THE REEL REALS: Evelyn Ankers

Evelyn Ankers

Evelyn Ankers was not blessed with superstardom, but she did all right for herself. In a career that spanned less than 25 years, she was still able to rack up over 60 film and television appearances, her most notorious being-- of course-- in the realm of horror. A fish out of water by nature, Evelyn was born to English parents in Chile. After returning to England, she developed an incurable affliction for theatrics and pursued a career as an actress. While still a teenager, she was performing opposite Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh in Fire Over England, though her part was a mere featured role. However, her strange allure as a beautiful woman with intelligence (and tinge of cynicism) made her a natural for movies with a mysterious bent-- dark pictures for thinking viewers. When partnered opposite Lon Chaney, Jr. in The Wolf Man, her career in America would begin in earnest, though she'd managed a role in the Abbott and Costello haunted house spoof Hold That Ghost. After the furry monster cub of the monster club became her onscreen boyfriend, she suddenly became one of the Universal lot's "scream queens," her touching portrayal of the woman falling in love with the man falling under a curse earning her a permanent place in the scary movie rotation. In fact, she would partner with Lon Jr. in several more films, two of which were Ghost of Frankenstein and Son of Dracula.

While these roles may have been limiting talent wise, they provided steady work for Evelyn. Few women have such interesting titles on their resumes: The Mad Ghoul, Sherlock Holmes and the Voice of Terror, The Pearl of Death, The Frozen Ghost, Captive Wild Woman, Weird Woman, Jungle Woman... (Perhaps that Whitney Houston song was written for her)??? Apparently, a schlocky horror film didn't seem legit during the hey day of the genre unless this heady damsel in distress was involved. That was part of Evelyn's charm, however. She was smart. She may have had some fainting spells, bit her fist, and screamed bloody murder, but when these token mannerisms were partnered with her direct acting style and genuinely down to earth persona, it made her fear seem more genuine. When the weak little girls in tight sweaters screamed, they evoked eye roles. When Evelyn screamed, it was like, "Oh sh*t... This is serious..." Sadly, her career lost momentum when horror temporarily lost its luster, and the thanklessness of the industry soon sent her into early retirement. After a small slew of pictures, Evelyn spent the majority of her remaining days with her soul mate, husband Richard Denning, before succumbing to ovarian cancer at the age of 67. Today's horror films miss strong, competent women like herself. Evelyn didn't need to run topless through the smog to keep an audience fixated on her. All she needed was her throat.

THE REEL REALS: Edmund Gwenn

Edmund Gwenn aka Kris Kringle

Edmund Gwenn performed a miracle, not just on 34th Street, but in Hollywood: he won an Oscar for playing Santa Claus. How is that even possible? He is now so deeply ingrained in the public consciousness-- as familiar as Dr. Suess or the Statue of Liberty-- that few take stock of the great artistic feat fleshing out such a fantastical, fictitious character was. He took one of the most beloved mythological personalities of all time-- a cartoon of our hopeful delusions-- and made him real. He gave Kris Kringle a personality and a warmth that was genuine and full of heart when a lesser performance would have registered as cheesy, or worse, creepy. Today, we make holiday spirit spoof films like "Bad Santa" or "Elf." This isn't because we have necessarily lost our sentiment-- mankind has always been cynical. This transition is simply due to the fact that we need no more translations of Father Christmas and all that such a nostalgic spirit represents to our deeply hidden, childlike hearts in overgrown bodies. Ed marked that territory already. Game over. In one film, Ed saved Christmas for all time. 

Of course, while he is forever attached to this one characterization, Ed has many more accomplishments on his performance platter. He portrayed the similarly light-hearted and amiable priest who tries to convince William Powell's hilariously resistant, atheistic patriarch to be baptized in Life with Father. He was a Hitchcockian linchpin in both the macabre comedy The Trouble with Harry and the political thriller Foreign Correspondent, the latter of which makes you stop and go, 'Hey, wait... Santa? Wh-what are you doing, Santa?!?!" He contributed to Pride and Prejudice with Larry Olivier and Greer Garson, A Yank at Oxford with Robert Taylor and Vivien Leigh, and Of Human Bondage opposite Eleanor Parker (RIP) and Paul Henreid. And yes, he appeared in the iconic "Them!" In general, Ed took on the role of the moral father figure: the sturdy, aged man with the wisdom of life experience and a trustworthy face. His touches of comedy, grounded realism, and surprising character choices made him an eternal audience favorite. He would not be the star but once (when he went to the North Pole), but this was mostly due to the fact that he was in his fifties when he really started to make his mark in Hollywood. His fortune was better, in the end, for he was even more beloved than the model-T(insel town) stars of the era.

Ed was born with an adventurers spirit that he was finally able to hurl into his creative penchants, as well as athletic. Frustrated at his landlocked life (he had wanted to enlist in the Navy), the eternal, cuddly grandpa was quite the rebel in his younger days. His father opposed his career choice and predicted failure, but Edmund, his determination, and his talent, would prove his pappy wrong. It was a fortunate partnership with George Bernard Shaw that really opened doors for him as an actor, and after becoming a war hero, despite his poor eyesight, Captain Gwenn returned to the theater with full force, later doing some sparse silent pictures that eventually earned him a permanent place in Hollywood. Hitting his stride by the '30s, he enjoyed nearly thirty uninterrupted years on the silver screen before passing away at the age of 81. Had he not been struck down by a stroke and a following bout of pneumonia, he most certainly would have kept cracking the whip of creativity. Naturally, he will live forever as one of the most famous people in the history of cinema. More people know him than Gable. He's Santa Claus! 

God rest ye', merry gentleman. Thanks for the cinematic presents!

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.

CAST AWAYS: From Stage to Screen

Barbara Stanwyck and Robert Ryan Clash by Night and use a stage play

to take Hollywood by storm.

Some of our most iconic films were adapted from theater plays. This is but one of many pieces of evidence that it is a good story above anything else that makes a good film (are you listening Hollywood?). A lot of film actors, of course, get their start as stage thespians, and many have been discovered treading the boards of Broadway, off Broadway, or even off off Broadway. Cinema constantly goes fishing and poaching in these highly respected and esteemed waters, using the talents of the theatre mixed with the punch of Tinsel Town power to create smash screen hits. In some cases, the original theatrical cast is duplicated on the screen, with the play itself edited to fit into a two hour bracket of entertainment. In most cases, however, the cast and the script itself are heavily altered to fit into the world of movieland conditions, with a leading man and lady with more star power usurping the primary roles and the story acclimating itself to time constraints, current audience tastes, and-- of course-- censorship. Thus, theatre is looked upon more often as performance art while Hollywood is viewed as its more bastardized (albeit profitable) cousin: product-- art in a can, or should I say in the can.

In any case, it is the stories more popularly seen on the silver screen that touch the most hearts and introduce superbly written and acted productions to people the world over. It is films that we will honor and pass down to our children as a shared experience, whereas theatre is a once in a lifetime shot: never duplicated and never performed the same way twice. It makes one wonder and yearn for the chance to see some of the alternate performances that, instead of being left on the cutting room floor as in film, were left merely to history, echoing against the walls of so many great theaters. While screen actors never age and never die, theatre actors and their performances become ghosts as soon as the curtain comes down after the final act. Here are a few of the lost souls whose spirits were brought to life through other vessels on the silver screen:

Tallulah Bankhead (left) was... a character. James Cagney once said that acting was a "shy man's profession," because it allowed a more introverted or bashful person to become someone more intense, emotional, and outspoken. Tallulah must be the exception that proves this rule, for no character she played was as outrageous and gutsy as she. She bragged that she only came to Hollywood to sleep with Gary Cooper, which she proudly accomplished. She too drew gasps and chuckles from the set of Lifeboat when her soggy undergarments became too daunting and she decided to continue filming sans panties: a moment Hitch must have remembered with fondness. While she made quite a few contributions to the big screen, even being an early contender for Scarlett O'Hara, this earthy lady with southern sass remains most renowned for her contributions to the stage. She brought many characters to life for the first time that would later be embodied by different actresses when adapted for the screen. One such character was Mae Wilenski of Clash by Night, written by Clifford Odets and performed for the first time in 1941. Lee Strasberg directed the vehicle through its meager 49  performances, but despite its short run, it was still made into a film a decade later.

This time, Barbara Stanwyck (right) took on the role of Mae, with her name changed to D'Amato and the play's locale moved from Staten Island to Monterey. Fritz Lang used his genius as director to add as much gravitas as he could to what turned out to be another soapy B-film, which remains most notorious now for an appearance by a young, pre-superstar Marilyn Monroe. Since Babs and Tallulah had much in common-- both assertive, sexual women with notorious, husky drawls-- it is easy to see Tallulah standing in Babs's place at the helm. The film retains more cult than classic status, but Babs brings her usual guts to the part, invigorating the tale of a sexually undernourished wife in a cataclysmic love triangle with the dignity of truth as only she could. Tallulah wasn't an option for the screen version, most likely because her career had stalled a bit. She remained fairly busy on the stage and small screen in the '50s, but a life of hard living and hard drinking mixed with her hell-raising reputation made her a much bigger gamble than the diligent and consummately professional Stanwyck. In any case, Babs was a few years younger, so that also tipped the scales in her favor.(Interestingly, there may be more to the connection between Babs and Tallulah. When Louis B. Mayer once confronted Tallulah about her over-erotic nature, she shot back with a list of stars, including some from his own stables, that she had... made friends with. Allegedly, "Barbara Stanwyck" was one of the names. It shut the red-faced Mayer up quickly).

The same year that Tallulah was first breathing life into Mae Wilenski on stage, another one of her past roles was being brought to life on the screen, which may explain was she was unavailable to take the film role. Directed by Herman Shumlin, Tallulah had portrayed the infamous Regina Giddens of The Little Foxes at the National Theater in February of 1939 and then enjoyed an extensive run and tour. The play was so successful that Lillian Hellman adapted her own script into a screenplay in '41 with William Wyler directing. But Tallulah's busy stage schedule was not the whole reason she was overlooked for the film version. Wyler had insisted on casting Bette Davis for the role of Regina (left), as he had been impressed with her vitality in their previous collaborations of Jezebel and The Letter. Jack Warner wasn't about to loan his top star to Samuel Goldwyn for the production, but Wyler stuck to his guns and eventually got his way. However, he did admit that Tallulah was an amazing talent, and prior to production, he pressured Bette to see Tallulah's interpretation on the stage-- which was still running-- if only to ensure that Bette bring something different to the table. Bette herself would admit that Tallulah was fantastic and had performed the role the only way it could be performed, which made crafting her own, unique characterization a real headache. Still, it remains one of her most iconic roles, and ironically not the only one she stole from Tallulah-- she had performed in the role of Judith Traherne in Dark Victory in 1939, which too Tallulah had immortalized on the stage. Essentially, Tallulah kept settin' 'em up, and Bette kept knockin' 'em down.

Though clearly an actress of great reputation, Tallulah was a die-hard fan herself when it came actors. One performance that left her in awe was that of Frank Fay (the ex-Mr. Stanwyck) when he starred in the lead role of Elwood P. Dowd in "Harvey" (right). Tallulah considered his interpretation of a kind-hearted man who sees and interacts with an imaginary rabbit to be "one of the greatest performances [she'd] seen." It ran for over 1700 performances from 1945-1949 on Broadway, being a smash hit and a triumph for Fay, who was still nursing a bruised ego after his divorce from Babs and his failed film career. Despite this boost in his career, he still wasn't hailed to reclaim his role in the 1950 film version, though his co-star, Josephine Hull, thankfully was, and it earned her an Academy Award. Instead, the most lovable and likable of all film actors was cast as Elwood: only Jimmy Stewart could play a complete loon and still hold the audience's favor. Still, with Tallulah as Fay's cheerleader, it makes one wonder what exactly he brought to the table that was so astounding, and so different from Jimmy...

James Stewart goes nuts (or should I say "carrots?") in Harvey.

Barbara Stanwyck snagged another role from a hard-luck diva: Frances Farmer. Farmer (right), while in the midst of her scandalous affair with Clifford Odets (wed to Luise Rainer), was cast in the lead female role of his production of "Golden Boy" when it hit the stage in 1937. Both members of The Group Theatre-- a precursor to the Strasberg method school that churned out modern, provocative work-- their combining forces in the story of a violinist turned boxer was sure to pack a wallop. At heart, the film was personal to Odets, who wrote it about the struggle between integrity/artistry and the temptation of commercial success. Many friends would say that he lost this battle when he "went Hollywood," taking his Golden baby with him. Frances, who was much more about the craft than the dough, was not invited along for the ride, as she had walked out on the play and Cliff when the affair hit the skids. She felt her star power had been used to sell tickets to the play and was tired of being used as, what she considered to be, Cliff's whore and cash cow. Thus, in 1939, Babs stepped on board for the screen version and coached newbie William Holden in his breakthrough performance. Bill had, coincidentally, nabbed the role of Joe Bonaparte from Luther Adler but also from John Garfield, who was a member of "the Group" and had been promised the part by Odets himself. Cliffy didn't come through, and the part went to Holden-- a test of faith that made a star. (This one was a bit of review from past blogs, but with Babs as star of the month, I thought it was worth repeating).

Another star moment was made when Marlon Brando brought his interpretation of Stanley Kowalski in Tennessee Williams's A Streetcar Named Desire to the big screen in 1951. One cry of "Stella!" and a few broken dishes later, and Hollywood had its newest bad boy. Marlon was not the only gem poached from the original 1947 case-- both Karl Malden and Kim Hunter would reprise their stage roles as Mitch and Stella respectively, and Elia Kazan would too transfer his directorial efforts from the stage to screen. The only member not invited along for the ride was Jessica Tandy, who invented the now iconic role of Blanche DuBois. Initially, her ostracizing seems ignorant if not plain rude. After all, she won a Tony for her efforts, which had-- along with the rest of the original cast-- created a half-hour applause after the play's debut. So, why wasn't she brought on board? (Marlon and Jessica rehearse, left).

The decision was, as always, a calculated one. The play had received such buzz that it was essential to the studio to re-create the magic for the screen and capitalize. Yet, studio heads were insecure-- they craved star power. Thus, players were essentially traded, with Marlon being a necessity to bring his violence and danger to the big screen, and Kim and Karl allowed to reprise their roles because they were secondary characters. Jessica was deemed the expendable one. Since Vivien Leigh (right) had later portrayed the role of Blanche in London under hubby Laurence Olivier's direction, she seemed a safer bet for screen viewers. In effect, the gamble worked, for this contradiction between old-Hollywood (Scarlett O'Hara herself) and new-Hollywood (holy, shirtless Marlon!) created just the juxtaposition needed for Blanche's otherworldly quality within the gritty realism of the Kowalski household. One wishes there were a piece of evidence to give all Williams devotees a glimpse into Jessica's interpretation, but-- despite this unsavory casting coup-- Vivien still managed to earn the respect of her co-stars and her second Academy Award for Best Actress.

My Fair Lady (1964) was a film adaptation of the musical adaptation (1956) of the earlier George Bernard Shaw play "Pygmalion" (1913). Clearly, the metamorphosis of the cockney Eliza Doolitle to a refined lady was reflected in the story's own journey. The musical "My Fair Lady" premiered in '56 on Broadway with one of history's favorite songstresses, Julie Andrews, in the lead role of Eliza (left) and Rex Harrison in the role of her Svengali-- the crotchety, uppity Henry Higgins. Despite the fact that Rex couldn't sing a note-- a fact that he obviously knew full well when he panicked and locked himself in his dressing room prior to curtain-- his rhythmic talking and pitch-perfect performance coupled with Julie Andrews's consistent magnificence was enough to make the show a hit. The mockery of gender roles and classes and the superb score, with such hits as "I Could Have Danced All Night" and " On the Street Where You Live" resonated with audiences, and eight years later it was time to broaden the fan base. Hollywood intervened with its usual accuracy, and cameras started rolling.

There was but one problem, Julie was nowhere to be found! Her mettle as a film actress had not yet been tested, thus Audrey Hepburn was given the role of Eliza (right). Rex, who was a much more experienced film actor, was allowed to maintain his role of Higgins. Despite the casting snafu, the film remains a classic and a delight, with Audrey bringing her own lovable, romantic nature to the role of Eliza while simultaneously pulling off a stellar, cockney ignoramus-- "Come on Dovah! Move your bloomin' ahss!" Yet, the fact that her singing was dubbed (by Marni Nixon) worked against her, and many believe this is why her performance was not recognized by the Academy. Clearly, everyone was "Team Julie" that year at the awards, for it was she who won for her breakthrough performance in Mary Poppins. Rex, however, walked home with the trophy for Best Actor. As for Audrey, she took the snub like a pro, though she was deeply hurt. She had indeed recorded all of her own vocals and was shocked when another voice came out of her mouth upon the final screening. She was deeply hurt, as she had worked diligently on all her past singing roles, including Funny Face and the iconic "Moon River" of Breakfast at Tiffany's. Yet, it couldn't be argued that Julie indeed had a stronger voice. Neither gal harbored any hard feelings about the whole debacle, and both became good friends. In the end, they had Eliza to thank for bringing them together.

The Barrymore name still holds great meaning in Hollywood. John's granddaughter Drew has been left alone to carry the torch of this illustrious family of thespians, but their reputation remains in tact. However, as Ethel was almost totally devoted to the stage and John was-- at best-- inconsistent in his dedication, it is Lionel (left) who has the most impressive cinematic track record. He got his start in film in the late 1900s, but he too maintained his dedication to the theatre. As such, in 1923 he appeared alongside his wife Irene Fenwick in "Laugh, Clown, Laugh." It premiered at the Belasco and ran for 133 performances through March of 1924. It wasn't exactly a runaway success, but its modest audience recognition and its intriguing storyline was enough to gain Hollywood's attention... albeit not immediately.

A few years later, MGM was sifting through storylines when Laugh, Clown, Laugh was brought to its attention as a vehicle for Lon Chaney. "The Man of a Thousand Faces" had portrayed a clown before in He Who Gets Slapped. The role seemed a perfect fit for America's favorite character actor, who was known for his tragic tales of unrequited love. Since Lon did a lot of his own story scavenging, it is possible that he came across the script himself, or at the very least that he was consulted on it. Sensing another suffering heart, he jumped at the chance to portray the romantically tortured Tito and handpicked Loretta Young to star as his adopted daughter/love interest (cringe), Simonetta (together, right). As Lionel was a competent film actor but not a star of Lon's latitude, he probably was not even considered for the part. The film was a runaway success and also-- reportedly-- Lon's favorite role. Since Lionel was working steadily on his own, he probably didn't hold any grudges... but if he did, he got a little revenge when he starred opposite Lon in West of Zanzibar in 1928. His character in the film steals Lon's wife!

Jean Arthur (left) stands alone in history. Not for her acting talent, off-putting behavior, or cinematic resume, but for that voice! It is hard to purr and squeak at the same time, yet that seems to be just what she did merely by talking. As such, when Garson Kanin's "Born Yesterday" hit the stage in 1946, he had no other actress in mind than his friend Jean for the role of the abrasive yet adorable Billie Dawn. A rough around the edges gal trying to play it classy, Jean's duck-out-of-water persona certainly would have fit the bill. There was but one minor problem when it came to Jean-- her crippling inferiority complex, which consistently manifested itself in stage fright. She started numerous plays only to drop out or cause problems once they debuted. Such was the case with "Born." No sooner was she cast in the role of Billie than her usual neurotic antics began to surface. During rehearsals, she would take issue with the script, get nervous, panic, and withdraw into her dressing room, driving Garson nearly mad. Despite this, the play opened to positive reviews in New Haven and continued to fare well in Boston. Then, Jean's internal stresses asserted themselves in physical illness, and she claimed to have a sore throat. One night, in the second act, she completely blacked out and couldn't remember her lines. She finally alerted the production that she would not be continuing on-- doctor's orders-- and an unsuspecting Mary Laslo stepped in to temporarily take her place. However, Mary had been playing the small role of the manicurist and was unprepared to be a sudden lead! 

Enter Judy Holliday (right). With the Philadelphia opening postponed, the equally gifted and much less emotionally troubled actress jumped into grueling, boot camp rehearsal sessions. Had it not been for coffee, as she admitted herself, she may not have made it. By the time the show hit New York, with a new leading lady and a new third act, it was a sensation. Judy ran away with the role, making it her own. In effect, thanks to Jean's erratic behavior, Judy became a star! Hence, when a film adaptation was made in 1950, Judy was cast in the lead role-- not the original Billie prototype, Jean. Judy had worked in film before, her most noteworthy part being  in Adam's Rib opposite Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, who had both championed her, but it would be this film that would skyrocket her film career, however briefly. In this case, it was Judy alone of the main cast who duplicated her performance, for Paul Douglas lost his role of Harry Brock to Broderick Crawford and Gary Merrill passed the torch of Paul Verrall to William Holden (yet another stage nab for the Bill). In the end, no matter who it was performing beside her, Judy stole the show. It was her moment, and her take on the reinvented showgirl who finds absolution through intelligence-- and thus self-respect-- remains one of cinema's favorite comedic female characters.

Ken Kesey's book One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was so unique and powerful in its human appeal that it was immediately turned into a play. In 1963, the adaptation hit Broadway with none other than multi-faceted tough guy Kirk Douglas (left) taking on the role of feigned nutcase Randle McMurphy. Gene Wilder too was cast as the sensitive but disturbed Billy Bibbit. Joan Tetzel took on the role of the unlikely villainess, Nurse Ratched. It ran for 82 performances and definitely turned some heads! Over ten years later, the film was in the can, but the cast was different. As Kirk had no longer been considered young enough to portray the devious and rebellious Murphy, Jack Nicholson swooped in and immortalized the role. Since Jack always comes off a bit "cuckoo" himself (in the best possible way), the casting decision seemed to be kismet. Gene too did not reprise his role, instead handing it to off-kilter character man Brad Dourif. Danny Devito too contributed his uncanny screen presence in a small role. Nurse Ratched would be memorably played by Louise Fletcher, who garnered an Academy Award for her muted take on evil. Jack would too win the Oscar, as would director Milos Forman. However, best of all was the fact that the "Douglas" name would still be honored when Michael Douglas, son of Kirk, would win the award for Best Picture after serving as Producer on the film. Since his father helped bring the play to life, it was perhaps in honor of him that Michael even approached the project in the first place. Innovation seems to run in that family.

Jack makes friends (with "Chief" Will Sampson) and history in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

While one can't argue the finished products of cinema nor their hold on us, the re-workings of the casts in all of these instances is something to note. A few different ingredients, and you wind up with a vastly different product, be it masterpiece or dud. Since we shall never be able to compare results-- play versus film-- we are left only with the offerings our movie stars have left us. In the end, there probably is no better or worse, merely different takes. A film adaptation of a play is akin to the effect produced in re-making a movie: you're going to get a different experience with different players-- some will like it, others not. I suppose the good news is that we are so flooded with talent that we have all these different pools to pull from. Since it could be argued that Hollywood keeps making the same old stories anyway, there is some beauty in seeing the same old plays performed again and again by different actors. It would be nice to have all of life recorded so that there was no mystery about our creative past at all, but for now, we shall have to suffice our curiosity with our own wonder. And, of course, with the movies.

MENTAL MONTAGE: Play It Again, Sam

The players of cinema's past occasionally indulge in a little game of repetition. I'm not referring to the phenomenon of an actor reprising a role in a series of films, as Johnny Depp has done most recently with his Captain Jack Sparrow character from the Pirates of the Caribbean anthology. Instead, I more particularly draw attention to a complete duplication of a role or film throughout a performer's career. Just as Michael Sheen has been called upon to reprise his role as Tony Blair in numerous, unrelated films (The Queen, The Special Relationship), so too have past stars sunk their teeth into a part or a story that they find themselves unable to let go of-- or perhaps conversely the role will not let go of them. Here are a few examples of Flicker-Show Double-Takes. Sometimes, Deja Vu is more than a feeling; it is a fact.

Rooster Cogburn shows Mattie Ross how to fire a pistol. John Wayne's
 interpretation of the weathered but fiery Rooster Cogburn in True Grit 

would ignite more than audience appreciation-- it would

demand a sequel.

The most obvious example is John Wayne's reprisal of the role of Rooster Cogburn from the Academy Award winning True Grit in the following feature Rooster Cogburn 6 years later. After the huge success of the first film, the Duke was asked to get back in the saddle, literally, to cash in on a plum character to whom his audiences had so energetically responded. The plot of the first film involved Marshal Cogburn aiding a young girl, Mattie Ross (Kim Darby), in her quest to avenge the death of her father by the hand of Tom Chaney. Chaos ensues amidst comic relief, justice is won, and unexpected affection is born. Duke's convincing and multi-layered performance was reason enough for the studio to come up with a belated sequel of sorts. This time, Rooster would go toe-to-toe not with a precocious girl but with an equally iron-willed woman, Eula Goodnight (Katharine Hepburn). Instead of generational miscomprehension, flirtation and unfulfilled romance permeate the story, with Rooster again tracking down a band of outlaws who have this time killed Eula's father. Both films possess a certain charm and daring, and both remain classics, though True Grit is the most honored. Interestingly, Rooster Cogburn in a way was a duplication for Kate Hepburn as well, since she had portrayed a very similar character to Eula when she starred opposite Humphrey Bogart in The African Queen. In both, she plays a strong, older, religious female who is unceremoniously usurped of her home and family-- in Queen,the loss is her brother-- and joins an older curmudgeon on an unexpected journey. In both, victory is, of course, won, and her obstinacy and devotion inevitably whittle down her male counterparts' hearts to nothing. The African Queen remains more noteworthy for Kate, but it is in Rooster Cogburn that you get to witness the 68-year-old actress operate a machine gun. Not too shabby.

Don't mess with the classics: John and Kate continue to kick

tail even in their sixties.

Clark Gable too came back for another round, but this time he appeared in his own remake. In 1932, Clark had starred opposite Jean Harlow (together, left) and Mary Astor in Red Dust. In 1953, proving that at age 52 he was still indeed The King, he again ventured into the wild, but this time with Ava Gardner and Grace Kelly. The plots remain almost identical, with the love triangle of the un-tameable Dennis Carson/Victor Marswell (Gable) caught between the virgin and the whore, and the complex nature of both women making it difficult to decide who deserves which title. In the end, he lets the dutiful-- albeit tempted-- married woman go and embraces his true soul mate-- the tainted but lovable shipwrecked floozy with a heart of gold. The main difference in story is Clark's profession, which in Red Dust involves running a rubber plantation and in Mogambo is the trapping of animals. Yet, in both films, his happy isolation is invaded: first by a sensuous woman of the world and later by a prudish couple who are either surveying or studying anthropology as the story dictates. Artistically, both versions are triumphs, with Gable not failing to establish believable chemistry with all four women. There is a definite charm in watching him volley off true life pal Jean Harlow in the former version, but Ava Gardner brings such comedy and heart to her own interpretation of "Honey Bear" that Mogambo cannot be ignored. Mary Astor, already a seasoned performer by the time of filming, seems much more at home than Grace Kelly, for whom Mogambo was only her third film, but the smoldering lust beneath both women's placid demeanors is evident and thoroughly intriguing. Pitting director Victor Fleming against John Ford is too a hard debate to wage, with perhaps Ford coming a little closer to victory. In all honesty, the competition results in a draw. The Red Dust vs. Mogambo phenomenon is most profound for the fact that it is a direct remake that re-stars its male lead, cementing the fact that no one, but no one, can replace Clark Gable.

Choices, choices... Poor Clark must choose between the

luscious Ava and the tempting Grace in Mogambo.

Peter O'Toole is too no stranger to double-takes, and his performance as Henry II in Becket made certain that no other actor could possibly usurp his throne. He put the crown on again 4 years later when he starred in The Lion in Winter. Nominated for his portrayal both times, he would miss out on Academy Award night first to Rex Harrison for My Fair Lady and later to Cliff Robertson for Charly. The first film witnesses a young Henry-- about 15 years after inheriting the throne-- and his constant battles with friend, moral compass, and foe Thomas Beckett. In the end, Henry's immaturity and selfishness, along with his inherent need to protect his throne and his England, forces him to take arms against Becket (played with equal magnificence by Richard Burton) and have him killed (he eyes his work, right). Fast forward to 13 or so years later in the story of Lion. Henry has wizened and is facing his mortality. Recasting Peter in the role was more than a logical move; it was a brilliant one. The audience literally sees how he has aged; how the years of battle and politics have taken their toll, and too how he has successfully grown into his role as his country's leader. His errors of the past with Becket remain buried in his bones, a penance he still pays, and this past conflict is referred to whenever Henry's wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine (Kate Hepburn), wants to stick a needle in. The plot this time revolves around Henry's need to secure a heir to his throne. Sons Richard (Anthony Hopkins), Geoffrey (John Castle), and John (Nigel Terry) all plot, back stab, and battle for the place of honor. Eleanor stirs the pot, not just as a mother, but as a long since spurned lover whose husband has literally kept her locked up in jail to keep her out of his hair and give him free reign to indulge in numerous dalliances, including one with Alais (Jane Merrow), whom he means to marry after divorcing Eleanor. The bitter but unbreakable love between Henry and Eleanor comes to vengeful heights in this Christmas film that engenders anything but familial affection, and the performances of the entire cast are perfection. The dual Henry II films are both superb-- with the writing of Lion pushing it ever so slightly into the realm of cinematic genius-- but watching the progression of Peter O'Toole's Henry is the real reward.

The King and Queen prepare to feast... on each other.

Keeping things regal: before Cate Blanchett became the go-to girl for Queen Elizabeth, Flora Robson enjoyed the same privilege. Getting her start on the stage, Flora turned heads when she appeared as another Liz, Empress Elisabeth in Alexander Korda's The Rise of Catherine the Great. This in turn led to her casting as the notorious English ruler, Elizabeth I, in the 1937 production of Fire Over England. The film, while historically interesting, is more noteworthy today due to its casting of lovers Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh, who were hot and heavy and both married to other spouses at the time of the filming. To see them before they had reached mutual and independent glory in Wuthering Heights (for him) and Gone with the Wind (for her) is quite interesting. But, while the acclaimed thespians fumble their way through the new medium, albeit eloquently, Flora holds her own and portrays her Queen with a combination of ferocity and humanity (all three, left). Her superb characterization was lauded as the best representation of the enigmatic Queen yet, which led to her casting a few years later in The Sea Hawk. This time, the plot, while equally full of intrigue and corruption, was lighter fare. Enjoying the company of Errol Flynn in his role as yet another charming swashbuckler, Flora's Queen this time around is more light-hearted and emotionally vulnerable, yet her power still comes into play when necessary. Her subtle and denied attractions to her leading men in both roles are pivotal in giving her character sympathy, yet her stoicism and sense of duty ring true in her portrayals of a matriarch. The Sea Hawk is a much more enjoyable film, involving piracy and romance, and Flora truly shines. Rumor has it that even the eternal cad Errol was smitten with her and loved every minute of working with a woman whom he considered to be a true pro.

Flora dominates Flynn in The Sea Hawk, a film into which both actors

injected a lightness and humor that reflected their

off-screen friendship.

Cecil B. DeMille was one man who loved to outdo himself. Proud of his cinematic accomplishments but never satisfied, growing technological advancements only made him more frustrated that his classic efforts became dated and outmoded over time. While he would too duplicate his work when he made the sequel to his cinematic debut, The Squaw Man- The Squaw Man's Son, starring Wallace Reid-- it wasn't until 1956 that he decided to give a piece of his work a complete and utter face lift. The Ten Commandments of 1923 was astounding in its day, and yet another reason that Cecil was being hailed as the filmmaker of his generation. The controversial religious themes, the risque subject matter, and the over the top special-effects splendor, left audiences enthralled and overwhelmed. Yet, as the years passed, and as Cecil always kept the conflicting urges of Godliness and Naughtiness close to his heart, he saw more and more opportunities to improve upon his past majesty-- if only to prove that just because his work was aging, it didn't mean that he couldn't keep up with the times. So, after 3 decades, he gave Moses another go, this time with Charlton Heston replacing Theodore Roberts as the chosen vessel to lead his people out of Egypt. Now in color, the scenes became even more vivid than in their silent predecessor. Special Effects too made the great parting of the Red Sea something to behold, the likes of which had never been seen before. Hailed by many as his best work, the film oddly would not be the one for which he won the ever desired Academy Award-- that honor was bestowed upon his The Greatest Show on Earth-- yet, as his last film, and an epic one at that, it remains his own personal testament-- not of the messages of right and wrong, but of what the great medium of Movies was capable.

            

Chuck Heston lays down the law in The Ten Commandments and

changes the rules of sin and cinema forever.

As we movie viewers are the recipients of contagious filmmaking-- which infects and spreads the same stories over and over with remakes upon remakes upon regurgitated remakes-- it is no surprise when we find ourselves getting that old, familiar feeling while watching the latest take on, say, the age old boy-meets-girl storyline. But, to witness one of our pioneers blatantly plagiarizing himself is a rare and somewhat baffling occurrence. Somehow, the above exceptions prove that sometimes it is indeed okay to be two-timed. While one artist ripping off or trying to out-do another can be somewhat abrasive to our sensibilities, witnessing the results of an auteur going mono e mono with himself can be quite revelatory, curious, and provocative. It is more common to see an actor take on similar roles to those he has in the past, or for a director to bring to life similar story lines that suit his tastes, but while Michael Haneke re-making his own 10-year-old Funny Games shot for shot may at first appear absurd, it is too entertaining for the audience to level the artist against himself and see what different ingredients against a different time can induce. This anomaly is actually the perfect measuring stick for change. Comparing one draft to another, we more fully witness how history "happens" by watching the way one particular performer has aged with time.

TAKE ONE, TWO, THREE...: Love [in/and/is] War

Carole Landis and soldier hubby Thomas Wallace, 

wed January 5, 1943 in London. 

To pay homage to Carole Landis's wartime marriage to soldier Thomas Wallace, I thought it only appropriate to explore a similar cinematic theme: Love and War. This plot has revealed itself through multiple storylines in movieland, but there is one very specific tale that has metamorphosed over three different films. The plot mutated with each interpretation, but in essence the story is thus: a young woman and a soldier fall in love in the midst of war-torn London only to be ripped apart by fate... and the fact that the girl is a prostitute. All is fair...

~  ~  ~

Hollywood has decided, thus far, to take a stroll down Waterloo Bridge thrice. It first adapted Robert E. Sherwood's play in 1931, then remade it in more glamorous terms in 1940, and took a final stab in the plush studio bonanza of 1956's Gaby. As always, different directors, actors, and circumstances produced vastly different outcomes. The instigation of the censorship code in 1934 caused a stark contrast between the 1931 and 1940 version, but while little is changed plot-wise in the story between 1940 and 1956, the final film too bears the highly recognizable stamp of its time and conditions. 

In 1931, James Whale, the visionary and off-kilter director most renowned for his work on the horror classic Frankenstein, was assigned the task of directing the first Waterloo Bridge. At this time, America had long been at peace after WWI, the roaring twenties had been enjoyed and lost with the crash of 1929, and movies were daringly and provocatively reflective of the current human condition. As the cushy melodrama and slap-stick comedy of silent films matured into sinister and sometimes violent celluloid opuses and edgy testaments of darker humor, the time was ripe for filmic exploration. Directors were taking chances, writers were ruffling feathers, and for a brief time, studio heads were letting it all fly. Audiences needed to relate more than they needed to be elevated, which made a script whose main character was a "lady of the night" a welcome dish for salivating viewers.

In the lead role of Myra Deauville is Mae Clarke, who for whatever reason was never able to reach superstardom, but whose solid performances with relentless conviction allowed her to make a mark on many top films of the day, including The Public Enemy and Frankenstein (again with Whale).  Yet, her appearance in this picture may be her most striking. As Myra, Clarke is jaded, streetsmart, and emotionally damaged. Working as a chorus girl in London, her late night activities include picking up men on Waterloo Bridge with her friend Kitty (Doris Lloyd and Clarke, right).  A tough-cookie and survivor, Myra's mettle is threatened by the appearance of Roy Cronin (Douglass Montgomery), a young, American soldier on leave who is her very antithesis: innocent, naive, and romantic. Not realizing Myra's scandalous profession, Roy becomes quickly smitten with her, and the prospect of turning him into her next "John" disappears as Myra's cool heart starts melting. 

United by their American nationality, they are both lonely and isolated. Their connection is instant and intense, but Myra is goaded by her conscience. In a touching scene, she becomes threatened by her young suitor, whose kindness and genuine human interest she has not experienced in some time, if ever. Angered  by and envious of his sweetness and equally afraid of the damage she could do to him, she throws a tantrum to chase him away. As he picks up his things to leave her apartment, she slouches in the background, looking very small and meek, aware that she is letting the only pure thing in her life get away. An apology quickly follows, and soon Myra finds herself in love, though the cynic in her refuses to believe it at first. A woman mired in reality, she compartmentalizes these two conflicting parts of her life. After Roy finally leaves her apartment, she goes to the mirror and gives herself a hard look, applies her trashy lipstick, puts on her hat and sad little fur, symbolically dims the light, and returns to the bridge to find a paying prospect. The silent scene is pure, Whales-ian poetry.

The story thus becomes an internal struggle: a battle of right and wrong amidst the larger battle of war, which is essentially all the same. Myra cannot admit who she really is to her beloved, whose pure heart she cannot bear to break and whose honest love she cannot bear to lose. But, after Roy asks her to marry him, things become even more complicated. Her two lives, the light and the dark, threaten to collide. With his family involved-- including Bette Davis in an early role as Roy's sister, Janet-- Myra's paranoia at being discovered and her personal shame at her deceit of a good man haunts her (see repercussions, right). Any small hope of being revitalized by love and made clean again is quickly revoked by her would-be monster-in-law, (Enid Bennett) who delivers perhaps the most polite smack down in cinematic history. Sensing who Myra really is, Mrs. Cronin refuses her blessing on the upcoming union, and the martyred Myra agrees that this is the best decision. Thus, Myra flees, returning to her beloved bridge-- the only home for a streetwalker is the street. But, despite all logic, even after Roy has discovered who she is, he still loves her. When he comes looking for her on the bridge, he begs her to promise to marry him. As he is literally being pulled away to battle, she concurs, more to ease his mind than because she intends to keep her promise. The lovers are parted amidst the explosions of war, and Myra runs for safety, though it is not certain whether she runs from fear of death or fear of a future she doesn't believe in. It makes no difference, for it is the former that claims her. Struck by an explosion, Myra is killed-- her fur wrap lying like roadkill on the cluttered sidewalk.


What can be gleaned from this harsh and sudden conclusion is debatable. Are we to take that there is no love in war? Is that the height of its brutality? Is Myra a symbolic bad girl who cannot be redeemed? Or is her sacrifice more reflective of reality and how no one can be made new again? You cannot undo your experiences, good or bad, and your innocence is the price you pay for your life. Her death could be a tragedy, but it could be her salvation, her release. The hugeness of war and the immediacy it demands of its victims made the differences between Myra and Roy seem small in the midst of their romance, but could such a love truly exist in the daylight? Perhaps not. Perhaps Myra knew this all along.

The gritty, oppressive nature of this 1931 version stands in sharp contrast to what would occur in 1940. Mervyn LeRoy was this time at the helm, directing Vivien Leigh and Robert Taylor (left). In every aspect, this Waterloo Bridge would be emblematic of the heights of studio splendor... and control. After the establishment of the censorship code, women of ill-repute were no longer considered favorable heroines. Indeed, any suggestive or controversial subject matter was unduly given the kibosh while whitewashed, glamorous, euphoric presentations of human life were created. When the decision to revisit the earlier film was thus made, it was equally decided to alter the script a bit. It begins in flashback, with Taylor asking to be taken to Waterloo Bridge, where the aged soldier stands, fondling a strange token that his true love gave to him-- a good luck charm-- and thinking back to the day they met. Thrown together on the bridge in the midst of attack, Taylor saves the beautiful young woman from being struck by a car after she bends heedlessly to pick her dropped charm off the street-- a premonitory event. After spending some time together, Myra gives Taylor the charm for good luck in his battles. They part, but-- struck by her beauty-- he later comes to see her perform. This time, Myra is not a chorus girl but a genuine ballerina. Portrayed as innocent and pure, her role is essentially switched with that of the youthful soldier of the former film, while the man who captures her heart is just that, a man and not a boy: charming, assured, masculine, and knowledgeable. The qualities that remain in both characters are the somewhat melancholy demeanor of Leigh's Myra, whom is jokingly referred to as defeatist before her fate has even been tested, and the boyish thirst for life extolled by Roy, whom Taylor injects with vigor and idealistic passion. 

The combination of these two qualities and the able performances of Leigh and Taylor create a perfect chemistry, which is very important in establishing an impossible romance. The difference, certainly instilled by studio stipulation, between this vehicle and the first is the belief that they are in love. Whereas the fates of Clarke and Montgomery seemed doomed from the beginning-- a forbidden love only able to thrive in the even darker casualties of war-- the audience is led to believe that Leigh and Taylor are truly meant for each other. This is vital, as their courtship, as opposed to the '31 film, is extremely fast. Having just met, they opt to marry after one date, although this attempt is interrupted after much effort when Taylor is called to service. He promises to return; she promises to wait. Unfortunately, Leigh's recklessness and negligence of her dancing over this three-day courtship has cost her her place with the ballet company, where the unforgiving Madame Olga Kirowa, played by the always superb Maria Ouspenskaya, makes it known in no uncertain terms that a true ballerina must put her craft above everything else. Of course, in the studio era, when a woman is given the choice of husband or career, she must choose a husband, which is what Leigh does. However, her penalty is shared by her martyr-like friend, Kitty (Virginia Field), who more closely resembles Mae Clarke's character in the first film. A true friend, Kitty vows to leave the company with the fragile Myra, whom-- as the stronger female-- she feels she must protect. Kitty's presence will become very important to the plot as it escalates (both women, right).

Despite her current unemployment and poverty, all seems well, until Myra reads in the paper that Roy is dead, which is doubly unfortunate, since she discovers this news while waiting to meet her soon-to-be mother-in-law for the first time. Emotionally destroyed and unable to communicate the information she has just learned, Myra is evasive and rude to Lady Margaret Cronin (Lucile Watson), purposely forcing a wedge between herself and the woman she now knows that she will never call her mother. Distraught and hungry, Myra learns that Kitty has resorted to prostitution to support them both. With a broken heart and nothing left to lose, Myra now finds herself doing the same. Leigh's actions, unlike her predecessor Clarke, are therefore fully explained and forgivable. Her virtue becomes the sacrifice of war, whereas love was Clarke's sacrifice. However, a wrench is thrown into things when Myra is casing the train station for Johns only to find her beloved-- who is very much alive and very much still in love with her-- stepping off a train (left). Myra is beside herself with shock. Again, she is forced to hide the self that she has devolved into from the man she no longer feels that she deserves. Clarke's heroin had to protect Montgomery from the woman she was, Leigh must protect Taylor from the woman she has become. Roy brings her home to meet the family-- the fairy tale is aided by the fact that Roy appears to be loaded-- and she and Lady Cronin reconcile, though Myra's guilt forces her to confess all of her sins to the matriarch. When a shocked but compassionate Lady Cronin questions Myra's chastity, Leigh pathetically utters: "Oh, Lady Margaret, you are naive." With that, Myra flees to Waterloo Bridge, and again Roy chases after her, enlisting the aid of Kitty who tells him the whole truth.

The ending proposes several distinct differences from '31, one of which is Taylor's dismissal of his fallen angel. When he cannot find her, he seems to accept the fate he knows is coming. Of course, he still loves Myra, but he knows the woman she has become is one he can no longer be with. He thus lets her go before she's gone. Myra finds herself alone on Waterloo Bridge (right), utterly broken and destroyed. Doomed. The same war that brought her and Roy together has in another way split them apart. Her shame in herself overpowers her love, and as military trucks pass by, one after the other, in rapid succession, she hurls her body in front of them. (This fallen, martyred woman is a role Leigh was familiar with and repeated in Anna Karenina and That Hamilton Woman). The lesson, again, may make a feminist cringe-- soiled women apparently don't deserve love. This theme of carnal crime and punishment runs rampant in the immediate post-code era. However, the tragedy can still be felt, as we return to Taylor, who stands on the bridge reminiscing about the woman he knew and the love that could have been had fate not been so unkind. He stands sadly-- older, wiser, world-weary-- showing that Myra was not the only victim of the war's harsh toll. Someone else died that day on the bridge. When Myra jumped, she took too the last of Roy's innocence with her. This is the film's true commentary on war, which mirrors 1931: it stifles and kills all that is good, and those who witness it cannot get that same goodness back. Only time and the cushion of future generations can create enough distance to rejuvenate these qualities.

Thus we come to the final installment, Gaby, produced in 1956 and directed by Curtis Bernhardt. If the '31 film exposed the sense of immediacy caused by war, and 1940's version was a psalm to the immediacy of true love, the obstacle and instigator in Gaby is the immediacy of youth. The film's stars are, unlike their predecessors, (save for Montgomery) young. And they look young. Everything about the movie is fresh and alive, completely absent of any of the grittiness of the aforementioned films, and very indicative of 1950s studio cinema. But, while it is stylish, coming on the heels of Rebel Without A Cause and the loosening censorship code, it is also more indicative of an increasingly rash and daring society. The ravishing Leslie Caron and boy-next-door John Kerr  take on the roles of the now named Gaby and Gregory, and while the location remains London, Caron of course maintains her true nationality to explain her luscious French accent. This makes her all the more enticing to Gregory, who finds her in all her porcelain beauty to be an exciting and exotic dream come true. The naivete and raging hormones of the lead characters are the driving force of the plot, which perhaps makes this version more believable in at least these terms. The plot remains almost identical to the 1940 version, putting Caron's dancing ability to use by again making her a ballerina, and again her loyalty to her passion to her craft is tested by her sexual and romantic passion for Gregory.

An interesting scene also identifies another quality in Gaby, heretofore undiscovered in previous versions: her sympathy. At a club, she finds a soldier crying fearfully, and based on her interaction with him, we not only see her sweetness but are given a glimpse into the intensity and stress of war, which masculates and emasculates its men at once. The desperation for human contact and the need to feel safe thus immediately comes into play and will be reflected in the romance of Gaby and Gregory, as will her compassion. It is clear from the beginning that Gaby in fact only entertains Gregory because she feels sorry for him, however as she becomes attached to him, she soon finds herself caring more than she ought. Because Caron lends her performance much more spirit and independence than her predecessors, the effect is more striking. When Leigh forsook her career for love, she didn't consider it a great loss, but Caron's more ambitious heroine is taken for a loop when she finds herself in love and forced to choose between the two. Again, it is her good heart that leads her to sacrifice all for a near stranger, and Gregory's thirsty soldier never lets up on her for a minute until she says "I do."

However, the same complications keep the duo from being married before Gregory is again forced to leave, but-- thanks to Gaby's best friend and roommate Elsa, who gives them her absence on what she thought would be their wedding night-- Gregory and Gaby find themselves alone in her apartment on what would have been their honeymoon. The audience feels the intensity of their mutual desire, particularly Gregory's, who-- polite as he may be-- clearly wants to be joined to Gaby in flesh if in nothing else before he goes to battle. The audience wants it too. However, the more practical and in some ways mature Gaby demurs, forcing her embittered fiance to leave for battle without the knowledge of her body. Disappointed, but not deterred, Gregory again swears to return and finally marry her. When he leaves, the same tragedy befalls. This time, after losing her place in the ballet and thinking that she has lost her beloved to death, Gaby's path to prostitution becomes, similarly to Leigh's voyage, one of self-flagellation (though it is never clearly ascertained whether Gaby is being paid for her transgressions or is merely committing them to assuage her guilt). The interesting difference, is that when confronted by her friend Elsa about her scandalous new life, Gaby admits that she is perfectly conscious of what she is doing and is doing it on purpose. Every soldier she makes love to, in her mind, is Gregory. She thus, punishes herself with sex because she refused sex to the only man she ever loved. So fully and passionately does she throw herself into her unreasonable atonement, that it has a devastating effect upon her when Gregory indeed returns unscathed, expecting to find the perfect and virtuous woman he left behind. Again he takes her home, again she admits her sins, only this time she does it directly to Gregory, who is crushed and angered by the destruction of the dream which has kept him alive.

Yet, what is indestructible is their love (see left), naive and hormone-driven though it may be. Even the knowledge of Gaby's betrayal cannot prevent Gregory from coming after her. This time, he finds her. As bombs explode around them, intensifying the surging, chaotic passion between them, he hurls his body against hers to save her life. They both emerge from the rubble unharmed. It seems that this time they shall have a happy ending. At first, such a tacked-on studio-mandated conclusion makes one balk, especially after enduring the more tragically palpable, and thus wartime befitting, endings to the other films. Yet, perhaps this time it makes sense. After all, why should Gaby be punished further? Why should she be shamed for the forfeiture of her purity when it was Gregory who demanded it of her in the first place? He is just as guilty, and his acceptance of his own guilt finally matures him into the man who is worthy of her love. Their life, their innocence, gives them the ability to survive the obstacles that the other couples of Waterloo Bridge could not.

Yet another interpretation of Waterloo Bridge by Monet.

Each film is fascinating and unique in its own way. Each too possesses its own precious offerings. The most interesting is the more controversial 1931 Waterloo Bridge, whose intense texture alone makes it a worthwhile picture. Waterloo Bridge of 1940 is for the true romantic, presenting the gossamer haze of studio splendor that all movie buffs drool over. Gaby of 1956 gives us a superb performance by Leslie Caron and a surprising deconstruction of the sexual (ir)responsibilities of youth. In all films, War is too a dominant force, a character in itself, whose macabre presence can bring all life to a halt, threatening to snuff out even the most prized of human abilities-- to love. In each version, it could be argued that it succeeds, but in truth it fails miserably. The fact that any romance could find a way to blossom and thrive at all is proof enough that man's horrid mistakes are no match for his most divine aspirations.