews, her confidence was bolstered, and with younger cast members looking up to her, she gained a self-respect that had been absent from her film work. Many upcoming thespians and later film actors would get a chance to perform opposite the fading but still radiant icon, whom they came to respect and admire for her kindness, generosity, and under-appreciated talent. And so, it was on the stage performing Tea and Sympathy in 1956 that one of the gentle guiding hands of Old Hollywood would help usher in New Hollywood when Linda performed opposite a future leading man... Burt Reynolds.

After years doing stage and television work, Burt Reynolds takes his place

 in film history in Deliverance.

Another, earlier transition in the entertainment world came with cinema's first appearance. Suddenly, the world of the stage was broadened and audiences were introduced to another form of passion plays in flickering lights. Of course, as with all new "fads," many stuck their noses up at film and film actors, thinking it a cheap imitation of true performance. While half the population held tightly to the boards of the stage, another half embraced the possibilities of stories in pictures, resulting in an exciting and contentious era in our nation's past. While film actors endured the shame of ostracization and prejudice from a society that deemed them not only artistically by morally inferior, the actors of the stage dealt with an impending paranoia that the burgeoning new medium of movies was going to shake them out of the business. In time, movies did come to override the theatre as the mass favorite, but the prestige of the stage remained. Yet, with film's new success, attributed in part to the actors and actresses who helped elevate it above the mundane and superficial, respect between the two groups followed. One such example of this can be seen in the tribute one of the stage's greatest actors paid to one of cinema's. Turns out John Barrymore (left) had a bit of a crush on Lillian Gish. Not only did the notorious lecher certainly find her beautiful, but he was apparently in awe of her emotive talents, which he deemed "superlatively exquisite." He was moved to such a degree that he was uncharacteristically too embarrassed to approach her with his compliments. Instead, he used notorious director D.W. Griffith as a go-between. He wrote Griffith a letter full of plaudits, and asked him to pass on his ardent respect to Lillian after seeing her performance in Way Down East: "I wonder if you will thank Miss Gish from all of us who are trying to do our best in the theater." Of course, Jack would later arrive in Hollywood himself and start making his own impression on the cinematic world, but had it not been for his respect for actors like Lillian and their work in the medium, he may well have simply continued treading the boards on Broadway.

D.W. Griffith's "soul," Lillian Gish, apparently reached
John Barrymore's as well.

Another olive branch was extended by none other than Olive Thomas (right). She was at the height of her career when she started filming The Flapper. Life was good, work was steady, and she was quickly solidifying her place as a qualified leading lady. This certainly only served to heighten Olive's perpetually high spirits. Always a generous, free-spirited person, her charm was infectious and endeared many of her colleagues and collaborators to her. One such person was Norma Shearer, an up and coming ingenue who was breaking her way into the tough world of Hollywood through bit parts and extra roles. A fiercely determined girl herself,  Norma-- who landed her first, uncredited role in The Flapper alongside sister Athole-- most assuredly watched every move Olive made with great acuity. Here was a woman she wanted to emulate: charismatic, sensual, talented, and powerful. Never the haughty type, Olive and Norma must have struck up some sort of casual, working relationship while filming, for when Olive learned that the struggling actress had fallen ill, she was deeply concerned. As was her nature, she offered assistance without giving it a thought and wound up forking the dough for Norma's medical bills. It was a debt for which Norma remained eternally grateful and sadly never got to repay, due to Olive's untimely death. But, having indeed learned from a pro, she put this bit of kindness in her pocket and "paid it forward" in her later career, where-- after she became one of MGM's top attractions-- she often lent a hand to other up-in-comers in need, (such as Janet Leigh and Tyrone Power).

Norma Shearer grew to wield her hard-won fame
 energetically and gratefully.

Another type of world that consistently seemed to collide with Hollywood was that of the gangster. The stories of underworld debauchery made their way into cinematic stories as soon as prohibition put a bitter thorn in America's side. While we did not enjoy the truth behind the myth of the booze-pushing mobster-- the man-handling, threatening, and murdering-- we could not help but idolize him in some respect, because at least he was giving us something good to drink! Gangsters too were drawn to the glamorous allure of Hollywood for business and pleasure, and thus our nastiest ne're-do-wells started rubbing elbows with our creme-de la-creme, (see more in a past article here). Linda Darnell's mother, Pearl, would in time come into close, friendly contact with none other than Mickey Cohen (left). After Linda had moved her entire family to Los Angeles and bought them a home, Cohen happened to move in right around the corner. Due to his menacing reputation, many of the neighbors were understandably unhappy. Pearl, a tough cookie, hardly paid his presence any mind. After all, she had been causing a ruckus of her own. More than one neighbor raised an eyebrow at the unconventional Darnell home, where chickens ran amok, snakes were treated like fuzzy bunny rabbits, and Pearl fed her horse through the kitchen window. For classy Los Angelenos, this was the epitome of redneck malfeasance. For a time, Mickey distracted the neighborhood's attention from Pearl-- particularly after a bomb was thrown into his home! Now reasonably frightened, the block started a petition to have the hood ousted, but Pearl refused to sign. She believed him to be the "perfect" resident: he was quiet, had no parties, and kept up his home. When Mickey learned that Pearl had stood up for him, he called personally to thank her. I guess the only person more terrifying than Mickey Cohen was Pearl Darnell. 

Desi Arnaz (right) had his own relationship with the mob, and not just through his television production "The Untouchables." Desi's family escaped the violence and upheaval of Cuba during the revolution of 1933 and settled in Florida. His father, an ex-politician who had been incarcerated for his loyalties, wanted to start fresh in American and went about establishing himself as a businessman. Living in Miami as a teen, the charming and mentally ambidextrous Desi was also interested in business and thus had no penchant for education. Yet, at his parents' insistence, he attended St. Patrick's Catholic High School part time. The one spot of good luck was meeting the boy who was to become his closest friend at the time: Sonny Capone. Desi was aware of who Sonny's father was, but out of courtesy never brought up the fact that ol' Al was doing time in Alcatraz. He would never meet the notorious thug in the flesh, but he did have a bit of a shock one day. As per usual, Desi called the Capone household to chat with Sonny and make plans to meet up and get into the usual boyish hijinks. However, a strange, male voice answered the phone. Desi was thrown at first... and then became even more thrown as he put two and two together: Al was out on parole at the time, and must have traveled to meet with his family. Holy Moly! He was talking to Al Capone! Desi would play it cool at the time, but years later he would have a good chuckle over it. However, after he had found success in Hollywood with wife Lucille Ball, he was surprised to hear from his old friend Sonny, who was deeply insulted by "The Untouchables" due to its subject matter-- an insult to his father. "How could you do it?" Sonny asked. "Why not?" Desi retorted. "Somebody else would have anyway." Sonny's ego was not soothed-- he served Desi with a million dollar law suit. Sometimes, old friendships die hard.

Al Capone: one character not even Hollywood could make up.