THE REEL REALS: Clark Gable

Clark Gable

The continuing fan worship of Clark Gable is so obvious that it seems a boring choice to even investigate the actor. He's not one of the forgotten ones, those whose work has been swept under the rug of time. He remains very much alive. He's one of the big ones. Perhaps the biggest. While Bogie is often hailed by general consensus as the most popular film actor of all time, it is Gable that was and is King. Perhaps this is because, despite the occasional ne'er do wells and scalawags that he would play, there was always an underlying elegance, intelligence, class, and a level of sophistication that enhanced and somehow did not contradict his down and dirty personifications. In conjunction, his regular guy transformation into a cinematic God made him mythic-- desirable yet relatable; down to earth yet elite. He placed on a pedestal, but he looked down on no one.

Clark Gable was indeed born Clark Gable of Cadiz, OH, but it would take time for him to make this name synonymous with silver screen royalty. Losing his mother in his youth and having little in common with his father, his life would be marked by both a perpetual quest for maternal comfort-- which initially drew him to older women-- and a determination to recreate himself as a masculine force of whom his father could be proud. Clark, you see, had a poet's sentiment. He possessed an immediate adoration of literature, but his brewing internalism of unanswered questions and a restless need for discovery would in time be calculatingly hidden by the He-man persona he borrowed from Hollywood father figure Victor Fleming. Again, the duality, the idea that he was hiding secrets, gave him a seductive power on the screen.

For women, he was the perfect challenge. He was the guy who didn't need anyone and wasn't going to fall for any "dame" nor be owned by one. At least, until his heart fell prey to Jean Harlow, Vivien Leigh or Joan Crawford. Viewers fantasized about being the woman chosen to unlock his secret depths and know the vulnerable child he hid so well. Men appreciated his cocky attitude, envied his access to beautiful women, and appreciated the sensitivity that he would casually and almost accidentally reveal. It gave them permission to house the same emotions that they too caged for appearance's sake. Gable, all around, made it all right to be a man and everything that meant.

Of course, he had a little help from MGM when it came to filing down his rough edges. With gold-capped teeth that he would have to paint white, thick eyebrows, and prominent ears, the studio at first wanted nothing to do with him. Gable's passion for an almost spiritual adventure in the world of art compelled him to accept a free makeover-- new teeth and all-- and the gamble paid off. He never forgot the clown beneath the paint, however, and it is the concerted construction of the new and improved "King Clark Gable" that led him to doubt his talent and distrust his success. It wasn't until he wed Carole Lombard, another self-acknowledged clown, that he allowed himself to have a little more fun. Sadly, the loss of her in her ill-fated plane crash during WWII pushed him deeper than ever into his mistrustful, self-imposed isolation.

Hardened by the tragedy, Gable would never be the same. His acting matured with his life experience, and when one compares the the swindling "Ace Wilfong" from A Free Soul with the mammoth embodiment of "Rhett Butler" in Gone with the Wind with his nakedly raw performance in the Huston/Miller late bloomer The Misfits, his intricacy as a man can be seen to grow, change, and intensify with each film. Cockiness turns to confidence turns to humility. Gable grew up on celluloid, as many actors and actresses of his time did. His life, therefore, is the story of Hollywood itself.

There is much to admire in his film work from his brutal and painful confessions in GWTW, to his conflicted egoism and desire in Red Dust & Mogambo, to his gravitational pull as a smooth, accidental comedian in It Happened One Night. He never thought much of himself, no; but he was something spectacular. His work, his personality, his desire to give of himself and seek truth, freedom, and sanctuary-- though he would never admit it-- has afforded us a rich kingdom of cinematic adventure. Easily embarrassed in reality, on the screen he always owned it-- the frame, the film, the fans. Indeed, the King ruled. Sorry, "rules." Now and forever.

TAKE ONE, TWO, THREE: Joan, the Woman

Ingrid Bergman in "Joan of Lorraine" (1946).

If you research any serious to moderately serious actress in the history of the world, you’ll probably uncover her fascination with, desire to play, or personal portrayal of one character above all others: Joan of Arc. The list of actresses who have had the honor of bringing this martyred figure back to life are numerous: Katharine Cornell, Joan Plowright, and Jean Seberg, etc. Jean Arthur played her with an interesting twist, having her Joan listen and respond to God as naturally as if he were standing beside her, whereas most performers had received him in awe with upward glances. Julie Harris performed opposite Boris Karloff (as Bishop Pierre Cauchon) to great acclaim in The Lark. As for Ingrid Bergman, her fascination with the "Maid of Orleans" began in her youth. Identifying with this chosen woman’s otherworldliness and admiring her courage, Ingrid would become determined to portray her both on the screen and on the stage. Her first portrayal was in 1946's "Joan of Lorraine," a play within a play about one actress's voyage of discovery in the role of Joan. This was later adapted for film without the dual story element. She resumed, or rather, refashioned the role on stage in "Joan of Arc at the Stake" in 1953, directed by her then husband, Roberto Rossellini. Marion Cotillard just did a recorded rendering of this oration as well.

But why all the hoop-la? As history becomes mythology after so many centuries have passed, the Passion for Joan of Arc seems a bit strange and outdated. Certainly, modern cynicism prevents audiences from responding to the "voice of God" that plagues poor Joan with the same fascination. The instinct is to mock or raise an eyebrow rather than believe. In addition, perhaps because Joan is a woman-- a girl, really-- her triumph over the British in war-torn Europe is too often presented as more of a macabre fairy tale than a truly inspiring story of heroism. Of course, this has a lot to do with the way she has been portrayed to audiences over the years. It often reads more "cute" than moving that she went out of her way to bring peace to her nation.

Dame Judi Dench in "St. Joan" (1966).

Still, while the varying depictions may age, the story does not. War is war is war, and as is clear from our nightly news broadcasts, we as human beings haven’t evolved much in terms of co-existentialism. People living in fear, people massacred for freedom, the downtrodden, the revolutionists-- they’re all still here. Within the chaos, it is always the pure voice of reason and peace that seems to be sacrificed, not so much for fear of the words, but for fear of the change they may provoke. We are too married to our savage ways; too mistrustful of our brethren to surrender our modest level of power and control for fear that we will be forced to surrender all. Better to trample underfoot than be trampled underfoot. Thus, the “heavenly” voices are silenced and their living vessels become murdered legends, from Jesus to Joan to Martin Luther King, Jr. Thus, Joan's position as a revolutionary makes her story tempting to continuing generations of artists.

Then, there is the woman herself who is appealing. The industry of entertainment is rarely kind to women. In film, the role options are variations of but a few accepted types:  the loyal wife, the slut, the frazzled, backward girl who just wants a boyfriend, or the cold, modern female who is finally reminded that she is just a frazzled, backward girl who needs a boyfriend. Even Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction could be plopped into the ‘frazz’ category. So, imagine the appeal of a strong, independent, willful female character, who is not adherent to any man, but serves only the spirit of man-- an idea of peace and goodness that has no form nor shape but exists only as faith. Imagine the appeal for actresses wanting to give a performance of strength, madness, bravery, fear, betrayal, and all the shades between. This protagonist is much more appealing than the typical gal-Friday. Hallelujah!

What follows will be the analysis of three particular women and what they brought to the role of Joan. The films of Joan the Woman, The Passion of Joan of Arc, and Joan of Arc present generally the same story, but in each adaptation, the audience meets three very different women. Which martyrdom was worth it?

Joan the Woman - Geraldine Farrar

Cecil B. DeMille seems the perfect director in retrospect to interpret the angelic Saint Joan. His own personal devotion to Christianity and his knack for luxurious, historical... re-imaginings shall we say (?), would certainly convince an encroaching viewer that something grandiose awaits on the other side of the "Play" button. Yet, Joan the Woman is far from a "Come to Jesus" cinematic moment. Cecil definitely takes certain liberties, for instance creating a love story within the tragic tale by uniting the stories of the The Hundred Years War and WWI through  a reincarnated soldier (Wallace Reid). Unfortunately, the expected juice is missing from Cecil's usually more tempting fruit.  People often forget that Cecil literally learned directing in the public eye. His first film effort, The Squaw Man (1914 ) was one on which he had a great deal of assistance, and when he made Joan a mere two years later, he had not yet cultivated the sublime craft that would make him a master of cinema.

Joan the Woman falls between The Squaw Man and more impressive future efforts like The King of Kings and The Godless Girl, meaning that he was no longer an infant and not yet a genius in his artistic self-discovery when filming commenced. There are elements of his usual intrigue, and his scene compositions are already cookin’, but the eye struggles with what to follow in the somewhat washed-out world he presents. This would not be an issue, had the film a strong actress to guide the audience through the maze of monochromatic hysteria Cecil delivered. Unfortunately, Geraldine Farrar was not up to snuff.

Not without merit: here we see a touch of the growing DeMille
brilliance. He'd only been at it a couple years, folks...

Naturally, Geraldine seemed like a casting coup when production was initiated. DeMille had worked with her on Carmen (also with Wallace Reid) in 1915 and was hoping that the same mutual appreciation and public response would repeat itself in their reunion. Geraldine herself was a fascinating and vibrant woman-- an opera singer with a conscientious demeanor and the charisma demanded of her craft. Without her legendary voice in the silent Carmen, she still performed very well, conveying the sinister sexuality of the notorious gypsy with an enviable panache. Yet as Joan, her effect was not as superb. 

For starters, Geraldine (left) was 34 when she played the role but looked older. Joan only lived to be approximately 19. The age issue could have been compensated-- though the discrepancy is an instant disappointment-- if Geraldine had been able to portray more innocence and delicacy in the part. In this case, she seems more to be struggling in vain to dilute her usual potency and plays Joan the Statue instead of Joan the Woman. Her piety is also unshakable, which makes her character arc monotonous and uninteresting. Her Joan is so in control and seemingly unafraid that she comes off as somewhat pompous. Had Lillian Gish with her effervescent valiance or Mary Pickford with her vulnerable but selfless carriage assumed the role, it would have been a better fit. Geraldine is far too mature, too cynical, too unyielding, and too bored in the role. In truth, she seems to be laughing at her performance even as she gives it-- which may have been for personal reasons, as her life was a bit chaotic at the time. (She had just wed the interfering and unmanageable Lou Tellegen.)

In any case, the rigidity with which Geraldine approaches the role gives the audience little to relate to. In total contrast to the title, she makes Joan a figurehead and an idol and not a flesh and blood human being. Had Geraldine played a plotting British wench or a mistress/mole in the French monarchy, she and the audience would have been happier.

The Passion of Joan of Arc - Maria Falconetti

The blame for the aforementioned film cannot be laid on its technical inadequacies. The fact that it was a silent film, black and white, etc, are not excuses for its flaws-- though is should be said that the actual film stock didn’t age well and the version available doesn’t exactly belong in the Criterion Collection. Yet, another silent B&W film involving St. Joan does fit into that category, and its brilliance belongs only in small part to the supremacy of its restoration. Directed in 1928 by Carl Theodor Dreyer, this fittingly French adaptation of Joan’s life does not cover her initial recruitment by the voice of God through her eventual execution, but focuses on a snapshot-- or rather, snapshots-- of her life at its darkest. For 82 minutes, the audience is literally absorbed into Joan’s torment, faith, and tormented faith, as she faces the hypocritical judges who accuse her of heresy and eventually burn her at the stake for her refusal to perjure herself. 

What is amazing about the film is the fact that so little happens in such a brief time, but the art and style are so well-crafted and acted that it is not so much a movie as an experience. The phrase “not a dry seat in the house” could definitely be applied. Truly, truly, it is a breathtaking piece of work and a touching and brutally human portrayal of Joan’s story. Film students should have to study this picture alone to be able to understand how intelligent editing with finesse (see shot sequence, left) and creative camera angles can create near perfection. It is far too simple for filmmakers to leave all the directing to the audience, but Dreyer guides the focus so eloquently that this story-- which in lesser hands could have been shot as a static, staged play-- is transcendent. It is violent, threatening, paranoid, painful, heart-breaking, and fluid.

An integral part of its success belongs to Maria Falconetti, who literally carries the film in a series of intense close-ups. I can only remember seeing a full, standing body shot of her twice-- once when walking before her jury, and the other enduring her last moments at the stake. Again, this actress is not the appropriate age, but Maria succeeds where Geraldine failed because she wears the last years of the intensity of war, social scrutiny, and flagging faith so clearly that one could almost refer to her granular performance as corporeal. She is not your prototypical beauty. Indeed, she is rough, weathered, and-- unlike Geraldine-- androgynous. Every emotion, every doubt, every tick, is exhibited in her eyes-- which are wide and psychotic at times and peacefully humbled at others. With the crafty camera work and skillful cuts, viewers never grow tired of her face as it reflects her rapidly dwindling willpower. Even without this technical assistance, every tear that falls down her cheek is somehow unique, as if delivered from a different and very particular, aching place in her soul. One can literally see her nostrils quiver as she struggles to breath and contain her sobs. In simpler terms, her profound despair kicks you in the guts.

Maria Falconetti's devastation is read on her face in its many mutating
and varying degrees from start to finish. Here, she is shamed and
humiliated for her "heretical" stance and for her denial of gender.

Joan's moment of mental weakness is also brilliantly displayed by Maria. We see Joan as she caves in to her human fears, signing a confession that will clear her name, save her life, but defame her God. Yet, as she raises the pen, one feels a rush relief. Her suffering is over. “To Hell with God, Joan! Save yourself!” This makes her final denial and renouncement of the document all the more painful. When she is reaffirmed as a heretic, one feels both pride and horror on her behalf. The moment when she begins to burn is an uncomfortable inspiration, for the audience fully understands the terrors she went through and overcame. Still, her death feels personal. It is a mix of liberation and torture for the viewer. One understands what the flames are killing, having witnessed the woman so closely. Joan is not an archetype or demigod. Though played by a woman, she is just a fragile girl-- a harmless creaturs. The final scenes, the chaos at the execution, the images of her corpse within the flames, omit an aroma that is sensed if not truly scented. These are ugly, violent scenes, for which reason the film was banned/censored upon its release. 

The final analysis of Passion is not so much to promote the good that Joan did for France nor her victories nor her God. Falconetti does not present a legend. She presents a human. In a strange way, this upsets the perfect ghost of Joan’s memory while glorifying it. It is resplendent.

Ingrid Bergman - Joan of Arc

The final version to which I will lend investigation is Victor Fleming’s Joan of Arc. For all that was said of the last film, this one blatantly states the opposite. Fleming, notorious for his sweeping tales and larger-than-life movies-- Gone with the Wind, The Wizard of Oz, Wings-- was clearly not of a mind to tell a story but to build an epic. The tale of Joan’s life from her resolution for conquest and declaration of war to her eventual death is blown a bit out of proportion. It's effect is long-winded and distracting instead of engrossing. Thus, the heart of the story, carried so superbly by Ingrid, struggles to find its way to the surface of the almost threatening color, overwhelming breadth, and transliterated scope of the film. It is, essentially, Joan the Woman overdosing on adrenaline. Fleming adds some brilliant touches, such as implicating the nightly rapes Joan most likely would’ve suffered during her incarceration, but the attempts at decadence, while not entirely unbearable, are out of place. Ingrid and Fleming seem at all times to be telling two different stories. One artist is playing the cello; the other is blowing a trumpet.

Ingrid definitely brought more enthusiasm and physicality to her role as
Joan. She is not just a small young woman who hears voices; she is
a soldier, warrior, and leader, as well as prophet.

I wanted to love the film and prove all the nay-sayers wrong, but I couldn't. The movie was critically panned upon its release, yet Ingrid was such a phenomenon at the time that the public still turned out in droves to see her. This is an example of super-proper casting. To the people of the world, Ingrid Bergman in the early-mid '40s was a saint. She was the angel of Hollywood-- a blessed, untainted, gorgeous soul. Her passion and decency, the persona that the public thrust upon her-- which was not totally untrue-- made her a foregone conclusion for the part. The fact that she had already performed the role on stage only bolstered this theory. Yet, somehow, it doesn’t work. Ingrid is seen too much from afar. The audience is not allowed to get too close, sealing Joan’s identity as an unknowable goddess instead of the mysterious, ethereal but real girl she was.

Despite this, Ingrid herself can be proud of the work she did. Her approach to the role is very much in keeping with her little girl lost identity, and coupled with her rather imposing physique, she makes for quite an interesting heroine (right). In fact, Fleming takes advantage of Ingrid’s length with his long shots, and she dominates the frame with her elegant command and childlike dedication to her quest. Why must we fight? Because... Because, we must! Because, God said so! As such, her over-devotion and wide-eyed responses to the Voice of God come off a bit saccharine at times. However, she is able to neutralize this effect by veering more on the side of immaturity rather than ignorance. Particularly in the scenes where she is questioned by her English partisan judges, her unschooled but honest answers tangle her attackers’ reason and simultaneously hurt their pride: there is nothing worse to them than being outsmarted by an uneducated peasant, not to mention a woman.

Where Ingrid really excels is in her typical simplicity and the honesty with which she communicates her emotion. The most powerful scene is perhaps that where her conscience is tested before the judges. She can uphold her prior testaments that it was God who spoke to her and commanded her to lead the legions of France, but she will be burned at the stake-- a painful death that she has fearfully foreseen. Or she can lie, claim that she acted of her own free will, and spend the rest of her life in jail. The people in the observing crowds, who are already holding her up as their savior and Saint, beg her to sign her confession! She falls to her knees in anguish, and we see only her eyes, filled with wonder and joy, even peace, cascading light and unforced tears down her cheeks. Ingrid signs, the people cheer, and she is safe. When betrayed by her the judges, who keep none of their promises, Joan becomes ashamed at her weakness and recants her faulty testimony. She dies finally understanding the eternal peace that her God had promised her. She goes fearfully but willingly through fire, determined to reach that place.

If the movie were Ingrid as depicted in The Passion of Joan of Arc, the results would have been more commendable. Unfortunately, Fleming is too concerned with winning a wrestling match with himself.

In all versions, one could make an argument as to whether or not Joan was in fact mad. Were her ravings that of a disturbed woman with the kind of "divine" genius that often makes the greatest (Moses) or worst (Hitler) of leaders, or was she truly a woman touched by the hand of some predetermining force of nature that saw calamity and chose in her its warrior? The answer doesn’t matter. In the end, it is not a faith in God that drove any of the women portrayed in these films. It was a profound faith in themselves and the message they felt they must deliver. Their sense of purpose, though shaken under duress and clouded by the usual human uncertainties, is successful. Their effect was to change the shape of the very world.

Boris Karloff as the conspiratorial Bishop questions Julie Harris's
Joan in The Lark (1955).

The most interesting thing about Joan of Arc for our purposes is how the many different actresses who have played her chose to do so because they saw slivers of themselves in her. It was these cracks, flaws, and lights in her character that they then reflected through their separate interpretations. For all her faults, one could say that Geraldine brought to the role her stubborn resolve. Maria brought pain, and Ingrid brought love. None were wholly true; none were wholly false. In searching for their characterizations, each woman probably thought she heard the voice of Joan guiding her, tried to hear her, or at least hoped to let Joan’s spirit speak through her. Were they really communing with a woman whom they had never met and only admired? Were they mad? Again, it doesn’t matter. They made their statements, martyred themselves before our critical judgment and scrutiny, and now, as Joan's women, they remain mislaid pieces to the continuing mystery of her life, death, and universal hold.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Ingrid Bergman - Part Two

Hitch discovers his new muse. He probably thought Ingrid's
face was made just for him, and his love of it is shown in
their three collaborations.

When Ingrid arrived in the United States, she very quickly learned the film industry motto: "Hurry up and wait." While languishing in New York to await her first project- a remake of the Swedish hit Intermezzo, Ingrid did her best to stay occupied with sight-seeing, reading, and falling in love with ice cream. However, she would consistently pester David O. Selznick to put her to work! Unlike the average person, who groans when peeling themselves from the covers each morning and longs for the lazy clock to reach 5pm, Ingrid wasn't happy unless she was on the move and either preparing a character or performing as one. Her regular calls and telegrams to David and Kay Brown were desperate pleas: "Put me to work!" Finally, she got her wish. Intermezzo: A Love Story would prove to be less poetic than its foreign counterpart, but in reprising her role (as the romantic and ambitious younger lover and protégé of a married master violinist aka Leslie Howard), Ingrid did not come up short. Indeed, in this musically driven tale of the complications of passion and duty, she fittingly struck a chord with American audiences.

Already off to a great start, Selznick began establishing his campaign to promote Ingrid. Confused by her lack of pretense and low-maintenance upkeep-- Ingrid tried to refuse apartment accommodations, thinking that her dressing room/trailer provided more than enough space for her-- as well as her clear-headed drive, David didn't know how to capitalize off her regular girl persona. This issue was further complicated by the fact that Ingrid  refused to play games. When Selznick suggested that Ingrid make certain changes to her appearance, accent, etc, she-- very Garbo-like-- basically said, "Either you want me for the role or you don't. I guess we can call the whole thing off." Ah, the lightning bolt: the singular thing that made Ingrid so irregular was her regularity. She was down to earth, modest, kind, unspoiled, sincere... Thus, she was touted in all the papers and magazines as the (obscenely beautiful) girl-next-door-from-another-continent. The ploy worked. The public was quickly in love.

Ingrid's sexually provocative, humiliated, and defeated turn as Ivy in
Victor Fleming's Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde turned more than
a few heads. There are rumors that she and Tracy had an
affair during filming, but it seems unlikely, as it was
Victor on whom Ingrid had a school girl crush.

The film that would tip the scales in Ingrid's direction to all out fanaticism was Victor Fleming's Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Eager for complicated work and displeased with the lackluster films she was given so far, Ingrid refused to play Jekyll's vanilla fiancé (later assumed by Lana Turner) and fought for the role of "Ivy" the prostitute. It was a wise decision, and her performance not only knocked Spencer Tracy's socks off but stole the entire film out from under him. Her mixture of provocative sensuality, later broken and disturbed by the diabolical Hyde, was both powerful and pitiful. This portrayal also started the character type that Ingrid consciously or unconsciously would be attracted to throughout her career, or likewise the persona that audiences would most identify her with. Her most popular performances remain that of a woman on the cusp of insanity. Her fragility, while shrouded in madness, is constantly tested, but her inner strength always seems to carry her back to lucidity and even triumph. While Ingrid projected an incredible amount of vulnerability in her roles, there too was a toughness. You may break my mind, but you'll never have my heart! This made her relatable as an actress, which made her the ultimate martyr and someone her audience would energetically root for.

For several years, Ingrid was untouchable. Casablanca was surprisingly a misery to make behind-the-scenes, especially for a perpetual craftsman like herself, as so much of it was created in the moment with little subtext to build upon. Her need to dig for the depth of "Ilsa Lund" was thus met with little help from director Michael Curtiz. To her amazement, the hackneyed approach to the film resulted in a classic that remains one of the most celebrated films of all time. Forbidden love, the temptation for both romantic and political escape, the tragic but brilliant ending when one impossible ending is sacrificed for another... From the casting, to the direction, to the frame composition, Casablanca remains perfect to film lovers. Gaslight was soon to follow, as was Ingrid's first Oscar, which she won for playing the mentally terrorized, paranoid, and desperate "Paula Alquist" opposite Charles Boyer's brutally sadistic (and magnificent) "Gregory Anton." With the help of George Cukor, Ingrid was easily able to project both the taut mania of her character and her cathartic retribution, resulting in one of her greatest performances.

Ingrid intensified the effect of "Paula's" paranoia and increasing madness
in Gaslight by showcasing her wholesomeness and rationality in the
film's beginning. This made the character's deterioration all the
more painful to watch. When she realizes that she has been
deceived, the tigress she unleashes on her tormentor
(Charles Boyer) is much more fearful because of
the brink to which she has been pushed.

In between various films such as The Bells of St. Mary's and Hollywood dinner parties, Ingrid was able to make the acquaintance of another director whom she truly admired: Alfred Hitchcock. His equal admiration and fascination for her would turn into complete and utter obsession while filming their first collaboration, Spellbound. An intricate mystery with complicated, psychological underpinnings, the finished product remains fascinating and thankfully manageable due to the sturdy execution of both Ingrid and her leading man, Gregory Peck. However, it is Notorious that remain not only 'notorious' but sanctified as perhaps the greatest Hitchcock film ever made. Of course, that label is hard to bestow, considering the many different pictures, techniques, and experiments that he made throughout his career. Still, with the Ingrid-Cary Grant combo and the tangled plotline of espionage and romance, it is a definite front-runner. Hitch's school-boy adoration for his leading lady also turned into an aesthetic achievement, exemplified by the caressing light, shadows, and fixating close-ups that allow us to capture every nuance, eye-shift, and tick of Ingrid's portrayal of the fallen, redeemed, destroyed, and resurrected "Alicia Huberman." Ingrid made two lifelong friends in both Cary and Hitch during filming, and their names remain eternally, artistically entwined as a result.

The success of Notorious, aside from Hitchcock's artistry at one of its peaks,
was due in large part to the astounding chemistry between Ingrid and Cary.
Quickly becoming good chums in real life, their onscreen characters,
while often spiteful in their actions, had an attraction of mutual
fascination, with one character watching the other with
laughter in the eyes. It  is still refreshing to watch
 Ingrid poke fun at the super serious
"Devlin" and cut him down to size.

Sadly, Ingrid's personal life was not faring too well, and things were about to become worse. Her marriage to husband Petter had been disintegrating for some time. Ingrid relied on Petter's judgment greatly, particularly at the beginning of their marriage, thus he held the reins in terms of all major decision making. This patriarchal structure soon made her feel like more of a servant than a wife. Petter, perhaps to combat his own insecurities over the fact that his wife was such a success, made himself her de facto manager, consultant, and accountant. Ingrid was essentially given an allowance for the work she so willingly did to support her family, while Petter handled the cash-- including payments for his continuing medical education-- while consistently meddling in and complicating her professional relationships. He insisted on overseeing Ingrid's contracts, instructing her on which projects to take, bartering for better deals, and he equally saw to it that he was given a financial cut directly from the studio. Selznick himself became irate at Petter's intrusion into Ingrid's affairs, as the latter had no education whatsoever in the film business. As such, while Ingrid started twisting beneath her lover's thumb, acting became her only escape. She asked for a divorce, but Petter refused. Eventually, as the two remained passionlessly separated but together, Ingrid sought emotional comfort elsewhere, finding lovers in Victor Fleming, Robert Capa, and Larry Adler. Then, Petter asked for a divorce. The couple decided, for the good of their marital "corporation," that they should keep up appearances. They had no plans to marry others anyway.


At least, the didn't until Ingrid saw the great neo-realist accomplishment of Italian cinema, Rome, Open City. Blown away by the filmmaking, authentic acting, and brutal storytelling, Ingrid became determined to work with the film's director, Roberto Rossellini. As he was looking for American money to finance his foreign films, he jumped at the chance to work with Ingrid when he received her fan letter. Despite the fact that Roberto was married, having an affair with Anna Magnani, and simultaneously sleeping with a plethora of other women, he fell in love with Ingrid, and she was as smitten with him. Finding a man who supported her creativity instead of condescending to it, as Petter had, the two quickly started a quiet affair that turned into the Mt. Vesuvius of scandals. Ingrid filed for divorce, Petter sued for custody of daughter Pia and won, and the public turned against the angelic actress whom they had once adored. She had betrayed them by making the crystalline image of perfection that they had projected upon her counterfeit. Ingrid found herself unceremoniously blacklisted. As she refused to play ugly, as Petter did-- ignoring his own faults in the marriage and shamelessly slandering her in all the papers-- Ingrid was fingered as the guilty party. Strangely, it was her own sense of decency and loyalty that was the nail in her coffin. She actually felt an incredible amount of guilt, and in recompense ,never spoke out in her own defense to combat Petter's accusations. After filming Stromboli in Italy with Roberto, the duo wed, and Ingrid soon announced that she was pregnant. To America, she was just a fallen woman in exile.

Ingrid, Roberto, Robertino, Isotta, and Isabella.

Strangely, Ingrid was not loathed at all by her new Italian compatriots. They found her glamorous and fascinating, and they celebrated her presence in their country. Despite Ingrid's hopes, her professional alliance with Roberto did not prove to be felicitous. None of his films ever measured up to the groundbreaking Rome, Open City, and despite Ingrid's performances, Roberto's "naturalistic" style proved to be little more than a symptom of his lack of organization and creative incoherence. While he spent money like water, she had to work twice as hard to earn her growing family's keep. The growing Pia now had three step-siblings: brother Robertino (Robin) and twin sisters Isabella and Isotta!

Ingrid's children became her only blessing. As a mother, Ingrid was always emotionally present and protective of her children, yet her number one devotion remained her work. She would often grow stir-crazy after being inactive for too long, and her need to work made her a loving but inconsistent mother. Her latter three children, growing up in a household with two artistic parents, took no offense to Ingrid's comings and goings nor their father's. It was the norm for them. However, things were different with Pia, who rarely got to see her mother due to her social exclusion from American shores and Petter's resistence to their meetings. With Petter filling poison in her daughter's ear, Ingrid's relationship with her eldest child would remain tense and guilt-ridden. It would take time for her two separate families to coalesce into one.

Mysterious and hypnotic photo of Ingrid which explores
the dark inner turmoil of the classic beauty.
Photographer: Sam Shaw in Rome, 1963.

Finding herself soon in the same place that she had been with husband #1, husband #2 slowly became just as judgmental and controlling, not to mention philandering. Ingrid considered it a deserved punishment. Yet, as her marriage to Roberto started to die, Ingrid's artistic life was coming back to life. After performing almost solely for Roberto, due to his possessiveness, she finally made a creative partnership with Jean Renoir and performed in his Elena and Her Men. This peaked interest from other filmmakers. Was she finally going to come out from hiding?

Almost immediately, Ingrid would get an offer from old pal Kay Brown and 20th Century Fox to appear in Anastasia. Ecstatic about the opportunity and nervous about the public's reception, Ingrid took on the project and churned out her first smash hit in 6 years. Suddenly, the tides were starting to turn and public favor tipped in her direction once more. As time heals all wounds, people began to forgive and forget. Likewise, public governmental figures who had once lambasted Ingrid for her "indecency" were soon muttering apologies and supplicating themselves at her feet due to their reawakened respect for and awe of her work. Fittingly, at the Academy Awards in 1957, it was the loyal Cary Grant who bestowed the Best Actress Oscar on Ingrid in her absentia. It was the perfect way for Hollywood to welcome her back. But would she come???

Ingrid and Michael Redgrave in "Hedda Gabler."

Sadly, Anastasia would be the straw that broke her marriage's back. Roberto was threatened by Ingrid's career, which would continue in its excellence without him over the next quarter century. Mixing her projects between the stage and screen, she would complete compelling work abroad in "Tea and Sympathy" and "Hedda Gabler" and return to the America stage for the first time in 20 years in "More Stately Mansions." She had also returned to business on the silver screen, reuniting with Cary for the delightful comedy Indiscreet and teaming with Walter Matthau and Goldie Hawn in Cactus Flower. Ingrid proved that age was not something to hide from, but something to embrace. She had already shown herself to the world anyway, warts and all, so all that was left to re-introduce was her incandescent beauty. Ingrid Bergman was back, and she continued to brighten movie theaters and earn critical kudos, including her acclaimed work in The Visit and her third and final Oscar-winning performance in Murder on the Orient Express. Autumn Sonata proved to be a poignant and personal piece of film, showing Ingrid's craft at its finest. The tale of an emotionally bitter and tension fraught relationship between mother and daughter, it too became her love song to her daughter Pia, with whom she had slowly reconciled. She also married for the third time to producer Lars Schmidt, who understood and embraced her eccentricities and personal needs like no other before. While her work ethic, as always, drove a wedge between them-- leading to another divorce, done secretly--Lars remained a consistent friend and ally for the remainder of her days. Indeed, her friendships with Roberto and the majority of her ex-lovers was quite remarkable. Ingrid had no malice for anyone. She always made her piece with the past and moved forward.

Unfortunately, there was one thing that Ingrid could not escape-- death-- and she would become ill with the same disease that had claimed her father's life: cancer. Her many years of chain-smoking certainly hadn't help matters, but it was the growths in her breasts that would torment her. After enduring two mastectomies and feeling her body weakening, Ingrid was in constant pain during her final performance in the television movie, "A Woman Called Golda." As ever, she refused to complain, arrived on time, and gave a performance that both honored the real-life character she portrayed and her own lifetime of deep and conscientious work. As usual, she put aside any medical issues during her sickness to make things easier for the crew. For example, when close-ups of her hands had to be shot for one particular scene, Ingrid insisted on performing the snippets herself, and she willingly drained the fluid from her swelled arm for several days to do so-- a pro til the end. Ingrid would sadly pass away on her 67th birthday (Aug. 29th, 1982), after spending the evening having a final champagne toast with jovial friends and loved ones. Thus, having completed a perfect circle, she faded out of this life as bravely and gently as she had lived it.

"Be yourself. The world worships the original." Ingrid
had no qualms with "roughing it" during For Whom
the Bell Tolls. In fact, she enjoyed fishing
between takes.

I have noticeably devoted a lengthy retrospective of Ms. Bergman, her life, and her art, and hopefully my words have been able to indicate why. Ingrid was stunning. Her art was sublime, pure in its motivations, and uncontaminated by the pollutants of public scrutiny, industrial disingenuousness, and personal pain. Instead, just as when she was a little girl, she carried her worries, shames, fears, and passions with her deep inside, only opening them up as her own Pandora's box when they would be most useful-- and even helpful. Every time she approached the camera, "[her] old friend," she purposely disappeared into the same dream world that she had once created with her father and willingly left her guts on the floor every take, every time. As such, we continue to worship the characters that she birthed, die beside her in each martyrdom, and come back to life with each redemption. Her humanity, her scrupulousness, and her virtue were as true in her personal life as in her work. Ingrid was not a movie star. Ingrid was-- and is-- everything.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Clara Bow

Clara Bow

Clara Bow has always been one of my favorites. However, I have put off an analysis of her life for some time. Her films make me incredibly happy, but her life story has a way of making me severely depressed. Nonetheless, this is one woman well worth investigating. With a name like Clara Bow, which needed no alteration when she hit Hollywood, it seemed like this diamond in the rough was bound for a life in lights. However, the truth of Clara's history, upbringing, and experiences in show business tell quite a different story. She was one of the first successful personas to enter the film business in its second generation. The world of Hollywood was on a major high by the time the 1920s hit. The collision of film's solid foundation with a quickly changing world would be simultaneously fabulous and fatal. Clara's peers would come of age in an industry built on shattered dreams. Former top-notch celebs like Fatty Arbuckle, Mabel Normand, and Wallace Reid were some of the fallen stars whose reputations uncovered then destroyed the illusion of Tinsel Town's perfection. Clara's gang of "flappers" would be more real. They rebelled against Hollywood's established ideals while embracing and running amok with the glamour. However, there was a price to be paid for this frivolity, for now that the public knew that its Golden Gods weren't impenetrable, they seemed even more intent on breaking them down than they once had been on building them up. Clara would be one of the first and the worst victims of this tragedy. Her sad fate is no shocker considering how she began. Once upon a time in Brooklyn...

~   ~   ~

...Clara was born. Two elder siblings had died at birth, making her the third-times-the-charm child of Robert Bow and Sarah Gordon on July 29, 1905. Unfortunately, her birth wasn't all that "wanted." In fact, her mentally unstable mother resented her own life and marriage to Robert to such an extent that she had hoped to die in child birth. Clara was, thus, forever punished for not killing her mother. She too was punished for surviving. Her mother's erratic behavior, mood swings, and psychotic episodes-- including violent death threats-- were co-mingled with Robert's lack of interest in familial responsibility and avid participation in alcoholism, philandering, wife-beating, and the eventual sexual abuse of his 16-year-old daughter. Growing up in impoverished tenements, Clara had few friends, save one that she witnessed burned alive. Mocked by the girls in class for the scraps that served as her clothing and her crippling stutter, Clara got along slightly better with neighborhood boys, playing stick ball and offering up a left hook to any punk who thought he could elbow his way around her. She was forced to leave her education behind at the age of 14 to help support her family, which she did by getting a job slicing buns at Nathan's hot dog stand in "Coney Island." Despite the harsh nature of her life, Clara's nature was never harsh. She continually blamed herself for her parents' actions, sought to appease them, and defended them when necessary. When Robert first caved and decided to take Sarah to a mental institution, Clara begged him to let her mother remain at home. Clara knew that Sarah wasn't right in the head, and she believed that deep down she really loved her. She was willing to do whatever it took to find that love.

Winning the "Fame and Fortune" contest didn't do Clara any favors.

She had to pound the pavement like any other actress. She

won respect by giving soulful and vibrant performances

such as this one in Down to the Sea in Ships.

Another solution in this quest for adoration was cinema. Clara wished to be the recipient of the same level of awe and respect that she had given her idols, one of whom was Mary Pickford. She knew if she could get on the big screen, she could change her life and the lives of her family. It seemed like a hopelessly desperate dream, but when Clara saw the opportunity, she seized it. She entered Brewster Publications' "Fame and Fortune" contest in 1921 and was shocked to find herself a finalist. Her naturalism and pep during her audition was a far cry from the other ladies, who had walked through their actions with contrived posture... and rudeness. The majority of the girls made fun of Clara's paltry outfit. She had the last laugh on that count when she won the big prize-- a bit part in a major motion picture! Her mother's congratulations was calling her a "hoor." Clara's first project as an actress was in Beyond the Rainbow. Little was expected from her, and her hard-won role wound up on the cutting room floor. Right after the film's release, Clara woke to find her mother brandishing a knife over her bed. As a result, Sarah Bow was institutionalized yet again on Feb. 24, 1922. Despite this upset and the dismal outlook of her cinematic future, which the Movies had assuredly already tossed in the scrap heap, Clara put herself to work, trying to find auditions and other acting gigs. She heard all the worst: too young, too fat, too short, etc. When Elmer Clifton took a chance on her, casting her in Down to the Sea in Ships, it changed her life. It was a contest that brought Clara into the world of film, but by God it was her talent that was going to keep her there!

Clara got down and dirty in Grit, and impressed director

Frank Tuttle in the process.

Clara jumped off the screen in Down to the Sea in Ships, stealing every scene she was in, and making memorable a film that would otherwise have been a run-of-the-mill dud. Her innate charisma and emotional instinct brought more attention and another role in Enemies of Women. While filming, Clara would learn that her mother, who still protested against her chosen profession, was dead. She received the news from her father while she danced on a table for one particular scene. She would always carry the guilt that it was the one thing in life that brought her the most joy that killed her "Mama." Robert, on the other hand, was ecstatic about Clara's career. The money and the increasing fame was working out well where he was concerned, as was his access to beautiful women, whom he made certain to introduce himself to on Clara's sets. Clara overlooked his behavior, believing that he was all she had left. When she started work on Grit and met 2nd cameraman Artie Jacobson, she would meet the first of many men that would sincerely care for her. The two fell for each other quickly, and after Clara made the move from New York to Hollywood, she and Artie would even begin scandalously and un-apologetically living together in sin. Clara's lack of qualm when it came to her personal life would cause quite a furor later on, but for now she was not quite popular enough for it to matter. Her new "boss," Ben Schulberg of Preferred Pictures, would make sure that she became plenty famous in due time.

The Grande Dame of BS, Elinor Glyn, dubs Clara the perfect representative 

of IT. In the film, Clara defines what "it"  really is: charisma, fire, sexuality, 

magnetism, character, strength... perfection.

Clara's popularity started taking off in The Plastic Age, but it was the iconic It that solidified her as a bona fide star, not to mention legend. With the publicity boost of the infamous Elinor Glyn dubbing Clara the 'It' girl, Clara became the leader in a legion of women who were embracing the new found freedom of the roaring-est decade in American history. Clara's heroine in It was more or less copied in her following films: all were openly sensual women living life on their own terms. They liked to dance, laugh, tease, and have fun where they may. Yet, they too were strong, sassy, and warm. Clara's own soulful sadness and world-weary knowledge would give her brazen females a gravity and honesty that rendered their spirited antics celebratory instead of defamatory. Clara's girls were basically good girls in the end, so all of the spunk Clara projected was digestible to the more uptight members of the American audience. Everyone seemed to agree that the It girl indeed had it, and their worship of her and clamoring for her films made her Hollywood's biggest star. (Louise Brooks was a huge fan). Clara was full of life, magnetic, electric, and yet kind. She too was a real girl, approachable-- incredibly beautiful with big, liquid eyes, but still un-intimidating. She wasn't a goddess on a pedestal like some of the other silent film Queens-- Gloria Swanson or Norma Talmadge, for example. She was a kid from Brooklyn, and a kid most importantly. In an era where the flaming youth notoriously burned the candle at both ends, Clara was the heat that ignited the wick.

Clara too continued to impress her directors, who marveled at her ability to so easily vacillate between giggles and tears. She so naturally was able to indicate her characters' hidden feelings and articulate their outward impulses that the director needed to tell her little more than where to stand-- not that she ever was able to stand in one place anyway. She drove her devoted cameramen crazy by whirling around the set, making it nearly impossible for them to keep up with her jazzy tempo. Her films continued to do sensational business: Wings, Get Your Man, Red Hair, etc. Having transferred to Paramount with B.P. Schulberg, she was the studio's number one cash veal. As a result, Schulberg worked her like a dog, putting her on a back-breaking filming schedule with little room for respite. Clara never complained, being in love with her work, but she did have moments of nervous exhaustion. In addition, the material she was given plummeted in integrity after It. Paramount had discovered that audiences would come to see the It girl no matter What, so they bothered little with structuring interesting plot-lines around her or trying to build her reputation. They let her charisma ride and watched the receipts roll in. Clara yearned for dramatic roles and the chance to prove the depths of her great emotion and experience, but the chances kept passing her by. This would hurt her later on.

Coop never stood a chance: Clara's buoyant humor and warmth charmed

him the moment they started filming Children of Divorce. The 

love affair wouldn't last. His old fashioned values couldn't

tolerate her modern temperament.

Her reputation was already in danger considering her candid demeanor and scandalous love-life. Clara had been taught as a child, by her mother Sarah, that men were dogs and not to be trusted. One must use her sexual wiles to control them without falling into their traps. Clara absorbed this lesson while hiding in a childhood cupboard when her mother was forced to entertain various "Uncles" during one of Robert Bow's countless absences. Money was short, and Sarah's heart grew harder. Clara was a much warmer and more loving woman than her mother had ever been, but emotional closeness was still difficult for her as a result of her childhood experiences. As such, she made a switch on the gender roles and often strung multiple men along at once-- most infamously juggling Victor Fleming, Gary Cooper, and Gilbert Roland all at the same time. Ideally, she wanted to settle down and be a normal, family gal, but the energy in her bones did not take well to domination. Eventually, she would need a safe place; for now, she made hay while the sun shined.

Clara's demise came from three hefty punches: the talkies, the depression, and the public. With a heavy New-Yawkuh accent and a stutter that reappeared in moments of stress, Clara was bewildered by the talkie revolution. The mic became a foe, and an unnecessary one, for Clara's charms and voice transferred well to sound. Yet, her "mic fright"-- which was exemplified when her eyes continually rose upward in search of it while she was performing her scenes-- was a symptom of something much more debilitating in her psyche. Only in her early twenties, Clara was already exhausted. She dealt with her father and extended family feeding off her, she was betrayed by countless friends,  was taken for a song by her business manager, and her studio still gave her no respect. Despite her popularity, she still earned far less than her contemporaries. Her desire to keep moving to keep from feeling was also catching up with her-- as was a series of broken hearts.

Clara put on her usual, brave face during her first talkie, 

The Wild Party, but her inner anxiety made her mic 

fright nearly unendurable.

The Depression didn't hut her financially, as her savings were in a trust for the most part, but the national temper had altered. Living fast and frolicking like there was no tomorrow made no sense to a country that saw only infinite, darkening clouds. Therefore, her usually un-stoppable film formula no longer worked as well. Then, the press started haranguing Clara out to dry, as it were. One of the first victims of harsh, gossip rag mags and swill publications, Clara was publicly defamed as a whore. She must have heard her mother's voice crying at her from the grave: "Hoor!" Her sex life became public, exaggerated, inaccurate knowledge, and before Clara knew it, she was being accused of screwing everything from her pet Great Dane to the USC football team. Why? Because she never concealed who she was or who she was currently infatuated with. Other starlets lived the same lifestyle, but wore masks of deceit and contrived innocence. As the times wound down, society no longer wanted "fast" girls, and Clara quite simply couldn't take it slow.

Clara said her mouth smiled, but never her eyes. In this 

melancholy photo, it is easy to see the pain they bear.

After an emotionally draining court case against her secretary Daisy DeVoe and a nervous breakdown, Clara escaped from Hollywood with her latest and most loyal beloved, Rex Bell, to a ranch in Nevada. Betrayed by those she had trusted, defamed by the fans who had made her famous, Clara decided to try something she never had: old-fashioned happiness. She and Rex were married. It worked... for awhile. While Rex supported her with his own acting and growing political career, Clara enjoyed the peace and serenity of isolation. It was a welcome relief. She returned to Hollywood to make two final features-- Call her Savage and Hoop-la-- and then she retired permanently. Part of the reason was her newly discovered psychiatric condition: schizophrenia. The condition slowly pulled her apart at the seams and pulled her away from her family, which had grown to include sons Tony and George. A failed suicide attempt and her increasingly erratic and unendurable behavior made Rex fearful of his wife and sons' safety, as well as his own sanity. The boys were sent to military school, Clara lived on her own-- in apartments and occasionally at sanatoriums-- and Rex continued earning the bread and butter. A sweet, generous, and charismatic guy, he continued to put on a brave face as Lt. Governor of Nevada, even though Clara and he were married in name only. He never obtained a divorce-- even when Clara's normally decent and entertaining behavior became vindictive-- remaining loyal to the woman who couldn't help herself. Clara became sad and even a litte bitter with the distance, but too quaked in fear at the idea of being in a domestic atmosphere. The pressure and responsibility of family life is what surprisingly sent her on her downward spiral. She accepted that she was better off where she was, yet she still missed the dream life she once had and felt continual guilt toward her husband and sons as a result.

The smiling Bell family in better days. The tension and fear in 

Clara's face is already poignant.

She too missed the movies, of which she remained a devoted fan. She adored Marilyn Monroe and Marlon Brando. She spent her time keeping up with new Hollywood, reading innumerable books- normally historical non-fiction-- and keeping up on her correspondence. Still, like Garbo, she allowed few visitors, save for perhaps her sons and Gilbert Roland, who had remained a devoted friend. It seemed the world had forgotten her, though she did obtain fan letters all the time, proof that she was indeed remembered and still adored. People wanted more Clara; Clara had no more to give. She passed away peacefully on Sept. 27th 1965 just past midnight. She was watching her ex-lover Gary Cooper in The Virginian as it played on Television. She probably sat thinking about the good old days and the magic that she had encountered when she was a part of that distant world of the movies. 

While Clara always carried within her a deep sadness, the

fighter in her always came out swinging. She emitted 

joy over despair. We are still reeling from her 

sucker punch.

Though her ending seems tragic, Clara wouldn't have accepted pity. She never did. She never felt sorry for herself, nor did she harbor any resentment against a world that had dealt her such repeated, dirty knocks. The same vivacious spirit and emotional generosity that she shared in her performances, which made her the studio favorite of every crew she ever worked with, is also the same quality that continues to intrigue modern audience. Dorothy Arzner said of her: "They all called Clara 'the "It" Girl,' the outstanding 'flaming youth.' Well, she was all that, but I think she was also the one flaming youth that thought." It is ironic that a woman who devoted her brief career in film to escaping her demons was worshipped because the sincerity of her personal horrors always infiltrated her performances and gave them truth. Because Clara was always able to relate to her characters, we were always able to relate to her. Most importantly, even after her death, she continues to give of herself in order to make others feel better. Clara was and is fun. Her Cinderella story didn't end with a happily-ever-after, but whoever wanted a perfect heroine anyway? It was Clara's earthy, brazen, unpretentious personality that surprisingly made her brief tenure as the Queen of Hollywood as unexpected as it is enduring.