THE REEL REALS: Alan Arkin

Alan Arkin

Alan Arkin is a weirdo. This is precisely why he is awesome. Falling into the same category as our other beloved eccentrics-- Walken, Hopper, Lynch-- Alan can sell a line, a scene, or a story simply because he is interesting to watch. What he does is consistently, disturbingly familiar and yet wholly unexpected. He's the oddball next door; the dirty uncle you invite to reunions, specifically because you want to see what he'll say next. Yet, underneath it all, is the obscene bravery that comes with such reckless abandon. It's not every performer who can so unashamedly manifest in every role, giving the impression that he or she doesn't give a rat's ass. It's almost inhuman. This aspect of his character, the notion that he is from another planet, or at the very least operating on a whole other level, is what makes every nuance of his work so goddamned fascinating.

Alan has been working in film and television for nearly 60 years, and the older he gets, the more frequent his appearances have become. As an unlikely hero, he found his happy home in supporting or character roles, which have become more plentiful with age. Hardly the Hollywood heartthrob, Arkin's early appearances and work were much more striking and even uncomfortable than that of the average leading man. Intermingled with his wonderfully bizarre yet dangerous articulation, there was always humor. He still carries the same aura, one akin to someone like Bill Murray, where the underlying message seems to be: this is some effed up, cockamamie bull sh*t, eh?. The world is hilarious, a horror worth laughing at, because in the end, it's all a ruse anyway. People take it-- life, celebrity, performance-- too seriously. In summation, Alan takes the high, low road: "Argo f*ck yourself."

Arkin's first break was in the fitting, darkly comic wartime satire The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are Coming (1966), but it was Wait Until Dark (1967) that really earned him notice. A surprise hit, the unlikely pairing of the most elegant of actresses (Audrey Hepburn) with the new, maniacal maestro on the block created a psychologically tormenting and tension-fueled film as creepy as it was flawless. Naturally, much of this had to do with Alan's performance as the soulless aforementioned 'creep' whose eyes were eerily camouflaged by dark glasses-- almost like a premonition of a Satantic Morpheus. However, he was not always so diabolical. His unexpected and tender work in The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter (1968) and his unhinged, broken rebel in Catch-22 (1970) further proved his versatility and kept him working steadily over the next 4 decades, (including a run on "Sesame Street").

Today, he is still making an impact on a new generation of movie goers who recognize him as the aging salesman in Glengarry Glen Ross (1992), the inappropriate grandpa in Little Miss Sunshine (2006), and the entertainingly cantankerous producer in Argo (2012). Peppering his resume with cameos (So I Married an Axe Murderer), hits (Gattaca), and misses (The Santa Clause 3?), he keeps doing as he does the way only he can do it. Strangely. Very strangely. Hey, the world needs it.

MENTAL MONTAGE: The Direct-ators Part II



Lily Garland (Carole Lombard) gives her director/ex-lover Oscar Jaffe
(John Barrymore) a kick  in the pants in Twentieth Century.

You hear the name Audrey Hepburn and you think, "greedy little diva," am I right? Umm, not so much, (see adorableness, left). Audrey was pretty much the most cooperative and amiable actress in Hollywood, at work and in life. Though a serious actress who was hard on herself and stuck to her guns when it counted, it could hardly be said that she instigated egotistical wars on the sets of her films. One would be hard pressed to find a director who had anything but nice things to say about her. Billy Wilder would once joke that he was lucky that his wife's name was also Audrey, as he often called her name in his sleep! From the beginning of her career, Audrey seemed to enchant people. A hopeful dancer, she worked her way up from early theater work to her eventual experimentation with the movies. Audrey had very few films under her belt when she started working on the film Young Wives' Tale for Associated British Pictures Corporation-- the other ABC-- in London. She had previously been discovered by Robert Lennard, who had scooped her from the cabaret show she performed in at Ciro's. She had performed but two bit parts in Laughter in Paradise and One Wild Oat  by 1951, but she was already making an impression on industry players.

Certainly, Audrey assumed that the romantic comedy Young Wives' Tale (right) would be the standard-hit-your-mark-and-smile gig, particularly since she had a very small role as a typist. The focus of the film would be on lead performers Helen Cherry and Nigel Patrick. Nonetheless, somehow, some way, Audrey managed to earn director Henry Cass's antipathy-- perhaps because he was the sort of director who needed one person to pick on. (Orson Welles once admitted that he liked to fire someone at the beginning of every film, just to make it clear who was in charge). Perhaps with her soft personality and fragile appearance, Cass assumed that Audrey would be an easy mark for his ego game. Audrey was tough enough to behave professionally and take all of his unnecessary hits, but the consistent diatribes and verbal abuse she suffered under Cass's harassment often left her in tears. In later years, she would openly admit that Wives' was "the only unhappy picture [she] ever made." Still, she had her victory. Cass should have known to look out for the quiet ones. His film was panned and the only positive notice it received was generally due to underdog Audrey. Cass probably felt like an ass having wasted a golden opportunity to work with a rising star. He probably felt even worse when she made Roman Holiday and hit it big, never looking back or submitting to undue tyranny again!

Another classy lady forced to put up her dukes was Ingrid Bergman (left). This ambitious actress had the air of an angel and the fire of a warrior. Put these things together, and you get quite the combustible artistic passion! Ingrid's work was her everything. She hurled herself into her roles with a violence that few of her contemporaries, predecessors, or followers could match. Yet, her kittenish and amiable nature kept the drama where it belonged-- "in the can." On set, she was the perfect soldier, totally cooperative and only vehemently outspoken when she had something particular to add to her characterizations or the project as a whole. She didn't make waves, because the work came first. As such, she was basically a director's ideal. One would think that this made her a shoe-in for the rapidly-moving, no nonsense W.S. Van Dyke. Such was not the case. "Woody" had a habit for wrapping a scene in one take-- thus the genesis of his nickname "One Take Woody." Additionally, he had the personality of a crotchety corporal. He was able to make some allies in the industry, his most notable partnership being with William Powell and Myrna Loy in the Thin Man series, but his sharp-shooting and unsympathetic methods could rub some people the wrong way. If you were a pro, hit your marks, and gave him no lip, all was well, but woe betide anyone who went against his current.

Ingrid was very frustrated with master Van Dyke (right) when they began filming Rage in Heaven. A sensitive actress interested in doing deep, developmental, emotional work, Ingrid was thrown for a loop when her hyperactive and irritable director began running manic circles around her. It was fairly clear to all involved that this movie was destined to be a clunker, and equally that Woody wasn't wasting his time putting any fine spit and polish on what he deemed another, shoddy melodrama. He wanted to get the job done quickly-- in and out. Ingrid's hopes for doing her best with the material were thus not supported by her director. Robbed of extra takes and the opportunity to perfect her performance, Ingrid was irked. She also disliked the way Van Dyke was barking orders at the rest of the cast-- including Robert Montgomery and George Sanders-- and crew. One day, while watching Woody run back and forth slinging insults, she decided to unleash her inner Hell cat. She really let him have it too! Out came a fierce little speech about his dispassion for performance art, general inconsiderateness, and lazy, ignorant mode of direction. Then Ingrid nailed him with, "Why don't you put on roller skates so you can go quicker from one place to another!" Well, Woody went wooden! He mumbled something about her being "fired," but later he slipped into her dressing room-- hat in hand, you could say-- and apologized for his behavior, promising to be a good boy. He was, and for the remainder of the shoot, Ingrid was worshipped by all for her bold tongue thrashing W.S. Van Hush.

But of all the bad asses of film, Robert Mitchum (left) probably delivered the best back hands. He could easily be managed by women, but when it came to men, look out! The harder people tried to rein him in, the more he just wanted to rebel. To begin with, he hated all the pretension that came with show business, and he could take the majority of the self-important people he worked with just as easily as he could leave 'em. Just so long as the director, cast, and crew knew what they were doing and left him alone to do his job, Bob was fine. At worst, when annoyed with someone or something, he would just take off fishing for days to make his point-- he'd rather be fishing anyway. Sometimes, there were a few dudes that got him worked up, and when that came, the foe would either find himself on the wrong end of one of Bob's furious and unexpected punches and beat downs, or worse-- the mark of his latest practical joke.

John Farrow was one of the first to learn this the hard way. An impossible alcoholic and "mean, ruthless son of a bitch," Farrow wasn't making a lot of friends on the set of Where Danger Lives-- a film co-starring Howard Hughes' infamous protégé Faith Domergue (right). Now, on a personal level, Bob was kind of simpatico with John-- who was then married to Maureen O'Sullivan and later father to Mia. The two men were both lovers of liquor and were hard-asses overdosing on machismo. Yet, where John was cruel bordering on sadistic, Bob was generally putting on a farce to cover his more sentimental side. He was entertained by Farrow's rudeness and vitriol, but he was quickly angered when it became directed at him. For example, his character was to tumble down three flights of stairs in Danger. Naturally, it was suggested that an experienced stuntman be used, but Farrow would have none of it. To wield his power and bolster his own ego, he demanded that Bob perform the stunt himself. Well, Bob knew this was a game. He could either say "no" and be insulted for being a sissy, or he could take the plunge and probably break his neck. As was his way, he opted for the latter. Despite protest from the rest of the cast, Bob tossed himself down the stairs. One take was enough; Bob stood up a success but dizzy and worse for the wear. Still, Farrow demonically told Bob to do the stunt again. Now, Bob was stubborn, but not crazy. He calmly told Farrow to go f*ck himself. After all, he'd proved his point, and Farrow knew he wouldn't make it one round opposite Bob in the ring, so the scene was indeed wrapped.

This battling duo was re-teamed on the follow-up project, the odd but delightful noir His Kind of Woman-- which would be a triumph in Bob's career as well as in his buddy and co-star Jane Russell's (right). Farrow was on better behavior to Bob and the rest of the major players this time, including Vincent Price and Raymond Burr, but he was still mean as a viper to the lower rungs on the cinema ladder. He knew that Bob couldn't be intimidated, and as Jane could hold her own and was equally under Bob's protection, filming went rather smoothly. The trick was to give the vindictive director as good as he got. If you couldn't match his venom or at least take his jabs as a joke, you would become the prey to his always ravenous predator. Well, Bob hadn't forgotten his treatment during Where Danger Lives, and he could certainly notice the way Farrow was mistreating people. This, according to Bob's surprising moral code, was unacceptable. He also noticed that John liked to drink from one particular bottle of Scotch in his trailer every day. Hmm... Now, it can't be proven just who did it, nor who instigated it, but one day a group of daring men snuck into Farrow's trailer, poured out half of the rare, pricey Scotch he so loved, and took turns... refilling it with a little help from their bladders. From that moment on, Farrow may have maintained his unashamed onslaughts, but no one seemed to mind. At least, not as soon as he took an ignorant sip of his specially made cocktail.

Another hard-liner was Otto Preminger, with whom Bob would work on Angel Face and River of No Return. Clearly, Otto had a little insecurity issue when it came to women, particularly beautiful women. He had a habit of sadistically terrorizing a majority of the actresses he worked with, behaving quite tyrannical and merciless in his criticism of them. Bob, who again had a soft spot for the ladies, didn't take too well to these tirades during Angel Face. Jean Simmons was the chosen victim on the film. Despite the strong-willed English beauty's incredible talent, she still managed to run afoul of the Austro-Hungarian Otto, who was a true genius at his craft but a living Hell to work with. His attacks in this particular case were further fueled at the insistence of Howard Hughes, who had been unable to get the defiant actress into bed. Otto's resulting attacks on Jean were unrelenting. "He absolutely, totally destroyed me," she would recall. When it came to a scene wherein Bob was to slap Jean, he naturally was able to feign the hit so it looked believable. Still-- just to be a creeper-- Otto insisted he do it again. For real. Jean was tough, so she told her co-star to go ahead. Bob adhered but yet again held back his full force, only grazing Jean's cheek. Otto demanded that he do it again, again, again, each time insisting that  the slap didn't look real in the close-up shot. Jean's cheek was growing red, and Bob was growing more and more nervous that he was truly hurting her, so when Otto howled out "Vunce more," once more, Bob lost it. "Once more?!" he yelled. With that, Bob slapped Otto clean across his stunned mug. Otto turned red and was soon on the phone demanding that Mitchum be replaced! No dice. Bob was there to stay. Somehow, the film was finished with no blood being spilled.

Bob was understandably unenthusiastic about Otto's following harassment of Marilyn Monroe during River of No Return, but at least in this case, Otto had already learned his lesson and knew that going too far would mean a punch in the jaw. Thus, through the intimidation of his pure presence, Bob was able to keep Otto in line. In fact, Otto even asked Bob to act as the go-between when director and actress stopped speaking. It could be said that Bob behaved as Marilyn's private director during filming, as he was able to get a performance out of her despite Otto's attempts at terrorizing the sensitive actress. He was even able to counteract the interfering instructions of Marilyn's then acting coach, Natasha Lytess, whose instruction of Marilyn's over-enunciation and exaggerated eye and lip movements did less to perfect her acting abilities than paint her as a sexual cartoon. He encouraged Marilyn to ignore Natasha and that they just perform a given scene "like human beings." While the humbled Otto sat behind the camera, Bob and Marilyn completed the project unscathed. Marilyn was eternally grateful to substitute brother Bob, whom she would describe as, "one of the most interesting, fascinating men I have ever known."

While I have painted some of Hollywood's best filmmakers in very bad lighting, it should be said that sometimes a little authority goes a long way. Directing a film is not an easy job. There are a lot of balls to juggle, including forming a coherent and visually compelling storyline, staying on schedule, and dealing with unpredictable diva temper tantrums. A master of the perfect blend of work and play was Howard Hawks-- with whom Bob worked in El Dorado. John Wayne was the star of the film, and he had come a long way from his days of being John Ford's whipping boy, and was now one of the biggest stars in the world. Things were much easier on a Hawks set. Whose policy was, as someone once said, "to make good pictures while having a good time." There was a definite feeling of camaraderie, and Bob and Duke got along like peas and carrots and had a mutual love and respect for their skilled ,yet laid back, director. Of course, despite being chums, Howard knew when he had to step up and play the father figure from time to time, just to keep his boys from acting up or getting into trouble.

One particular evening, the cast and crew had wrapped another long night, but besides Hawks-- who liked to get his rest before the next day's shooting-- the wild boys' club was just getting revved up for the night. The typical late-night bro-fest included alcohol, cards, and Bob occasionally holding someone in a headlock-- the usual. Well, this time things got a little carried away, with everyone was making way too much noise! Ed Asner, who was also a member of the gang, started getting worried that this little shindig was getting out of control. If they woke up Howard, there was going to be Hell to pay! They were hushed by neighbors several times, they would cool down, be quiet as mice, but inevitably they would start getting obnoxious again-- boys will be boys, as they say. While Ed started the sweat and Bob laughed a cussed, there came the loud thundering of three Bangs! outside. One of the stunned fellas opened the front door to take a peek at the source of the ruckus. There, standing in his PJs and pointing the gun he had just fired into the air at their heads, was Howard Hawks-- clearly grumpy that his bedtime had been interrupted. "Goddamn it," he said. "If I see anybody not in their bed in five minutes, they're on the goddamn plane outta here!" The white-faced boys scrambled out of that room like their britches were on fire and hopped right into bed. Now that is how you run a picture!

Duke and Bob in El Dorado-- two drunks caught-red handed and
reprimanded by director Howard Hawks.

MENTAL MONTAGE: Super Stars

Just as "Superman" could only pretend to be "Clark Kent," George Reeves could only

pretend to be Superman. Yet, many film stars seem more heroic for performing

 superhuman acts off camera.

Despite evidence to the contrary, including the glossy sheen of celebrity gossip mags, movie stars are just people-- hence their appearance on the cover of People. We sometimes forget this, as their alleged humanity is hidden like a shameful secret behind publicist bodyguards and airbrushed elegance. The fact that some of their bodies withstand the effects of unconscionable amounts of barbiturates is also puzzling. However, word on the street is, our heroes aren't any different or any more impenetrable than you or I. George Reeves made this point vividly when he proved that he was not faster than a speeding bullet. True, true-- being famous does not make one "big" nor important. You have money: congratulations. God gifted you with a perfect profile: hallelujah. What else have you got? What makes you so damn special? The stars that really turn the head are the ones who, in the words of the incomparable Anthony Kiedis, "Give It Away." Those who use their celebrity and fortune to help others always seem to transcend the narcissism attached to the film profession, particularly when their good deeds are not performed at a press junket or a well-publicized benefit. When these acts come off the cuff, in the heat of the moment, and out of the spotlight-- sometimes before the celeb is even a celeb-- one can be assured that the individual performing various acts of decency is in fact a decent human being. Only then, does one seem superhuman. FYI:

Audrey Hepburn (left) would garner a lot of respect throughout her life, particularly in her later years when she donated so much of her time and effort to UNICEF-- an organization once championed by Danny Kaye. However, Audrey's acts of courage actually began quite young. In 1944, Audrey was living just outside Arnhem in Velp-- a town in the Netherlands. Thus, she would be very close to the ensuing chaos brought on by WWII when Arnhem became the target of one of history's most notorious bombing raids. Her extended family, some of whom were staying on her grandfather's property in Oosterbeek, actually filmed home movies of German and British soldiers battling on the lawn and dropping from the sky in their parachutes. The Arnhem Bridge alone was a major focal point of Axis versus Ally gunfire. The most that the scattered citizens of this area could do was duck and cover, keep their heads down, and wait for the storm to pass. However, Audrey and her mother Ella did more, often providing lodging and food for Allied soldiers. It was a risky venture, and while Ella made certain not to put her own daughter's life in too much danger, they participated when they could.

One example of Audrey's fortitude occurred during the September raid. It was discovered that an English soldier had parachuted from the sky and landed lost and isolated in the woods near Audrey's temporary home. When patriots learned of his presence, and the fact that he was surrounded on all sides by German soldiers, Audrey-- with her impeccable English-- was sent to deliver a message of warning to him. Legend would have it that Audrey led the soldier to food and shelter, where he was at least able to rest and recuperate as much as possible before he was finally captured as a prisoner of war. He too was rumored to have given her a silver medal with the Lord's Prayer on it, which was his only possession at the time. However, this is a bit embellished. It seems that the extent of the action was thus: Audrey took a brisk walk through the forest, under the guise of a bored teenaged girl getting some air, and traded information with the soldier. She then picked some flowers and skipped home as if everything was hunky-dory-- a good move, since she passed a German soldier, at whom she smiled and handed her bouquet. The dumb cluck never suspected a thing. It may seem like a small thing in retrospect, but had her agenda been discovered, Audrey may have been captured... or worse. In any event, her efforts assuredly saved the English soldier's life. (Don't let the sweet face fool ya'-- she's deadly! Audrey right in Paris When It Sizzles).

During his reign as the ultimate Hollywood cowboy, William S. Hart (left) would be viewed as a hero to many. However, one of his most impressive and selfless deeds would be performed long before he ever got in the saddle at Triangle Film Corp. with filmmaker Thomas Ince. Back in 1895, when flickers were still just starting to flicker in the public imagination, Bill was traveling with Madame Rhea and her acting company performing in such plays as "Much Ado about Nothing." It was a rough life traveling from city to city, state to state, and during this particular run, Hart and the troupe trekked all over the Great Lakes region. While passing through Michigan, life went from uncomfortable to downright tragic. Due to some unknown glitch or mishap, the train carrying Bill and his actor comrades derailed and actually flipped over! Luckily, Bill made it out ok with the expected cuts and bruises. However, the engineer and the train fireman were both trapped! Bill could hear them screaming from their place in the cab. Although his vision was blocked by clouds of steam, he was able to follow their voices to their location where he had to actually bend steel to free them and pull them to safety. The engineer fortunately survived, taking home a broken arm as his trophy. Unfortunately, despite Bill's efforts, the fireman was not so lucky-- he passed away with Bill's coat wrapped around him. It was certainly a moment that Bill would never forget, and it prepped him for his future work, in which he did more than one scene on a moving train.

Charles "Buddy" Rogers is recalled as being the adorable boy next door-- albeit maybe in better shape, (see right). A simple, down-to-earth guy, he was surprised to find himself making films in Hollywood when all he'd ever wanted to do was devote his life to jazz-- he played the trombone and various other instruments. At one time, he even led his own orchestra, which included the legendary drummer Gene Krupa. Yet, with his father's half-teasing suggestion, he did find himself before the camera and is today cemented in history as not only a star of the first Oscar winner for Best Picture--Wings-- but as the third and final husband of none other than Mary Pickford. Someone has to be pretty special to steal "America's Sweetheart" from Douglas Fairbanks, let alone keep her, but Buddy did that with his natural, sweet temperament and generous heart. However, an act worthy of true admiration occurred a mere month before his became the new Emperor of Pickfair. In May of 1937, he was in his hometown of Olathe, KS getting ready to perform with his swing band. It just so happened that the hot jazz singer Connie Boswell was playing at the same venue. This fact would prove very fortunate for her. See, Connie liked her ciggs: so much so that she accidentally fell asleep in her dressing room with one still ablaze in her hand. The couch caught fire! Buddy, who must have smelled the smoke, rushed in and was able to pull her from the burning furniture and beat out the flames before they literally snuffed her out! Good thing, or else her fans would be singing "Say It Isn't So" about her untimely death! (Ironically, Buddy's debut song on Broadway was "Hot-cha!").

Charlie Chaplin would play the accidental hero in many of his films. From saving the drunken millionaire from suicide in City Lights to rescuing Jackie Coogan in The Kid, he always found a way to save the day-- amidst much comedy, of course. However, he performed some actual life-saving daring-do in August of 1917. Following the release of his latest hit, The Immigrant, Charlie and his film company were shooting his next feature, The Adventurer, on the Sierra Madre coast. Of course, the presence of a major movie star caused quite a stir among the locals, who made their way to the seaside to watch him and his crew as they made magic on the beach. Unfortunately, one little girl became a little too absorbed in the action. Sitting on a large rock in the water, she was knocked from her seat when a huge wave came crashing over her. Though he was a very fastidious and focused man while working, Charlie couldn't help but notice that! In fact, he dived into the waves to save her. He pulled the shaken girl ashore, and she was soon warmed and back to normal-- though she certainly remained in a bit of shock, first from the near-death experience, then from her unexpected meeting with the Tramp (left). It was big news, of course, and made all of the local papers. Little Mildred Morrison had come to the beach that day to see her hero. Little did she know that she would actually be heroically saved by him!

Despite his occassional, diabolical on-screen performances, Lon Chaney represented to some a guardian angel. His countless acts of kindness and charity over the years did not go unnoticed by his peers, though he always maintained anonymity when giving himself to any cause or helping any person in need. It was the deed that mattered, not his personal reward. In 1926, he would perform in one of his favorite films-- with no make-up-- Tell It to the Marines (right). However, he'd had a brush with the military a few years prior when he met Sgt. Frank McClouskey. The Sergeant was a veteran of The Great War whose own heroic deeds in serving his country, and in effect the world, had ended tragically with severe injuries. The mental effects upon returning from the devastation of battle is one thing, however McClouskey too had to handle the physical results-- he had been rendered partially paralyzed. One need only watch Lon's performances in The Shock, West of Zanzibar, or The Black Bird to realize that he had a particularly soft spot for the crippled and "infirm." So, he made it his mission, out of respect for the Sergeant and his bravery, to pay for an operation that would correct the malady. The operation was a success-- a fact that was proven at Lon's own funeral in 1930: Sgt. McClouskey paid his respects and showed his eternal gratitude to his own hero by standing at attention and guarding Lon's casket for the entire three day wake. In a room filled with family friends, many of whom were deaf-mutes like Lon's parents, McClouskey's statement conveyed more than words possibly could.

TAKE 1, 2, 3: Blessed Virgins

Oh, Sister... Debbie Reynolds makes the sound of holy music in 

The Singing Nun.

In answer to the Roman soldier of God post I did a few weeks ago, I thought it appropriate to offer the female equivalent. At first glance, the Nun may seem like the least likely candidate for a Hollywood heroine, but this character has been refashioned for the screen multiple times, from The Bells of St. Mary's to Sister Act. We've made a habit (ha, haha) of both extolling the virtues and questioning the agenda behind a life "of the cloth." As women in film generally fall into two categories, the virgin and the whore, exposing the complicated nature of a Nun is the most symbolic way that screenwriters and filmmakers have used to interpret the good and evil in mankind. Ironically, when holding the mirror up to womankind in her purest form, we have sometimes received provocative and intriguing answers regarding the nature, not only of womanhood, but of the very soul of humanity. It was hard to choose which films to discuss for this article, since there are so many of interest-- Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison or Doubt, etc-- but in selecting the following three, I think I will more ably be able to zero in on the "three faces of Eve": the Good, the Evil, and the Human.

The Good

Cynicism has put a great dent in the faith of mankind, as has Time. Certainly, there are still practicing Catholics, Jews, Mormons, Muslims, etc, but living in the modern era, it is often difficult to be allegiant to a religion devised so long ago, which consequently instigates wars and constantly reveals itself through varying levels of hypocrisy. We fall on our knees in times of great struggle, sometimes praying without even realizing we are doing so, but the average person no longer seems to keep the concept of God in the same untarnished and unquestionable position as our forefathers. Ironically, today it is almost a sin to utter the name of "God." Have we forgotten him or outgrown him? These are questions every man must answer for himself, and they are equally questions that make films like The Song of Bernadette (1943) seem a bit peculiar by today's standards. Yet, despite the highly devout nature of the script, the film somehow transcends modernity and skepticism.  The beautiful performance of Jennifer Jones as Bernadette (left) and the surprisingly complex portrayal of the various other supporting characters in the film illuminate faith as something very real and worth discussing, and finally worth embracing. It is how we react to miracles and how we approach conflict that determines our spirit. Whether the Holy Spirit is a man made creation or an intangible presence in human life, in this film, it wears the face of true innocence and piety, making believers out of even the most mistrusting of men and evoking emotion from the stoniest of hearts.

The plot of The Song of Bernadette follows the title character as she unexpectedly finds, introduces, and renews faith in her community-- the French village of Lourdes. A soft-headed, sickly girl, "Bernadette" is generally harmless. She has vague plans of getting married some day, perhaps to the nice Antoine (William Eythe) who lives nearby, and having a family of her own. Her own family is poor and-- more often than not-- Bernadette, for all of her sweetness, is still viewed as somewhat of a burden to them. Then, one day, when Bernadette is left alone by the river, she has a vision of a beautiful woman (in a strange cameo by Linda Darnell, right). She is moved by what she sees, is totally peaceful and adoring, but only she can see or hear what the great "Lady" says. When she shares this news, no one believes her, of course,  and her claims are made even more hysterical by the fact that she has had her vision in such close proximity to the city dumping ground. Yet, she continues her pilgrimage to see the Lady, who has asked her to come for fifteen straight days. Soon, her disapproving parents, the skeptical Priest, the town doctor-- a man of science-- are all won over to her side. Whether or not they believe in her vision, they believe in her-- her purity, her innocence, and her good will.

Bernadette defends her visions to Prosecutor Dutour, and her honesty and calm reason

trump his textbooks every time.

The only sect that does not believe are the lawmen, represented most fully and of course villainously with the always elegant and sinister Vincent Price as "Prosecutor Vital Dutour." Why is it only men of man-made laws that seem to fear her? Perhaps because they are not of the earth or nature. Even Lee J. Cobb's "Dr. Dozous," who is ever-rational, is still a man who uses the earthly elements to cure the sick. Law men only have their words and personal fabrications. They are threatened by the power that Bernadette peacefully and accidentally accrues, as throngs of followers begin to join her as she kneels before the Lady in her nightly prayers. The Priest, played by the crinkly-faced Charles Bickford, too combats his own doubts and is forced to confront his apparent lack of faith in man, which he rediscovers in Bernadette. But Price's prosecutor and his fellow cronies cannot fathom what has not been written down, and they too perhaps feel a sexual need to destroy Bernadette's purity and chastity: even a modest, unassuming, agenda-less girl like herself is harmful to them for the mere fact that she refuses to demurely sit in a corner and follow their rules. To add insult to injury, she serves, not even God, but the Lady, whom she describes as "The Immaculate Conception"-- a title that leaves the community bewildered.

In time, and due to much business that I won't go into, a spring erupts that brings with it mystical healing powers. Bernadette is now looked upon as a Saint. Her contact with this strange Goddess, whom she cautiously never refers to as the Blessed Virgin, has resulted in a much in-demand, natural elixir that heals the sick, cures the blind, and allows the crippled to walk. Bernadette carries no pride or honor for her deeds. She, simple-minded as she is, sees nothing strange about what she has done, nor does she feel the need to claim any sort of reward or glory for it. Jones, in her portrayal, is the epitome of innocence-- of goodness. She is selfless, kind, uncomplicated, but real. We never believe that Bernadette is immaculate herself, just that she, as a real girl, was chosen to be a vessel through which holy information comes. The accidental way that her natural knowledge always undoes the learned lawmakers and their own brand of reason is also continuously comical. Finally, when she is encouraged to continue her Godly work by becoming a Nun, she takes pause. She is not totally certain that she wants to leave behind a life of earthly love to continue seeking the divine. Yet, she is easily convinced that it is the proper path. She has been "called," and as a simple girl, she will follow where she is led. (Bernadette walks away from a life and love that could have been, left).

For many years, Bernadette does not see the Lady again, and her hours are spent in prayer, reflection, and staving off the icy attacks of fellow Sister "Marie Therese," (Gladys Cooper, right), who is insulted that all of her years of servitude have not been rewarded with the enriching visions that the novice Bernadette has attained. The work of a Nun is not a vacation. It is a hard life of isolation and obedience. Bernadette, of course, never complains, not even when it is discovered that she has a painful tumor growing on her leg. She is also continually tested about her prior claims by religious authorities, who still do not believe her tales and visions, but she steadfastly maintains her stories. As she finally dies, she sees the Lady once more. One wonders, as she shudders with her last breath, if all she gave in her life was worth it? What, in the end, did it all mean? The spring she once brought to life eventually became a gimmick for the local lawmen to draw in travelers, and the "holy" water is now sold as a product. The miracles that she worked-- except in the memories of those who knew her-- will seemingly die with her. Yet, it does seem worth it, and director Henry King's handling of the story convinces viewers that such simple things of beauty, such innocent creatures as Bernadette, such selfless actions, and above all, such messages of love, are all that count in life. The "song" of Bernadette may have only been understood by those nearest her in her own lifetime, but if we listen closely, we can still hear the music in our own. The trick is to avoid hypocrisy and abandon all rules but the golden one. If we live openly with the heart of a child, we can have a paradise on earth of our own making.

The Bad

Black Narcissus (1947) couldn't disagree more. If Bernadette was about how faith renews life, Narcissus is about how faith kills. The essential ingredient needed to make faith palatable-- and a shared experience between the earthly and the divine-- is people. Community. Brotherhood. This is why faith grew and thrived in Bernadette's small town of Lourdes. The plague of Black Narcissus is the plague of isolation. The Nuns are not sisters of Man, they are servants of God-- detached, cool, lifeless. Deborah Kerr leads the cast as "Sister Clodagh," and her usual stunning beauty is paled and starched to show the absence of flavor in her life. She is given the righteous task of being the youngest Sister Superior to manage her cohorts in Mopu, where they will form a hospital and school for children and young girls. It feels more like a punishment than a reward. The castle in the sky to which the Sisters arrive stands on a great precipice, (which gives one vertigo even from the comfort of the couch, see left). The sole sound of life that echoes from the Old General's donated Palace-- which used to house his ancestors' many mistresses-- is the large bell that tolls the hour and calls the sisters to prayer. Looking down as "Sister Ruth" (Kathleen Bryon) rings the bell as part of her daily task, it is strange to note that, though high above the village below, it seems that the Sisters are the ones in Hell. Peace and life are found with the local people, including the new, younger General (Sabu), whom the sisters take to calling "Black Narcissus." His presence is not welcomed at first, for he is a man, but as he cleverly points out that Jesus was too, Sister Clodagh agrees to take him in as a student.

Another snake in the grass is "Mr. Dean" (David Farrar), who at all time tests the faith of the sisters and flirts with them as well, making fun of their faith and counting the days until their lifeless isolation forces them to abandon their pie in the sky ideals. The sexual tension between him and Sister Clodagh is very poignant, but initially, his charms and chauvinism have no effect-- except on Sister Ruth. All the sisters are effected by Mopu in different ways, it seems. The Palace stands not as a place of healing nor peace, as they had intended, but in time it comes to serve as a test for their own faith and stamina. This far away from people-- in this heightened experience of isolation, the constant wind, and the constant cold-- each nun is left alone with only her own thoughts for company. No matter where they turn, each woman is forced to come face to face with herself. 

The results manifest themselves in different ways. The good in some is brought to the surface; the evil in others. Sister Ruth is suddenly ruled by an incurable lust and an obsession with Dean. "Sister Philippa" (Flora Robson) is filled with guilt over her own memories, which make her lose track of time and botch her gardening duties. The past brings her pain, and she lacks the courage to face it. She begs Sister Clodagh to send her away to no avail, for Kerr's hard-lining and hard-nosed Sister Superior won't allow any of them to bow to weakness. However, her Sister Clodagh is also forced to face her past, but when she does, color begins to return to her face (right). In her flashbacks, we see Sister Clodagh as a young woman in love, with her childhood family, with dreams... She slowly rediscovers her own humanity and her passions, and as a result, she eventually comes out from hiding behind her orders, dictates, and structures. The parts within that all sisters attempted to bury, thus, come to the surface. They tried to use faith as a shield from themselves, and now they are to be punished.

The tension that all of these revelations cause is harsh to the senses. In fact, the film is at times difficult to even watch, because the horror and dementia each Nun undergoes is so perfectly communicated by the at times taut, at times languid, at times beautiful direction. The entire story unfolds as a tease, as if one were falling asleep bored only to find oneself suddenly in the midst of a bad dream! The only moment of true vibrancy comes from the sinful and vain "Kanchi," played without a word by the always stunning Jean Simmons (left,with Sabu). She eventually steals the equally pompous but charming young General away for a sexual escape, and when these tokens of colorful life disappear, all Hell breaks loose. Indeed, when a young child dies in the Sisters' care, the entire village abandons them, thinking them cursed, or hexed, etc. Now, they have only each other to face, all with their spirits breaking and their convictions shattering. 

Sister Ruth brazenly decides to leave the convent and goes through the wilderness to reclaim her forgotten womanhood with Dean. Unfortunately for her, he wants no part of her maniacal seduction. He has clearly fallen in love with Sister Clodagh, whose stubborn defiance and forgotten self has touched him. (Even nuns, it seems, can get involved in the occasional cat fight). And so, Sister Ruth-- in full lipstick and civilian regalia-- climbs the long way back up the mountain to paint the Palace red-- with blood. Sister Clodagh waits, sweating, as if knowing her fate is approaching. Sister Ruth could even be read as the most evil, highly sexualized, gluttonous half of Sister Clodagh's character. Sister Clodagh fears her, because she sees a self that has remained a dormant threat to the vows that she took before God so long ago. The nearly psychologically broken Clodagh goes to ring the mighty bell for the last time, as the desperately creepy and menacing Ruth (right) lunges for her, trying to push her into the abyss! Sister Clodagh triumphs; Sister Ruth plummets to her death. The evil parasite has been exorcised.

The stunning photography of the notorious Jack Cardiff blends the beauty and 

horror of the infamous palace of mirrors.

Despite Sister Clodagh's triumph, the time has still come to abandon the Palace on a hill. The message seems to be that one should not attempt to grow closer to God as the cost of losing your humanity. God created life so that people could live it, not hide from it, as the sisters learned during their sojourn in Mopu. As the Nuns descend the mountain, the castle gets swallowed up by the clouds, as if it never existed-- as if they were in an intangible place and have been spit back into the real world. Despite everything that Clodagh has faced, she has been reconfirmed in her commitment to the cloth. Yet, we see shades of her young self as she extends her hand to Dean during their final goodbye. Demoted from her position, she has a long way to go in repairing the damage and shame that she has brought to the Sisterhood during the tragedy of Mopu, but she is willing to start over. Then, she and the sisters disappear into the fog from Dean's view, again, as if they had never existed. He has learned something of his visceral cynicism too-- that there is a state of being more intense and pure than the one that he chooses to recognize. The idea is that salvation is found in combining the two mindsets to find the perfect formation of life on earth.

The Human

This brings us to The Nun's Story, and it is indeed a Nun's story. The film's tremendous success can be attributed to both the intelligent and complex performance of Audrey Hepburn (left) and the depth and realism of the plot. Unlike Bernadette and Narcissus, who merely grazed the surface of what it means to leave one's life and one's self behind to enter into a life of religious servitude, The Nun's Story is all about that decision: the sacrifice, the obedience, and the harsh reality. Throughout history, the reasons of entering the nunnery have been that of necessity (a landing place for an unmarried girl who is a burden to her parents or is being punished for deviant behavior) or naive piety. From the outside, it seems easy. The church is a safe haven away from man's temptations and issues. Money is not a concern, sex is not a concern, and while one must get by with very little luxury or comfort, the reward for devoting one's life to God is believed to be enough. We have imagined these women quietly pacing behind the convent walls-- some of them angelic, some old and crotchety-- but never before this film has the harsh duty, discipline, and psychological torment that they endure been brought to life. The cliches are broken. Nuns are neither flawless super-humans nor dried-up spinsters with no other haven. They are your run-of-the-mill, fallible mortals, and the human battle that they endure on a daily basis is not some meek challenge to be sniffed at. Leaving one's life behind may be easy; but leaving one's soul is not.

Gabrielle sheds her vanity with her hair.

The film opens with Audrey's "Gabrielle" (soon to be "Sister Luke") entering the convent. Everyone tries to stop her: her father, her siblings, etc. They don't understand why someone such as herself-- so rebellious, it seems-- would give up her life to be, as they see it, tucked away from the world. Her father (Dean Jagger) tries to talk her out of it, but Gabrielle has made her decision. Her rebellion, her strength, is surprisingly what draws her to the sisterhood. She is a young woman with something to prove. Her determination to accomplish, perhaps in her family's eyes, the impossible is what appeals to her. She seems almost to be a masochist, and while her father warns her that the call to obedience will be a hefty chore for someone such as herself to follow, she quietly considers this a salivating challenge. She wants to conquer all doubt and conquer her self. We know little of her life outside the convent, other than the fact that she is leaving some pining man behind. Her decision to give him and her freedom up is the result, apparently, of nothing more than her iron will. 

Gabrielle undergoes all the usual processes and steps in becoming Sister Luke. She must learn to empty her head of selfish thoughts, she must employ only modesty-- which includes hiding her hands in her robes-- and most difficult for her, she must conquer her own pride. The Nunnery seeks to dilute all traces of vanity, thus all traces of individuality, personality, and color. There is no Sister Luke; there is only the body that operates as God's servant. Sister Luke finds these tests hard to take (see, right). She has countless sins to record in her prayer book every day. Her pride becomes a major factor, particularly when she is training in medicine, so that she may attend patients in hopefully a foreign terrain-- her dream. Like her father, she wishes to be a doctor, but better than him, she wants to serve both God and man in doing so. Yet, when she excels in class, it evokes the envy of another Sister. She goes to her Superior to ask for advice and is told that, to aid her Sisters better, she must show humility and fail her next exam. To Sister Luke, this is a sin greater than even she can accomplish. To deny this last vestige of herself-- her intelligence and her ability to help others-- is a submission she will not undergo. She passes her exam with flying colors, but is punished for this vanity when she is not immediately sent abroad to the Congo as she wishes. Still, she digs in her heels and keeps going. Not everyone is so patient nor so brave. Sisters-to-be drop like flies. Sister Luke makes it to the end of her training, and as is her wish, she is finally sent to the Congo.

Much like Mr. Dean in Narcissus, "Doctor Fortunati," played superbly by Peter Finch (left), fills the role of the masculine, sexual advancer in the film. He is Sister Luke's counterpoint. He challenges her beliefs with his science, he evokes her forbidden sexuality, but mostly he tries to wheedle out the passions of her former self. The sexual tension between them is never overt nor sensual. It is all subtlety. The misunderstanding and irritation that they have for each other quickly turns to mutual respect, as Fortunati realizes that Sister Luke is no ordinary Nun. If nothing else, she is a great nurse and medical aid. What's more, he can see the woman inside, as well as her constantly battling conscience, which leaves her tired, weak, and eventually bedridden. There are no come-ons. There is not even any touching. But, you see in their mutual body language and attentions to each other that, in another life, in another dimension, they would have been soul mates. Then again, perhaps Sister Luke's protective habit, which separates them, is the only thing keeping them together. When she pulls away from the Congo in the train, sent back to Belgium, and you see the disappearing figure of Fortunati watching her go, it breaks the heart.

War comes, and it tears everything to shreds. Sister Luke's hopes of serving God by serving man go unfulfilled as battles ensue. Consistently during her career as a Sister, Luke's obedience has been tested. She does not always stop to pray when the bell tolls, particularly if she is in the middle of helping a patient in need. She becomes too personal and emotionally involved with the men and women she cares for in Africa (right). Now, the world outside is raging, and she is locked away as if the sisters are in hiding when they should be out fighting, helping their fellow man, and trying to piece the broken world back together again. She makes a final act of defiance in allowing a new, young Sister to get out of the convent in order to help some soldiers. It is what she would have done at her age. It is what she wishes that she could do now. Then, word reaches her that her father is dead-- her father, whom despite herself she loves more than the Holy Father. It is the final straw that breaks her world-weary back. 

She makes the fatal decision to leave the convent. Just as when she first entered, many try to stop her and beg her to rethink herself. But her self is just what she is returning to. Her dismissal is a shameful display. She is treated like a woman with the plague, sent to a little room to remove her robes-- revealing the streaks of gray hair around her once young face. She is given her dowry back and her old belongings, and then... she exits. A door almost magically opens, and she walks out, growing smaller and smaller in the camera's view. The moment comes like a wave of relief to the viewer, who has endured her nerves and agony and has longed for this catharsis. Gabrielle, as she is named again, turns and walks away. Where she goes, no one knows, but for the first time in a long time, her path is her choice.

The isolation of the Nuns in Black Narcissus makes them seem hard

and "unholy." They only truly serve God when they come

in contact with the people of the village.

If the three discussed films have any commonality, it is the lesson they preach that there must be a unity of both God and Man. Anything in extreme is dangerous. If indeed there is a God, He created life so that we could live it. He created joy and love so that we could enjoy it, (and overcome all of those dangerous hurdles Satan unlocked when he tempted Eve with that damn apple). When the people of Babel built their tower in the sky, they got too close to God and were sent crashing down. So, the women of these films, while they have ethereal aspirations, cannot totally outgrow their human surroundings, nor should they. The point is not to be divine, but to be alive-- to do service to your fellow man in whatever mode one finds appropriate, whether as a Priest or a civilian. Abandoning your brethren for high ideals is, thus, the greatest sin of all. Celestial faith has a price, but goodness can be found and evil defied on earth. That is the challenge we have inherited and the one we must live with and endure together. All films are wonderful in their own way, but if you only see one, see The Nun's Story. I was shocked by how much I loved and responded to it, and I'm sure you will be too. Peace out.