THE REEL REALS: Hattie McDaniel

Hattie McDaniel

There isn't just one Hattie McDaniel. There are many. There is the true woman and there is her screen identity. There is Hattie herself and Hattie the actress. Hattie the workhorse, the pioneer, the scapegoat, the beloved, the hated, the star, the minority, the champion. Mostly, when we look back over the career of this incredible human being, we define her by her most famous role: "Mammy" in Gone with the Wind. Sad but true, this was essentially the part she was left to play onscreen. Even as a rebellious, ambitious, politically minded soldier of fortune-- the true daughter of her Civil War Veteran father, Henry-- for all her grit and determination, for all her tooth and nail, for all of her accomplishments, she more or less remains a slave, a servant, a victim of the uncompromising racist ideologies of her day. Even more startling are the prejudices inflicted upon her not only by the white element but also the black. A rock in a hard place, she held firmly to who she was and what she believed, her life an eternal struggle to make her mark without apology.

Hattie was the youngest  of thirteen siblings, only 7 of whom survived. Born into an impoverished family-- an unfortunate side effect not only of her color but of her father's brave injuries suffered during the war, which rendered him unable to work for the latter part of his life-- Hattie matured quickly. Seeing her father suffer and work through his pain, witnessing her mother's toil to care for her family,  she knew hunger, the fight a person had to have to survive let alone prosper, and the importance of an honest, hard day's work. She also learned integrity, and she would walk tall, her head held high in the pride of her roots, her family, and her soul.

Hattie at sixteen.

She and many of her siblings, all mixtures of pragmatism and artistry, would find a place for themselves on the stage, particularly her brothers Otis and Sam and her sister Etta. Otis was the true standout initially, but after his premature passing, Hattie became the real trailblazer, thought it would take time for her to prove it. Coming from a family of storytellers, singers, and dancers, Hattie eschewed practicality to pursue a career in vaudeville, juggling odd jobs as housekeepers, cooks, etc, to pay the bills. She built a fine reputation on the stage, writing and performing her own blues songs and comedic plays. In the performances of her youth, she would often cleverly thumb her nose at society, her sensual, bawdy humor mocking the white black-face performers of the era and their wide, eye-rolling ignorance. Her intelligence and wit made her a fan favorite, be it in her home state of Colorado (she was born in KS) and anywhere else she traveled. After her husband, piano player Howard Hickman, sadly passed away from pneumonia, Hattie was on her own again. Soon enough, she was bound for Hollywood to meet up with Etta and Sam. She never looked back. (*Hattie would marry thrice more, but all ended in divorce. Howard was the love of her life).

In Show Boat with the very admiring and admirable Paul Robeson.

The beginning of Hattie's career included the standard bit parts that most film actors endure in the hopes of reaching the top. Yet, Hattie managed to catch enough attention for her double whammy of utter professionalism and characterization to be the metaphorical cream that rises. What set Hattie apart was her defiance. While she was expectantly forced to camouflage her intelligence and adapt to the cliched speech patterns of the "dumb negro," she still managed to inject enough personality and street smarts to make her brief appearances truly memorable. One of her first major coups was her role as the suspicious maid "Cora" opposite Marlene Dietrich in Blonde Venus. Her "I'm no fool" deliveries and unashamed bellowing counteracted the stereotypes placed before her, and better still she somehow maintained an edge of humor so that audiences would be enchanted by her brassy, dynamic characters but not threatened. An example of her cleverness can be seen in her performance opposite Jean Harlow and Clark Gable (the latter of whom was to remain a lifelong fan and friend) in China Seas. In this film, her deliveries opposite Jean identified her as less servant and more gal pal, which gave her onscreen identity more depth than mere "employee."

Her turn as the totally uncooperative and flat-out disinterested maid in George Stevens's Alice Adams even stole a major scene right out from under the incomparable Katharine Hepburn. Hattie's lazy stare and irreverence mixed with Stevens's always impeccable sense of timing make the moment a cinematic treasure. Thus, while she was obedient always in her roles, she gave her characters enough independence to show that her loyalty derived not so much from her devotion to her employers but from the pure need to make a living. This made her somewhat of a hero in the industry, and led to her becoming the most successful black star in Hollywood, surpassing even the flagging career of the iconic "slow-witted negro" prototype of early cinema, Stepin Fetchit, who was the first African American, cinematic celebrity. Hattie's performance in the musical Show Boat didn't hurt her reputation either.

Hattie proves to be a less than stellar cook and server, smacking her gum
as she haphazardly sets down dinner plates for Fred MacMurray and
Katharine Hepburn in Alice Adams.

And then came Gone with the Wind, which stirred up a great deal of controversy in its own time let alone in the years to come. Looking back on the film now, some identify it solely for its faults in perpetuating and confusing the African American image on film. Much had to be censored and cut out of the film, including the word "nigger," which it is believed Hattie herself insisted be demolished. Margaret Mitchell devotees couldn't wait to be swept up in the magic of her romantic story being brought to life, while the black and more liberal element was frustrated by the film's fairy tale depiction of the "happy slave," which condoned certain public reactions to and misconceptions of race. Finally, after much political wrangling, the film was made and was a success on all counts. Under the incredible, riveting and authentic direction of Victor Fleming (and George Cukor), the film was epic. The definition of a "sweeping narrative," the incredible story of love in and out of wartime was delivered superbly by Vivien Leigh, Clark Gable, Olivia de Havilland, Leslie Howard, Butterfly McQueen, Thomas Mitchell and of course Hattie McDaniel who all arguably gave the best performances of their careers. Hattie's no-bull sh*t approach to the house slave "Mammy" would bring to life a character that had been much less pushy and much less interesting on the page. Perhaps of all the characters in the film, Mammy is the toughest, as well as the one that no one in his right mind would want to mess with! Of course, it was her gut-wrenching, tearfully panicked scene on the staircase leading "Ms. Melly" to the grieving "Rhett Butler" that won Hattie McDaniel her Oscar-- the first ever earned by an African American. 

The film was not altogether rewarding. Hattie wasn't even able to attend the film's Atlanta premiere due to her skin color, and afterward she still had to combat type-casting, which did not improve after her groundbreaking performance. In fact, her career, while comparatively steady, declined in terms of artistry. Hollywood quite simply still didn't know what to do with a "black star." She would still have some bright spots, her proudest cinematic moment being her performance in the provocative and conscientious masterpiece In This Our Life, and her continuing appearance opposite Hollywood's major stars kept her in the spotlight-- The Great Lie, George Washington Slept Here, Thank Your Lucky Stars, Saratoga, and, of course, the very controversial Song of the South, for which her co-star James Baskett won a special Academy Award for his performance as the lovable "Uncle Remus."

Hattie and Clark in GWTW. Gable adored Hattie and always attended her private
parties, regardless of public opinion, which led to other whites attending.
What was good for the King was good for everyone else. 

Yet, the major issue was one that had been simmering for awhile. Hattie was attacked by many people in the African American community for her performances in these stereotyped roles. Her existence started to feel like a trap with no escape. On the one hand, she was being held down by an industry that  fortunately provided her source of income yet refused to allow her any form of true artistic elevation. On the other hand, she was being crucified by her contemporaries for being a traitor to her race, and as they saw it essentially accepting hush money: shut up and act. Hollywood was not ready for any envelope pushing in the race department-- they had ticket sales to think about. Christian groups and animosity particularly that from Southern theaters and theater-goers made it impossible for filmmakers to be too groundbreaking in terms of unpacking the race issue onscreen. Any who were so bold, generally had their films edited and cut to shreds before they could reach any possibly disgruntled viewers. On one side were veterans like Hattie, Louise Beavers, and Clarence Muse, who believed that their contributions to cinema, while imperfect, were paving the way toward equality in cinema. On the other side, there were the more activist performers like Fredi Washington and the whole NAACP who were dedicated to eradicating racism and believed that all black performers should go on strike until they were given justifiable roles. The tightrope became too difficult for Hollywood to walk, so... they simply stopped. After introducing Lena Horne as the answer to all their problems-- a beautiful, talented, and light-skinned African American leading lady-- they stopped producing politically minded films that even addressed segregation or racial tension and, for a time, cut the black community out of cinema almost entirely.

Roles became scarce, and Hattie found herself without a studio and yet again looking for work--freelancing  as she had in her youth. Fortunately, with her impressive resume and popular name, she was able to work, mostly on radio, where her show "Beulah" gained enough notoriety to be produced into a Television show. As ever in her life, Hattie just wanted to work. It was who she was, and she knew no other way. Her steam engine of positivity and unstoppable work ethic would make it to the age of 60 before diabetes and breast cancer finally claimed her life. Sadly, sixty years of struggle ended with the final insult-- she was refused burial at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery-- where there was segregation even in death (see past article here).

Hattie rarely got to unwind and clown it up like she once
did on stage, but you can see some of her comedienne
spirit peeking out here.

Though many have "forgiven" Hattie for her performances, which are often read as nothing more than examples of man's bigotry, her talent and personal character seem to have survived all critical tongue lashings. Many modern industry icons, like Spike Lee, speak out in her defense, paying their respects to a woman who endured so much in order to make the road for those to follow a little easier to tread. While America can't help but still enclose the beloved protector Mammy to their hearts, an act that I would like to believe is done out of true adoration for the woman who created her, few are aware of all that very special woman was. Hattie was eloquently spoken, sophisticated, and always classily dressed. She was kind and loving, donating much of her money and spare time to charities and fundraisers-- particularly to children and education-- and taking care of her family members. A soft touch, she generally donated to anyone for anything. Her intelligence and her great will can be witnessed on the screen in her still remarkable performances, which earned her many admirers among her fellow actors and directors. Today, while her roles still may be attacked, Hattie should not. She never saw the role. She saw only the opportunity to build upon it-- to make her own statement, her own way, on her own terms. The testament to her ability is perhaps that she remains so inseparable from her creations. Just as in her vaudeville days, Hattie pulls the wool over our eyes, teaching us right from wrong, pointing out social inadequacies, and touching our hearts without us even realizing it. Silent instruction: that was her rebellion, but perhaps she said it best:

Trained upon pain and punishment/

I've groped my way through the night,/

but the flag still flies from my tent,/

and I've only begun to fight.

THE REEL REALS: Errol Flynn

Errol Leslie Thomson Flynn: June 20, 1909 - October14, 1959

Errol Flynn: swashbuckler, scalawag, and smirking, swaggering screen star with a sinful dose of sex-appeal. I incorporated a lot of S's into that description in order to produce the steaming hot alliteration that this actor deserves: "Tsssssssssssssssssss... Ouch!" (Don't get burned, ladies). During Errol's reign as the pinnacle action star in Tinsel Town, having inherited the sword from silent hero Douglas Fairbanks, he powered Hollywood with enough electric charisma to solve the entire nation's energy problems. However, his glamorous, alluring, and death-defying persona of light-hearted nonchalance, while widely accepted by fans, was both true and false. He was promoted as a handsome devil, lady killer, and man's man (albeit in an occasional pair of tights) who always got the bad guy and could-- and for the most part did-- have any woman he wanted. Indeed, Errol was an adorable bad boy, and debates continue to wage about just how naughty he really was.

Permanently emotionally scarred by the childhood abuse he suffered from his mother, Errol also lived with unresolved feelings of neglect. All but abandoned by both parents at school while they went abroad, he spent most Christmas breaks alone in an empty schoolhouse, which in his own mind, felt like a penitentiary. His rebellion against this isolation built him into a troublemaking adolescent, begging for both attention and discipline. He loved to push buttons, but he circumnavigated anyone who sought control over his life. Errol would continue to both seek and avoid the company and demands of others. He lacked the necessary trust and support demanded of obedience. As such, the teen who got kicked out of school would grow into the movie star who consistently irked and disobeyed Jack Warner in business and loathed all authority figures in general. His quest for affection can too be interpreted in his sexual indulgences. Errol had (and boasted of) many lovers, made many conquests, but he sadly had little experience or understanding of love. Flings were pleasurable distractions that never satiated the need he had to find something more. His life was an eternal adventure for some mysterious, missing thing-- his own personal El Dorado. What he truly sought-- acceptance, enduring love, and happiness-- were within arm's reach, but his itchy feet and lack of trust compelled him to seek beyond the horizon. After all, if one keeps moving, he has no time to be hurt. 

Errol plays the soldier and valiant hero with his usual vigor in Charge 

of the Light Brigade. This was the first film in which he donned his 

signature mustache, and Jack Warner told him to keep it!

Needless to say, Errol had a way of... overdoing it-- maniacally burning the candle at both ends in the hopes of quelling the inner madness and despair that had and would never find safe harbor. He wandered the world, spending his youth voyaging from place to place and country to country on almost ludicrously unrelated business ventures--  from journalism to running a tobacco plantation in New Guinea! He would also spend his later years literally adrift. Aboard his yacht, the Zaca, he found a sense of quiet away from the pain of the past and the superficiality of his Hollywood life, but this was a sorry substitute for the merciful sensation of peace that comes with the true satisfaction of one's happiness. The closest he came to joy was Jamaica. Spending time with equally conflicted friends throughout his life, those that unfortunately exacerbated and influenced his darker tendencies ("Jack" Barrymore, Bruce Cabot, etc), Errol drank too much, smoked too much, and eventually suffered from morphine addiction, which weathered his initially exquisite, God-given form into a prematurely old body, a reflection of his broken spirit.


The great shame of his life was the tagline "In Like Flynn," an unfortunate leftover from the statutory rape scandal that forever ruined Errol's personal reputation and perpetuated his debaucherous public image. Found innocent of the accusations made against him by Betty Hansen and Peggy Satterlee in the early forties, the court case under modern investigation bears all the tell-tale signs of a set-up, and it is often hypothesized that politicos with a vendetta against the less than financially generous Jack Warner decided to take down his biggest star to teach the mogul a "lesson." Whether or not Errol had earthly fun with either of these ladies, whether or not he knew their true ages if so, remains debatable. In any case, both Betty and Peggy, who had once enthusiastically volunteered for a place in the movie star's bed, mysteriously changed their tunes when the prospect of money was dangled before in their faces.

Errol "pokes fun" at his pal Patric Knowles while cozying up to constant 

co-star Olivia De Havilland in their lesser known collaboration,

 Four's a Crowd (Rosalind Russell being #4).

While the contradictory evidence produced in court ended in a mercifully "not guilty" verdict,  the event itself had a devastating effect upon Errol, who grievously felt a slight against his personal character. He had already endured the shame of receiving a 4F classification, which kept him out of WWII and insulted both his bravery and masculinity, but this was worse.  His popularity had been boosted, but he found himself lampooned as a distasteful, sexual joke. This was a grave personal disappointment, as he idolized his educated, scientist father. His desire to prove himself as an honorable and intelligent man-- being impressively self-taught for the most part-- revealed itself in his love of writing books, studying any and everything, and approaching more mature cinematic material with a talent that had only improved and aged with him. Unfortunately, Errol found himself locked into the inflexible Hollywood system-- a disaster for someone with his need for freedom-- and he was never fully able to exercise the personal depth and desire he had for his art. He felt that his gifts were purely superficial and considered himself a laughing stock. In keeping with his mistrustful mindset, while he desired respect for his work, he brushed off all compliments, never believing that his efforts had been worthy. This is the true tragedy, because they absolutely were! 

This Irish lad and "Tasmanian Devil" had only done some modest theatrical work and had completed a meager handful of films, including Australia's The Wake of the Bounty (playing Fletcher Christian, under whose leadership one of his own descendants had mutinied!), when he achieved his breakthrough performance in Captain Blood-- with ultimate leading lady Olivia De Havilland, no less. In the demanding, starring role, Errol would prove himself a clear natural before the camera, and this unexpected cinematic success, accomplished by an unknown nobody, consequently initiated an unparalleled career in the movies. His simple delivery of daunting lines, which would leave a lesser actor feeling foolish or tongue tied, and his assertive, graceful movements on the screen-- in whatever costume, from whatever era, holding whatever prop-- revealed a man who exuded the confidence of an overgrown boy. He presented himself as a brazen acrobat, completely disinterested in consequences and desirous only of living with relished abandon. His love interests were always of secondary importance to the rush of battle-- a parallel with his own life. From pirate (The Sea Hawk), to cowboy (Dodge City), to war pilot (The Dawn Patrol), to sad anti-hero (That Forsyte Woman), to martyr (Uncertain Glory), to icon (Robin Hood), Errol was always excitingly up to any challenge, and as a result, he continuously succeeded in getting his audiences to believe in and cheer for him in whatever rogue battle he fought from film to film. What's more, he also looked damn good doing it.

Errol on his beloved Sirocco, which he owned

prior to the Zaca.

They don't make Errol Flynns anymore, not that "they" could if they tried. So many filmmakers and performers try to duplicate the magic that Errol naturally possessed, but Hollywood's current offerings of reconstituted leading men lack the elegance, spirit, and sincerity of Flynn. His characters, with their mortal vanity and foolhardy embrace of danger, exist at a level of liberty that today's action heroes, with pecs but no personality, cannot understand. No... No one will ever be "in like Flynn" again. But that is only because Flynn is forever. 

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Relationships:

• Wife Lili Damita (1935-1942) - son Sean
• Wife Nora Eddington (1944-1948) - daughters Diedre and Rory 
• Wife Patrice Wymore (1950-1959) - daughter Arnella

Pros:

• Boyish sense of fun and an outlandish prankster.
• Vibrant energy and charismatic presence.
• Loving father to his children.

Cons:

• Alcoholism
• Drug Addiction
• Probable Sex Addiction

Fun Facts:

• Director Michael Curtiz was wed to his first wife, Lili Damita. The two collaborated often, including Errol's big break in Captain Blood, but the men loathed each other.
• Author of  Beam Ends, Showdown, and My Wicked, Wicked Ways (with Earl Conrad).
• Was known as The Baron of Mulholland due to his infamous home in the hills.

Scandals:

• Statutory rape trial - Not guilty (1942)
• Falsely accused of being a Nazi sympathizer by author Charles Higham. Higham was later proven to have shamefully forged government documents to implicate the innocent Flynn. (See Errol Flynn: The Spy Who Never Was).
• Questionable rumors of bisexual affairs with, among others, Ross Alexander and Tyrone Power.

L.A.La's Top Film Picks:

• Captain Blood (1935)
• The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938)
• The Dawn Patrol (1938)

NOW THAT'S FUNNY: Part XIII

Ann Sheridan, sporting her popular horned hair-do.

It was fitting, as Ann was a bit of a Devil!

The most lasting impression Ann Sheridan left on Hollywood was her congenial sense of humor. An unaffected girl-next-door with chutzpah, she enjoyed a laugh or clever quip, and she was always a good sport when she was teased or pranked. This turned out to be a good thing, for she was certainly the butt of the joke on more than one occasion. The most notorious example occurred very much in the public eye. Ann's career was beginning to gain real momentum by 1940. She had made some noteworthy appearances in major motion pictures, she had been dubbed the "Oomph Girl," and she was a bona fide movie star enjoying her moment in the sun. Proof of her public power was displayed when she attended the preview of her latest film, It All Came True, in April. Enduring the usual press junket and ballyhoo, Ann was suddenly surprised by the appearance of a 19-year-old UCLA student-- Dick Brunnenkamp-- at her side. Before she could blink, the kid had handcuffed himself to her! Not only that, but he had swallowed the key!!! Chaos and flashing cameras ensued. Dick's excuse was that he was fulfilling a bet he had made with his fraternity. Though the cuff on her wrist was probably a bit uncomfortable, Ann was pretty laid-back about the whole thing, aside from being confused and very inconvenienced by the scam. While the boy was probably really just looking to gain attention for himself and enjoy his own fifteen minutes of fame-- literally fifteen minutes, as that was how long it took to get a locksmith-- it was Ann who walked away the true winner, with even more frantic publicity and fan devotion.

The hijinks often did not involve Ann's fan base, however. Most of the time, the gags came from within studio walls, generally with her adoring pack of male friends. The major player on this list was Humphrey Bogart. Considering Bogie's unsavory and somewhat embarrassing history with women-- including the battered husband situation-- it is somewhat surprising that this ultimate guy's guy and future leader of the Rat Pack was best buds with a girl. But then, Ann wasn't just any girl. The two worked together many times-- San Quentin, They Drive by Night, etc-- but they never played love interests. This fit well with their private relationship, which was very brother-sister. Bogie loved to poke fun at Ann, whom he referred to as "Miss Pushface of 1893" after her "Oomph" title, which she hated, was bestowed. They played practical jokes on each other from pretty much the moment they met, and they enjoyed an ongoing competition of "who can get whose goat!" (Together in It All Came True, left).

For example: Ann bought Bogie a  very special gift: a genuine Gene Autry toy gun, which mocked his pistol-toting, tough guy roles. He got his revenge by telling Ann about a plum upcoming part that would really give her a chance to show her acting chops. So eager was Ann to prove her talents beyond her physical attributes that she was soon ignorantly campaigning all over Warner Brothers for the important period role of Fanny Hill-- the heroine of England's earliest pornographic novel. Whoops! Ann was back for round three when she, with John Huston's help, staged a cameo as a prostitute in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Expecting an unknown, featured actress to turn the corner in the brief street scene, Bogie spun to offer his character's scripted dismissal of the harlot only to find his gal pal lifting her skirt to reveal a tattoo that said, "Annie!" It is doubtful that Ann made it into the final cut of the film-- it's definitely not her in the close-up, but she may be  the black-wigged woman seen in a long shot. At the very least, Bogie got a good laugh out of it. As Ann herself said, "He was a dirty rat, but I loved that man" (see right).

Another stud in Ann's bro barn was the handsome Errol Flynn. It is occasionally rumored that the duo enjoyed a brief affair, though Ann always maintained that they were no more than chums. This seems to be the case, as they certainly remained pals for the extent of Errol's short life. They worked together for the first time in Dodge City, and while most of Errol's attentions were then devoted to his other female co-star, Olivia de Havilland, with whom he professed to be occasionally in love, Ann also charmed him with her usual, easy-going, down-to-earth personality. By the time they began filming Silver River (left), Errol had labeled Ann as his favorite comedy guinea piglet, perhaps because she had so kindly taught him the nifty trick of injecting oranges with liquor so they could enjoy a "healthy" snack while shooting. (Actually sounds pretty good...). Ann cracked one day that the uncomfortable wire bustle she wore as part of her wardrobe for the film looked like a bird cage. The next day, she entered her dressing room to find two finicky parrots, while Errol, director Raoul Walsh, and the rest of the crew, laughed hysterically outside! But Ann gave as good as she got. When she stumbled upon the boys sharing some celebratory cigars-- one of the crew members had just become a proud Papa-- Ann acted hurt that she hadn't been included. Errol naturally chided her and egged her on. Thus, while shooting their next scene, Errol was surprised to find Ann before him with his own cigar planted firmly in her pout. Walsh said she always kept things lively on the set.

Despite his stern and overly dramatic demeanor, William S. Hart (right) was a Boy at Heart. While he wasn't usually the instigator of dramatic gags-- he wasn't enough of a conniving scoundrel-- he certainly enjoyed partaking when a prank seemed worthy. One of the fellas that could recruit Bill in a joke was the one and only theatre impresario Sid Grauman. Hence the following situation: Paramount big-wigs Adolph Zukor and Jesse Lasky were aboard a train en route to San Francisco, assumedly to enjoy the usual mix of travel and business associated with running such a huge studio. Yet, the peaceful ride from Pasadena Station turned out to be more than the suits had bargained for. After about an hour on the tracks, the train suddenly came to a screeching halt.  The confused passengers started craning their necks out the windows to figure just what had happened, then word starting spreading like wildfire that they were being held up! 

Now a bit nervous, Zukor and Lasky peeked outside to see a very imposing line of men in western garb surrounding their car with guns at the ready. Before their wide eyes had even adjusted to this imagery, two train robbers hopped aboard and stood before them: one was short with a large sombrero and mask, and the other was very tall, wearing a cowboy hat (culprit left) with a kerchief covering his lower face. While the held-up studio reps mentally started counting the golden doubloons in their pockets, the reality of the situation began to register. Zukor took a closer look. After squinting his eyes, he realized that the renegades looked familiar... When he knew that he had been fooled, Hart and Grauman revealed themselves. It took a bit of explaining to calm the rest of the passengers down, but eventually, the plot-- which the train's crew had helped conspire-- was revealed and the initial, fearful shivering turned into guffaws of laughter. It would take a showman (and money man) like Sid to orchestrate such a fiasco, but naturally, the acting talents of Hart helped.

Not everyone was so light-hearted when it came to tomfoolery. Clark Gable, for example, was actually a rather serious guy, and it took the feisty humor of his short-lived soul mate Carole Lombard to loosen him up a bit. Of course, when he lost her, Clark turned grave again and disappeared into a guilt-ridden spiral of self-loathing and alcoholism. Ironically, he would take a shine to Miss Congeniality, Ann Sheridan, and it is rumored that the two had a little liaison themselves. Perhaps this is true, and it would make sense, given that Ann's spirit of fun was very much in keeping with Carole's own delinquent deviance. Still, when he was on the set, unless surrounded by close and trusted friends, Clark always arrived on time, stuck to the script, hit his marks, and kept to business. He would struggle with this pattern throughout his final picture, The Misfits, when he was teamed with the temperamental and often inebriated duo of Marilyn Monroe and Montgomery Clift. Clark had a soft spot for both (see with MM, right), but was irritated by their occasional unstable behavior, which he deemed unprofessional. To boot, he was annoyed by the odd Method approach that both actors seemed to use, which he felt wasted far too much time and unnecessary discussion. Clark was a "just do it" kind of guy. 

So, the secretly self-conscious actor was not exactly on cloud nine when photographer Ernst Haas arrived on assignment to capture the cast, crew, and horses in action. It was one more annoyance that Clark couldn't bare, but he appreciated that Ernst at least kept out of the way and wasn't invasive. One day, Ernst was given the opportunity to watch some rushes. Not knowing that Mr. Gable was behind him, he was asked by a baiting grip what he thought of Clark's performance. Fortunately, Ernst had been very impressed with the touching and gutsy portrayal he had witnessed from the legend, who did some of his most compelling work in the film. Thus, his answer in reference to the previously viewed scene was: "It knocked me on my ass!" With that, a hefty bellow of laughter issued from behind him, and he felt the firm grip of a large hand on his shoulder. Initially embarrassed at his foul-mouthed response, Ernst quickly realized that his down and dirty, no-nonsense answer had won him the respect and friendship of the unknowable Clark Gable. Clark lightened up after that and even offered to help in getting some prize photo-ops for the young picture-taker. What a difference a laugh makes! (A hint of a smile, right).

Cary Grant was yet another co-star that Ann Sheridan had fun working with. While the two enjoyed each other's company tremendously, they would be considered more friendly acquaintances than "thick thieves." The reason was perhaps a matter of humor. Ann was much more bawdy, earthy, and sharp in her wisecracking. Cary, on the other hand, came from the old school of vaudeville slap-stick, punchline, and drummed buh-dum chink quips. He also, like Gable, was privately a much more serious man than many ever realized. Part of his protection from some of his personal pains was his projected image of perfection. Style certainly gave him a sense of control (left), which is why he gelled better with more polite and refined women like BFF Grace Kelly and, upon their teaming in Charade, Audrey Hepburn. Their female sensitivity also offered safe harbor to the little boy in him who was searching for the nurturing and comfort that was denied him as a child. 

"All man" but not what one would consider a "man's man," Cary opted for elegance and conversation over rough-housing and high-school hijinks, which made him contrast sharply with his other Charade co-star, Walter Matthau. Matthau (right) was the physical opposite of Cary, being a bit oafish and not exactly conventionally attractive. His uniquely unrefined voice has become as equally identifiable as the cockney Cary's, yet for very different reasons. Cary was aristocratic; Walter was a crotchety wisecracker from Nowhereville. Cary would get a very surprising introduction to Walter's "sufferin' succotash" repartee and unexpected, off-the-cuff sense of humor very early during production. James Coburn would bear witness to this while meeting Cary for the first time himself. Chatting with the eternal, cinematic leading man in his dressing room, the duo would be interrupted when Walter poked his infamous nose in: "Hey Jim, how are you?" he asked. "Did you ever see anybody do a better impression of Cary Grant than this guy?" With that, Walter shuffled away, leaving 'this guy' with an indescribable look on his face. It is perhaps the only time in history that anyone flustered Cary Grant. 

Cary in his most ridiculous and clowning role, Arsenic and Old Lace,

which (not surprisingly) he considered his worst performance.

I still love it!

STAR OF THE MONTH: Bette Davis

Bette "the Diva" Davis

I think I first heard the name Bette Davis from my mother's lips. Ma loves Bette. For certain, the first of Bette's films I saw was Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte. Thus, at tender age, I was able to derive two things about her: she was awesome, and she was scary. The first verdict was based upon the fact that what was all right with my mom was all right by me; the second, by the fact that I had watched this brassy, caustic, and intense female push a stone onto Olivia De Havilland and Joseph Cotten's heads with a smirk on her face. As you can see, I was introduced to the Bette of later years: withering, bitter, tough, and a bit unsettling to look at. What is interesting is, despite her hostile outward appearance and demeanor, I still loved her too. Bette Davis didn't take sh*t from nobody! At least, that's the persona she projected. It would take me a long time to unlearn the cinematic, boastful tricks she used to deflect from her true nature. It would take time to undo the caricatured performances she gave from All About Eve onward-- which were both self-congratulatory and self-lacerating-- to find the supreme and gifted actress underneath. The conundrum of Bette Davis is her own seemingly willful undoing, as if she chose to go from an accomplished artiste to a hell-bent monster. If we can agree on anything about Bette Davis today, it is usually that she was a total "Bitch." But this is more than the result of a post-WWII reaction to her ambitious, self-serving tendencies-- far from what men were looking for when they came home. It turns out that 'bitch' Bette became the greatest and longest-running performance she ever gave.

The romantic beauty in her youth.

Ruth Elizabeth Davis was born on April 5, 1908. As a youngster, she changed her name to "Bette," because its sounded more glamorous. This was befitting, because in her youth, she was a true Yankee Princess. No, a Queen, who was doted on and always got her way-- or else. Her father, Harlow Morrell Davis was an extremely intelligent and successful law student who became head of the Patent Department at United Shoe Machinery Corp. Her mother, Ruthie Favor, was a passionate and artistic woman who had left a life of performance behind to become a wife and mother. Both adored "Princess Bettina." Everything was perfect in Lowell, MA-- until the divorce. Harlow's busy work schedule and his wife's increasing dissatisfaction with family life led to the male party's infidelity. Soon, Harlow was married to his former nurse, Minnie Stewart-- who had taken care of him during a bout with asthma-- and Ruth was raising two daughters, including the younger Bobby Davis, on her own. Bette never forgave her father for his transgressions, nor truly forgave her mother for losing him. Any mental proclivities that Bette had toward order and control were thus turned up full-throttle, as she sought to find balance and comfort in an undependable world. Her constant attention to detail and cleanliness make some believe that she suffered from an undiagnosed case of OCD her entire life. Such a theory is not unfounded, as both her mother and sister suffered mental and emotional breakdowns that led to their temporary stays in sanitariums. As she went through life with less money than her friends and the embarrassment of living in a broken home, the anger and resentment Bette felt manifested itself against her sister Bobby-- who was a shelled turtle beside Bette's she-wolf-- and her mother, who seemed to go out of her way to please her constantly emotionally distraught and insecure eldest daughter.


The result was a willful young woman accustomed to unquestionable appeasement. It was Bette who wore the pants in the family. Ruth worshipped her, and worked her fingers to the bone to give her eldest daughter whatever she wanted, as if to make up for her botched marriage and thus botched life. After she got work as a photographer, Ruth created in Bette a little Narcissus, taking romantic photo after romantic photo of the pre-Raphaelite-like beauty with large, intense eyes and glowing skin. As Bette blossomed, she became popular at school, where she used her feisty personality to win people to her side. She too enjoyed charming the opposite sex and pitting them against each other for her affections. It was her way of proving that, while she had lost Harlow, she could have any other man that she wanted. Revenge was sweet, but beneath the assertive, sensuously charged veneer was an insecure little girl putting on a great show. So intense was her need to keep the performance going that she never learned to relax, to settle down, to be herself. The world was her audience, and if she broke character for even a second-- if she let her vulnerability show-- she would lose her power and thus her sense of safety. The incredible stress she put on herself resulted in earth-shattering fits of anger and unstoppable crying jags. She once, in a fit of hysteria, even bit her own mother!

Part of Bette's genius laid in her ability to take chances. Her willingness to play
 the homely old maid in Now, Voyager is an example of this. Here she is with
Claude Rains prior to her character's astonishing make-over.

Finally, Bette found release. After Ruth had moved the family to Newton, she took Bette (Bobby remained always in the shadows) to see "The Wild Duck." Starring in this Henrik Ibsen play was none other than Peg Entwistle, the woman who would later end her life by leaping from the Hollywood sign. In this moment, Bette saw none of that despair nor the tragedy that was to come. She saw only Peg in all her glory: a fully fleshed-out, complicated, emotional woman who captivated her audience. Peg's acting transcended acting. It was being. This is what Bette wanted. Mostly she wanted to openly be emotional with the excuse of it being in character. She vowed to play the same role of Hedvig in "The Wild Duck." It was a promise she intended to keep, and then some. The pressure fell on Ruth to enroll her daughter in acting class. Since she had already encouraged Bette in artistic pursuits, including a tenure at the exclusive dance academy Mariarden, the idea was definitely not unpalatable to the senior lady, but the money was. As always, Ruth made it work. The idea of having her beautiful daughter succeed where she had failed was perhaps the only fuel keeping her going. Riding on an exultant high, Bette landed at the John Murray Anderson-Robert Milton School with a ferocious appetite that propelled her quickly to the top of the class. So lauded were her sensitive and courageous classroom performances that she was awarded a full scholarship for her second term. Despite her glowing status at the Academy, she took a risk and dropped out, pushing herself immediately into the world as a working actress. There was no question of failure, for Bette's mindset only received signals of success. This thinking, they say, is the thinking of winners. She went on to perform in stage successes like "The Earth Between" and, of course, "The Wild Duck." Then came the call to Hollywood that would change everything...

Universal and Warners struggled with how to cast Bette. They tried to 

glamorize her, not realizing that her "glamour" was 

her intelligence, singularity,  and strength.

It is possible, had Bette never come to Hollywood, that she could have gone on in this same brazen, inexplicably blessed fashion. Had she never come to Hollywood, perhaps she never would have started questioning or doubting herself. Her career may have soared continually instead of burning out mid-flight and ending in a battle of self-destruction. Hollywood breaks hearts, and indeed it would even break the unbreakable Bette Davis. Having spent her life as the toast of every occasion, lauded for her beauty and talent, she landed in Tinsel Town only to be told that she was "ugly," awkward, giftless. Her first screen-test for Samuel Goldwyn was a disaster. For any other girl, this would mean defeat. For Bette, it meant war. After David Werner called her back to Universal after seeing her perform in "Solid South" (this Yankee often found herself in Southern Belle roles), she landed a three month contract with the studio. The casting department fretted: What to do with her? She's not conventionally beautiful... She's not conventionally anything... Each snipe cut her to the quick, but more than ever, Bette needed to prove to herself that she was better than anyone else, if only to show her father-- who objected to her career decision-- that she didn't need him or anyone else. It was power that she was after. Though her ego was severely damaged by this un-Christian greeting from the City of Angels, Bette was determined to get to a place where she could tell everyone to go to Hell. She would find that place on her throne as the leading lady of Warner Brothers.

Bette takes the graceful, feminine ideal to school and wins

the world over with her earthy, real, and flawed 

performance in Of Human Bondage.

After a series of bit parts that took her nowhere, Bette was signed with Warners in 1931. After making over twenty films, she would finally reach success in what remains one of her finest performances. In fact, at the time, it was deemed "probably the best performance ever recorded on the screen by a U.S. actress ." Her elusive, selfish, and at times repulsive take on W. Somerset Maugham's anti-heroine Mildred in Of Human Bondage was a sensation. Never had acting been so raw or unapologetic. Other actresses had shied from the intense and unflattering material. Bette latched onto it with desperation, knowing that it was her last chance to prove her mettle. To stand out in Hollywood, she was thus agreeing to be just what they thought she was: ugly. It was a gamble that worked. Her stature on the lot and in Hollywood in general climbed after this film, leading to critically acclaimed collaborations (and an affair) with William Wyler in Jezebel and The Letter. Nominated five years in row for her work, after an initial snub for Of Human Bondage, Bette would take home 2 trophies for Dangerous and Jezebel. 


An unlikely starlet, her appeal to women in particular-- who were craving an escape from societal expectations and gender shackles-- made her one of the biggest names in entertainment. She used her intelligence, abandon, and amazing understanding of physicality to inject pathos into her roles in Now, Voyager and Dark Journey. She was the actress other actresses wanted to be. With her strength, she was the woman other women wanted to be. The champion of "women's pictures," Bette's harshness projected a realism that gave her soul sisters comfort. Her atypical features too gave her a place with the common women of the world, who were elevated by Bette's uncommon ability to translate their secret pains, fears, and yearnings. One watches films like Old Acquaintance or Marked Woman today and still willingly absorbs the Bette Davis punch. She is solid in her shoes, unapologetic, authentic, flawed, human, and not to be trifled with. To see a woman take charge so naturally was a much needed breath of fresh air, making Bette the female answer to Warner's typically male-heavy gangster films. She was a social gangster.

Bette tests Henry Fonda's loyalty and her own sexual powers over

him, and suffers the consequences, in Jezebel, one of her 

greatest performances.

Yet, slowly over time, Bette's aim faltered. Her aforementioned 'punch' stopped smacking sense into the public and suddenly seemed to become self-inflicted. Some would say that the "actress" became a "star;" some could say money and not art became her agenda. In any case, Bette Davis seemed only to be playing Bette Davis after awhile. Always an unfalteringly strong performer, her technique dwindled and her characterizations suffered. Her formerly calculated mannerisms became little more than nervous ticks and old tricks. She wanted to maintain her power, but seemed to be surrendering it at the same time. Her well recorded disputes with Warner Brothers allegedly revealed a woman who wanted better opportunities, but in retrospect we see that she sabotaged every chance for elevation she received. She turned down interesting work and feigned illness to get out of compelling pictures, as if her faith in her talent was waning. She became a victim of her own internal battle: the pressure of staying on top became too much, and so she subconsciously started to jump the plank. 


Her personal relationships too give a key into her descent. Never trusting of the familial environment, considering her own broken home, she tried and failed to have marriages with every type of man on the list: sweet pushover "Ham" Oscar Nelson, social ladder climber Arthur Farnsworth, overbearing beefcake William Grant Sherry, and the abusive macho Gary Merrill. But no man would ever be as important to her as her career. Like so many of her film characters, she tried to be a woman who "had it all," only to find the push and pull between home and career to be far too abusive for her psyche. She wanted more than she was able to be a loving wife and mother. She lacked trust: trust in men and trust in herself. A great majority of her marriages became abusive, and Bette willingly seemed to instigate most of her physical punishments, particularly with Gary Merrill, who too beat her daughter, "B.D." Partially terrified and partly gratified at the bruises she received, Bette seemed to be seeking absolution for her failure as a woman. Then again, perhaps as a woman who had reached such great heights, she just wanted to feel pain to feel human again.

Bette makes history again as Margot Channing in All About Eve. She 

finally found a man to go mono-e-mono with her in Gary Merrill-- 

but their union cost her the last of her self-esteem.

Being Bette Davis, in the end, destroyed Bette Davis. As her career started dwindling, she made All About Eve-- which remains one of her classic performances-- then disappeared into maladjusted family life with Gary Merrill, daughter B.D, and her two adopted children Michael and Margot, who were essentially bought to be toys for B.D. Michael would be abused by his eldest sister as Bette had and continued to abuse her sister Bobby, and Margot would be ostracized after it was discovered that she was brain damaged and thus unmanageable. Bette assuaged herself the only way she knew how: in her constant cleaning and in booze. The result was a woman who appeared far beyond her years. It was no surprise, therefore, that she made her brief career renaissance in horror films. Her lipstick scowl still painted across her constantly disappointed face, Bette howled vengefully at the fading Hollywood moon with another never-say-die lady, Joan Crawford, in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? It was a sleeper sensation and led to a reawakening in Bette's career. But glory was not to last. Age, poor health-- including a battle with cancer-- and a foiled sense of self-esteem would work against the icon.  Her last major triumph in The Whales of August is a great example of this. She spent the entire filming period ostracizing herself from the rest of the cast, including Vincent Price and Lillian Gish, who tried and failed to befriend her. She had become too isolated in her cocoon of self-doubt and desperately resorted to antagonism for a sense of control. Her final effort in The Wicked Stepmother was cut short when she dropped out after seeing her aged face in the rushes. It was as if she was finally forced to recognize the monster she had created, and instead of flaunting it and feeding it as she used to, she became terrified of it and let it eat her alive. Her death in 1989 was a sad end to a woman who had shined so brightly at her zenith. But then, Bette would never have admitted to this defeat.

Fallen idols in a final triumph: What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?

While Joan Crawford was religiously devoted to her own 

preservation, Bette seemed intent on self-destruction. 

In retrospect, all of these hell-raising, intimidating qualities, which became exaggerated in her later years, only served to endear Bette to us more. We counted on her to be over-bearing, to be pushy, to live out a side of ourselves on and off screen that we were always too afraid or too polite to personally unleash. We sometimes need a devil to wreak havoc for us. Perhaps this was Bette's purpose, and why we continue to love her. Despite the aged caricature that seems to sometimes eclipse the slender, petite, beauty she once was, one cannot deny this woman's talent, nor the way she influenced an era of women undergoing another social renaissance. To watch the nuances she gave her characters takes the breath away. Her turn as Leslie Crosbie in The Letter expanded upon Jeanne Eagles's original villainess by eliminating Leslie's mania and making her a calculating woman one-card-short of a full-on sociopath. Her martyred Charlotte Lovell in The Old Maid reveals one woman living two lives-- one as a frigid aunt, bitter and overbearing, and the other as a secret mother who yearns for her beloved child's affection. Had Bette continued to trust her intuition, her natural scent for character, her downward slide after The Little Foxes wouldn't have been as rapid. Her need for control affected her ability to cooperate and collaborate. Instead she disappeared into overly manufactured characters, and became the woman of only one face: the Bette Davis face. It is a testament to her as the vital force she was that that face was the only one we needed and the one we continue to search for in all of her dangerous, uplifting, and life-changing portrayals. As "bad" as Bette was, she's still so good. Incomparable. Perfect. Beautiful... Especially when she gets ugly.