THE REEL REALS: Claudette Colbert

Claudette Colbert

Claudette Colbert was a woman of supreme control. Petite in size, with large eyes and soft features, her air of authority overshadowed her beauty without camouflaging her humanity and vulnerability. What would be considered a "modern woman" even by today's standards, she was ambitious, talented, and liberated, and the strength and unapologetic passion with which she approached life made equally appealing as an actress. Perhaps for this reason alone, her work continues to inspire and attract men and women alike. She was there, front and center: no excuses. Like it or lump it. 

This did not detract from her seriousness as an actress. All that she did, she did with absolute concentration. She knew her stuff, so much so that she didn't shy away from throwing her weight around with Cecil B. DeMille or re-positioning a young Shirley Temple so that her own "good side" would face the camera. She understood the game of Hollywood, and always played the ace. This was as much to maintain her own career as confirm the best possible characterization in any given role. Sensitive to the responsibility of acting for millions, she was eager to cooperate with directors and fellow actors in order to form and inform her work with the utmost integrity and authenticity. She was, as is the popular contemporary phrase, "in it to win it."

The French-born Emilie Claudette Chauchoin moved to America at the age of three, bringing with her the strong work ethic of her baker father. Drawn to drama with a marked intensity from her youth, and put herself through acting school by working at a dress shop. By the age of 20, she was Claudette Colbert and appearing on Broadway. She transferred to film for more lucrative opportunities and built up a fairly respectable reputation for herself, her onscreen charm and natural aura earning fans quickly. However, her partnership with DeMille in The Sign of the Cross (remember the nude milk bath scene?), Four Frightened People, and Cleopatra really amped up her career. Of course, it was after her partnership with that Mr. Gable fellow in It Happened One Night that the "Walls of Jericho" came down, and the love affair with Claudette and the world began. 

Claudette engaged in a varied and intriguing career that spanned 60 years, doing everything from melodrama to screwball comedy-- The Smiling Lieutenant, Imitation of Life, Midnight, Boom Town, The Palm Beach Story, So Proudly We Hail, Thunder on the Hill, television appearances, and continued work in live theater. With her always was her intelligence and intuition-- and a touch of controversy for good measure. Rumors abound of her sexual liaisons with some of the most popular leading men and women of the day, but all even murmered scandals could do nothing to disturb her position as one of the most hailed screen stars of all time. 

After her onscreen career faded out with the fifties, she lived peacefully in Barbados with her husband Dr. Joel Pressman until passing away at the age of 92 after suffering a series of strokes. A fighter until the end, she came, she saw, she conquered, and she made her glorious exit. She was an emotional, uncontrollable universe that was somehow always in control, leaving no stone un-turned and not a dry seat in the house. Hard like a rock and soft as a Lily, the sense of her envelops the idealism of Hollywood past like a comforting friend you can always turn to. She's got your back.

THE REEL REALS: Cleo Ridgely

Cleo Ridgely

Cleo Ridgely was yet another interesting leading lady of the silent film era. With a soft but sturdy beauty, she projected an image of equal parts vulnerability and resilience. Though she performed in nearly 70 credited films between 1911 and 1951, her talent has become overshadowed over the years by bigger names and a bigger Hollywood. She made appearances most notably opposite leading men like Wallace Reid, in the Cinderella story of The Golden Chance, and had enough chutzpah to impress Cecil B. DeMille into handing her a supporting role in Joan the Woman.

Cleo came off as a regular girl. Perhaps her normalcy is what stopped her from being as infamous and lasting as her contemporaries. Still, there is a poetry in the simplicity with which she approached her roles. Elegant but not haughty, attractive but not glamorous, she had an immediate amiability that allowed her to transcend stereotype and just be a woman. She also wasn't afraid to get down and dirty, and as an experienced horsewoman, she often performed her own, quite dangerous stunts.

After her second marriage to James W. Horne (of Laurel and Hardy fame), she left the movies behind to be with family and raise her children. She did return intermittently over the years, generally in uncredited bit parts. As you hear no horror stories or scandals attached to her name, it is fair to assess that she lived without regret and simply preferred a life of stability to the crazy world of Hollywood. This is understandable, but as a viewer, you wish you had gotten to know her a little better through her work, of which there remains far too little.

THE REEL REALS: Blanche Sweet

Blanche Sweet

Blanche Sweet was a powerhouse female player in the silent era of cinema, whose onscreen nature seemed in perfect keeping with her name-- which was not an invention, apart from the fact that Blanche was her middle name. Her great beauty and graceful demeanor made the camera immediately fall in love with her, and the American public would follow suit. Her talent as an actress had been long cultivated by treading the boards from her very infancy as an actress and dancer. This in conjunction with her iron guts and angelic presence made her a shoe-in for Biograph and its leading director: D.W. Griffith.

While younger than some of Griffith's other leading ladies-- Mary Pickford and Lillian Gish among them-- Blanche's startling maturity often led to her being cast in more mature roles. While a fairly petite woman, Blanche always came across as large, filling the screen with her charisma and poignant emotional articulation. She was, therefore, not one of Griffith's standard little-girl women but a woman full stop. Perhaps this is why, after participating in many of his poetic shorts, she was selected to star in his first feature-length film, "Judith of Bethulia" (1914). Blanche would migrate to Paramount and continue her successful career working with other big time directors like Cecil B. DeMille ("The Warrens of Virginia") and Marshall Neilan ("Tess of the D'Urbervilles,")-- with whom she would enjoy a scandalous affair, which led to marriage, which led to divorce. (God love him, "Mickey" was never one for moderation, in drink or in women).

Blanche would make a triumphant transfer into the Talkies, particularly with her highly praised performance in "Show Girl in Hollywood," but she surprisingly retired from the screen to return to theatre, later doing some work on Radio and even Television. However, her post-silent career was not as successful, and she allegedly had to take a job at a department store at one point, her days in the idol sun forgotten by the world that had once adored her. Luckily, with the rediscovery of her films and the advent of TV and home video, Blanche's power once again holds sway over those blessed enough to witness her Sweet talent.

THE REEL REALS: Allan Dwan

Allan Dwan

Allan Dwan was a director extraordinaire during the silent era. While the Canadian (born Joseph Aloysius Dwan) had mild plans to enter the world of film, it is more justified to say that the movies came looking for him. His expertise as a lighting technician got him unceremoniously poached by Essanay, and after he made the transition to story-editor/writer, another twist of fate would put him in the director's chair-- or so the story goes. (Allegedly, he had to take the reins on a shoot when the original director disappeared on a bender). Well, thank Heavens for booze, because without any of these serendipitous events, one of cinema's greatest innovators never would have been!

During his career, one of Allan's many accomplishments was leading the Flying A Film Corp, one of the earliest and most important California film studios. Throughout his career, he worked with everyone from soon-to-be wife/ex-wife Pauline Bush, Wallace Reid, John Wayne, Shirley Temple, and Gloria Swanson. He also made an impression on the powerhouse couple Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, the latter with whom he made the iconic Robin Hood and The Iron Mask. Through a career that spanned 50 years, Allan allegedly lost count of how many shorts and features he was responsible for, but we know his stamp is on at least 400. His ability to use the camera as an extension of himself, the storyteller-- capturing the greatest source of action, inspiration, and intrigue possible-- kept him at the top of his game for this unprecedented breadth of time. Indeed, he is even responsible for devising something that all directors and cinematographers take for granted today: the Dolly Shot. 

Allan passed away a few years shy of his own centennial, leaving a profound level of accomplishment behind him. While less remembered than names like Griffith, Chaplin, or DeMille, he is an essential part of filmdom's backbone, his contributions laying the ground work for upon which all future directors would more easily tread.

TAKE One, Two, Three: Yen's "Sin" - [Part 1]

Despite the obvious discomfort the title of this little ditty inspires today,
Chaney's studied, soul crushing portrayal of Chinaman "Yen Sin" in
 Shadows was one of the most socially groundbreaking in film, and
the film was deemed one of the most important of the year. 

As an artistic medium, the realm of cinema is fueled not only by the desire to entertain but by the desire for change. One can stare at a painter's perfect replica of a bowl of fruit, but it is the surreal, impressionistic, cubist, what-have-you interpretations that draw the most mental attention. At times, we don't like being provoked or prodded from our comfort zones, but our minds also subconsciously relish the opportunities such instigations reveal-- whether the our response is to slam the door shut or kick it wide open.

Film has contributed greatly to mankind's discovery of himself-- emotionally, intellectually, and socially. There are steps forward that often look a lot like steps back. For example, unpacking prejudice has not been a challenge perfectly met by the industry. The ways in which different races, sexual orientations, religions, etc. have been portrayed on screen fall anywhere between the realm of outright bigotry and emphatic reevaluation. Somewhere in the median is the awkward attempt to "classify"-- to define our differences and thus quell our panphobia by making the conflicting, different faces around us manageable. Categorical. The obvious cliches become accepted facts that pepper public perception, even if they can sometimes be true. (I am a blonde white girl from Kentucky, so I can neither confirm or deny whether there is some strain of goat DNA in my bloodstream). With the usual mixed messages, various mediums have often made great steps to abolish stereotypes by cringingly abiding by them at the same time (see former piece on this effect on the African American demographic here).

Some of the most fascinating justifications Hollywood has given for man's occasionally blatant racism is the depiction of the "other" as a sexual threat, a mere fetish, or an outright perversion. Second only to the African American stereotype-- who was and often still is broadcast as a violently potent and thus feared sexual group-- is that of the Chinese. Shrouded in mysticism, the "oriental" class of film characterization is projected as literally from another world. China is not another country; it is another planet. Their customs, their religion, their collective way of life, is both embraced and condemned in the films of the past. On the screen, they are silent, ghost-like creatures who move in small, shuffling steps and appear always in clouds of opium smoke. Their posture is nearly inverted, as if they are making themselves purposely smaller and less imposing, apologizing for their presence in the white man's shadow. 

Sessue Hayakawa, the unexpected Japanese film star, played Chinese characters
interchangably in his career. Here is plays the sinister villain betraying well-
established racial lines in Cecil B. DeMille's bold film The Cheat.

For the most part, the Chinaman is represented as humble, obedient, and-- to the caucasian eye-- humorous in his ancient, spiritual ideas and backward social indentity. He is a non-progressive, stuck in the past. He is a strange pet, an alien, thus naturally viewed as asexual for comfort's sake. The women of Chinese descent, conversely, are portrayed as beautiful and servile, sexual objects. They don't talk back. They don't even raise their voices. This is comforting. The Chinese in film seem to "know their place," in other words. Their subservience makes them less threatening than the African American, whom is identified automatically as a possible enemy-- a product of our subconscious fear that he will rise up and vengefully pay us back for our prior, inhuman enslavement of them. The Native American is similarly labeled a savage-- who too holds an understandable grudge-- because we color him onscreen with the war paint of our own design. We stole his land after all, so we must cast him as the demonic beast of the West desperately need of civilizing and likewise viewed as a threat to civilization to apologize to ourselves for it. The Chinaman is different. He was a visitor-- not an invader nor a captor-- to our land after we had claimed it. We don't fear him but instead view him with a dormant, skeptical eye. That is, at least until he tries to play lover...

The fetishist perspective of the bold, romantic ladder-climbing minority is overflowing with messages of insecurity and discrimination. As the early days of heavily censored Hollywood would not allow for even the intimation of a sexual relationship between members of two different races, the fate of the Chinese-American's visual storytelling was left in the hands of white actors in "yellow face." The effect, when not in the hands of artistic empaths like Lon Chaney, produced a cosmetic nightmare: an exaggerated, serpentine gaze, a tightened face free of character, and a thin lipped hard line for a mouth. The women were allowed more beauty, portrayed as exotic flowers to feed a man's sensual curiosity, but they too were displayed with the subliminal context of distaste if not disgust. They are creatures, play things at best, but never respected as wholly human. They are but half real-- not wife material, in any case. Both male and female, they are relics of a time that no longer exists and perhaps never did; strange fossils who simply refuse to expire.

In my examination of these themes, I had a plethora of films to choose from: Where East is East, The Mask of Fu Manchu, The Letter, The Toll of the Sea, Mr. Wu, The Good Earth, up to the more contemporary The Lover. I've selected three of my favorites, which will varyingly abide and examine the common through line of interracial romance. In all cases, the Chinese counterpart is deemed correct in the passionate worship of the white woman (or man), but to try to take this obsession to a place of reality is read as a damnable thing. The price paid is always death. The subjects: Broken Blossoms, The Bitter Tea of General Yen, and Piccadilly.

~     ~     ~

Lillian Gish seeks comfort from Richard Barthelmess-- but only at a
respectful distance-- in Broken Blossoms.

One would hardly list D.W. Griffith as a pioneer of unbiased racial translation, but for all his seeming disdain for the African American element, his opinion of the Chinese in Broken Blossoms seems to be much more appreciative. At least in his own imagination, and the way he presents Richard Barthelmess as "The Yellow Man"-- literally, that is his name-- Griffith has an at least superficially poetic view of the race. All of the romantic ideals he preaches throughout his films-- innocence, purity, a desire for good-- are displayed by Barthelmess in a surprisingly moving performance of conflict and heartbreak. That being said, Yellow Man may be allowed elevation in a spiritual sense, but socially there can be no line stepping. He is still referred to as "Chinky"-- an alleged term of endearment.

The plot concerns Yellow Man's unspoken love for "Lucy"-- Griffith's ultimate muse, Lillian Gish. Gish uses her usual incandescent emotional brawn to portray this diamond in the gutter angel, who lives in terror of her father. Dad is "Battling Burrows," (Donald Crisp) and he violently abuses Lucy verbally, physically, and probably sexually, consequently molding her into an impossibly sad wisp of a girl, both stunted in maturity and broken in spirit. After one of her thorough lashings, Lucy stumbles and collapses into what turns out to be Yellow Man's store. He finds her on the verge of death. The doting lover takes her in and nurses her back to health, all while living out his greatest private fantasy-- to be under the same roof with the woman he loves and give her what he can of his heart. Of course, he has to hide the truth depth of his feelings. He is dirty, and she is clean.

The sheer, hysterical terror that Gish exhibits on her face and in her body
when Burrows is near may seem exaggerated and overdone in by today's
standards, but the poignancy of her emotional abandon in the role still
kicks you in the gut.

Griffith does manage to push the envelope here. As usual, while portraying Lucy as a girl-woman-- a feat only an actress of Gish's wisdom and emotional gravity could accomplish with believability-- he too uncovers Yellow Man's sexual side. Beneath society's definition of him as a somewhat androgynous creature, he exhibits the same pulsating, carnal desires of any man. This is a battle that he seems to wage with more success than his white male counterparts. In truth, Yellow Man came to Limehouse, the film's setting, in the hopes of spreading peace and the Confucian ideals of goodness. Yet, in the sophisticated yet oddly untamed space of the Limehouse district, he has has met with little success and instead finds himself accosted at every turn by tempting opium dens, gambling joints, and willing prostitutes. The presence of  Lucy-- the pinnacle of all his sexual torment, now within arm's reach in his home-- demands a restraint that he is barely able to muster. 

In truth, the two lost souls of Yellow Man and Lucy possess an astounding chemistry that makes the audience beg for them to embrace as lovers, and this was assumedly as true during the time of its original release in 1919. However, social mores clearly would not allow such a thing to happen. Ergo, in the story, Yellow Man's yearning sexuality, which grows clearer to Lucy every day, is established as fearful to her. The way she looks at him as he makes his smoldering approach, looking at her like a sinister monster-- a still impressive sequence-- is not a result just of the resultant fear of men her abusive father has stained her with, but that of her own prejudice. Seeing her response when he considers touching or kissing her alerts Yellow Man that he cannot go too far with his affections.

Lucy unconsciously rejects The Yellow Man's intimacy in life, but will
such prejudice and irrational fear follow them to the other side?

The tragedy of this piece is foretold in the title, and the impossibility of the biracial union innately curses at least one of the film's tragic characters to death. One would naturally suppose that the martyred nature of Yellow Man, as Barthelmess has compassionately translated him, in addition to his status as the "other" character-- the eternal, minor minority character who is immediately disposable-- would make the Chinaman the prime candidate for this necessary assassination. Griffith's alternative choice is actually quite liberating. It is Lucy who is killed by her brutish father, then Yellow Man slays him in revenge, and finally takes his own life. The fact that Yellow Man dies for love makes him an unprecedented, heroic character of the 'other' ethnic persuasion. Additionally, Griffith gives the duo a fairy tale ending in an unexpected way. Their voyage to the realm of the after life-- which is marked by the banging of the Buddhist gong-- presents the possibility that the two "broken blossoms" may bloom as lovers there on the other side in the purest sense possible: as the blending of two souls: skinless, faceless, and formless. What is criminal is that this is the length they had to go to attain mutual peace.

This film is truly a beautiful story, and in my opinion it is Grffith's greatest and most unpolluted triumph in terms of story. Obviously, it can clearly be argued that Griffith's respect for the Chinese character exists only because this "sub-group" of humanity is depicted by him as a supplicant before the ethereal, white female. In addition, the director probably vicariously entertained his own sexual fantasies in the story, as was his wont. The male focus on the untouched, virginal female is naturally driven by the desire to make the object unclean in the possession of it. Ergo, the hidden notes of Yellow Man's undeserving, inferior hunger are his Griffith's own.

The positive aspect, of course, is the naked display of goodness and raw humanity present in The Yellow Man. This character ignores his own urges to protect the innocence of the image that Griffith would secretly love to desecrate. The Chinaman betrays his own conscience and religion to avenge Lucy's death, and his personal shame for this makes his suicide even more necessary. Yet, one leaves the story with the subconscious knowledge that it is we-- people in general-- who are the cruel villains and predators of the world, our own savagery destroying what remains of its beauty through our ignorance, cruelty, bias, and fear.

Barthelmess's Yellow Man, while possessing the serpentine gaze, was still
able to overcome the cliches of his character to give him an honest,
sensual, and vulnerable quality that helped balance the racist
images the film may have ignorantly projected. 

Gorgeously shot with Griffith's incomparable eye for detail and visual texture, the environment created is both entrancing to look at and lush even at its disturbing. There too are superb performances  by all concerned, particularly by Gish whose gut-wrenching presentation of fearful hysteria signifies the great torture that her life has been. The moral messages are mixed, but this film, even when awash with controversy, is a sterling example of silent cinema at it best. How do the others fare???

To Be Continued with interpretations of both The Bitter Tea of General Yen and Piccadilly...

MENTAL MONTAGE: The Direct-ators Part I

Joan Crawford unleashes a little pent up frustration on Lucy Marlow
in Queen Bee. When you push an actor too far, sh*t happens.

The diva temper tantrum is not an unfamiliar phenomenon. Nay, it is generally expected. As we gawk at the super-celestial stars above, we make apologies for their erratic behavior, irrational demands, social faux pas, because we find their eccentricities just as-- if not more- entertaining than their films, albums, etc. When Prince demands that his hotel room at the Roosevelt Hotel be carpeted entirely in purple (this happened, I was an employee at the time), it is so absurdly ridiculous that we find the trivia delicious. As such, it feels like a press release present when Reese Witherspoon-- who is supposed to be the Southern debutante of moviedom-- utters the immortal words "Do you know who I AM?!" to the cop who has just pulled her and her husband over for a DUI. It's nice to know, I suppose, that while these people may be richer than we, they are also abysmally, stupidly, embarrassingly superficial. As such, it boosts the confidence when our "stars" reveal themselves for what the majority of them actually are: burning balls of gas.

However, they're not all bad eggs. In fact, a lesser discussed evil is that of the maniacal director. Safe behind the camera, where he can force the sad, dancing monkeys of the acting profession to perform his most sadistic desires, many of these filmmaking artistes get drunk with the power that comes with the director's chair/throne. The man holding the megaphone is God on the set, and those underlings who question his authority will be destroyed. Or shamed. Or whatever it takes to get his rocks off and make him feel like he is invincible (and not the little boy who used to get pushed into his locker in high school because he liked Star Trek.) Fortunately, just as the misbehaving movie stars endured humiliatingly public slaps on the wrist for their misdirected naughtiness, the Dictator-style directors of Hollywood past have also occasionally gotten their comeuppance, and often from the very object of their attempted subjugation. Here are some of my favorite stories of badass bitch slaps and hot shot throw downs:

One of cinema's all time favorite heroes and tough guys is the incomparable John Wayne (right).  The mythology of the Western seems almost to have been created for him, around him, from him, because of him... His effect on the public remains fascinating. An odd duck with a distinctive, staggered delivery and super saucy walk, "the Duke" matured through his films from a young buck, with an innocent face and a reluctant penchant for honor, to a hardened cynic, who didn't take no sh*t off nobody but whose stone heart could sometimes be melted by the "Mattie Ross" types. When this guy was in the saddle, America was the safest place on earth. Ironically, such was not the case off camera. A fairly bashful man when operating without the social lubrication and liquid courage of alcohol, John was a fairly easy guy to push around. Due to his severed relationship with his mother, he always preferred the company of men and consequently looked up to the men who directed him as father figures. He worshiped no one more than John Ford. Unfortunately, as with many directors, Ford had the habit of counteracting his incredible talent for visual storytelling with almost consistent, semi-A-hole behavior. 

John Wayne seeks shelter behind Robert Montgomery during
They Were Expendable.

While Ford and Duke would forge a strong relationship that would span several films over several years, the director often took advantage of the actor's unwavering allegiance and surprising timidity. Their first meeting set the bar for the rest of their relationship (see here), but despite the hard knocks, Duke determinedly took on the Sisyphean task of staying in Ford's favor. On one occasion, he would have a little help from Robert Montgomery (left). During the filming of They Were Expendable, Ford was being particularly nasty and critical of Duke, his chosen whipping boy on the shoot-- Ford always had one. Duke could do nothing right in the clearly frustrated and unhappy director's eyes, and Ford insulted him constantly, calling him a 'clumsy bastard' and 'big oaf,' and mocking everything from his line readings to his salutes. Finally, the uber-professional and ever-focused Montgomery, who had a very low tolerance for BS, became over-irritated by the incessant immaturity and bullying. Thus, the normally introverted and pensive actor rose to his feet, walked right up to Ford, and hovered menacingly over his Director's chair with an icy glare: "Don't ever talk like that to Duke again. You should be ashamed of yourself." You could have heard a pin drop. No one, but NO ONE, talked to Ford that way. Yet, instead of getting fired up, Ford slumped guiltily in his chair like a school child who had just been reprimanded by his favorite teacher. There were rumors that, after filming wrapped for the day, Ford actually cried. Duke, on the other hand, probably slept like a baby.

Carroll Baker (right) also had a run-in with John Ford, with whom she filmed both How the West Was Won and Cheyenne Autumn. However, perhaps due to her talent and toughness, Ford took a liking to her and never set out to undermine her confidence. In fact, he seemed impressed with her work, and she eventually forged enough of a bond with him to started calling him "Pappy." Carroll was a smart cookie who realized that if she wanted to earn a place in "the boys' club," she had to play by their rules. Observation taught her that she needed to adhere to the Fordian principles of honor, duty, and utter obedience to the task at hand if she wanted to stay on his good side. She adhered. However, life has a habit of throwing curve balls, so despite her preparation, Carroll hit a snag during Cheyenne Autumn. When driving her wagon across a river for one tough scene, the current proved to be too strong. Carroll could feel herself losing control, and as she had two small children on board (who could not swim btw), she determined to steer out of the line and proceed with the current before she and the kids were totally capsized. Unfortunately, two stuntmen dressed as Indians tried to straighten her out to save the shot-- as per Ford's instructions. Carroll, feeling the wagon about to turn over, tried to call to them and tell them to stop, but they couldn't hear her over the sound of the rushing water. So, she did what her maternal instinct told her, stood up, and started lashing them with her whip! Needless to say, it ruined the shot.

'Pappy' (left), who had been filming from atop a mountain to capture what was supposed to be the amazing, panoramic shot, drove  all the way down from Olympus with his eye patch and unlit cigar in place. He approached Carroll, clearly miffed at losing the shot-- which had taken ages to set up-- and said, "Well, that's great! So in keeping with this film. I have a marvelous shot of two Indians being horsewhipped by a Quaker girl." (Quakers, in case you don't know, are a very nonviolent sect of people). As Ford glared at Carroll, she knew that he was reading her. She also knew that if she ratted the stuntmen out, Ford would judge her for being a "bad sport." She opted to stay mum and take the blame. Judging from the penetrating but knowing look in Ford's good eye, she also determined that he understood exactly what had happened and was testing her. Her silence proved to be golden, which maintained her membership in his boys' club. After the stuntmen stepped up and admitted their error, Carroll garnered further validation. "Well, I guess we have a heroine on our hands," Ford said with a twinkle in his eye. And that was the end of that. Well played, Carroll. Well played.

Barbara Stanwyck (right) was another tough cookie when it came to her profession. The true Panther Woman of Hollywood, due to her fabulously cultivated, in-control strut, Babs played her cards close to her chest until the call to "Action" came. At that point, her co-stars were just lucky if they could keep up with the intensity levels of her acting. Nearly every director she ever worked with became a salivating puppy at her feet due to her almost masochistic dedication to her craft. Cecil B. DeMille-- not an easy man to please-- was floored by her, and Frank Capra fell head-over-heels in love with her. Babs was not just a "broad" with brawn, however. She had an incredibly loyal streak, and as a woman who had worked her way up from poverty the hard way, she always had a soft spot for underdogs and those who were not lucky enough to have landed in her fortunate position of luxury. She often stuck up for other actors on the set, particularly the unknown, struggling ones. She was equally known to throw a punch or two for the big timers. 

Robert Cummings (left) would never achieve the stature of leading men like Cary Grant or James Cagney. He was an able, attractive actor, but he lacked the edge and hint of danger that would have made him as intriguing as his peers. Sadly, he was hopelessly wholesome. His place in film history is generally thought of as a reliable supporting male lead opposite the likes of Deanna Durbin, however, his distinctive resume illustrates his impressive career. He worked with the big guns likes Alfred Hitchcock in both Saboteur and Dial M for Murder, not to mention Babs Stanwyck in The Bride Wore Boots. The latter collaboration was a definite plus, but it wasn't all gravy. Apparently, filming the dismally generic and hack-job comedy was no laughing matter, and Barbara in particular was not at all impressed with director Irving Pichel, who seemed to be purposely making a bad situation worse. Boots turned out to be one of her least pleasurable career experiences (and also her last comedy). However, as a professional, she stuck out her chin and did her job. Yet, when she saw Pichel torturing her co-star with repeated and unnecessary takes of a very dangerous stunt atop a horse-- over, and over, and over again-- she finally took the gloves off, telling the director from Hell that if he forced poor Bob to perform the potentially neck-cracking feat one more time, he wouldn't get another scene out of her. As everyone at the studio and on set was utterly loyal to Queen Stanwyck, the message was received, they moved on, and the film was quickly "in the can." 

Clara Bow (right) was hardly the testy femme fatale. She lit up life onscreen and off with her vibrant and loving personality and supercharged sex appeal. A woman insecure about her lack of education and haunted by her tragic, impoverished past, Clara preferred to "kill 'em with kindness." Sadly, the favor would rarely be returned. Despite all the odds, which predetermined her as "Least Likely to Succeed" in the graduating class of life, her genuine nature and jaw-dropping talent got her all the way to Hollywood and soon placed her atop the superstar totem. Her struggles to this position were not easy. Talked down to and brushed aside as just another pretty face, trashy dimwit, and struggling actress wannabe, it was hard for her to make her mark and even harder to make it stick. The scenes from her first film, Beyond the Rainbow, all hit the cutting room floor. 

Luck started turning her way after her work in Grit earned her a plethora of kudos, and she was immediately handed a ticket to L.A. Unfortunately, when she arrived at Preferred Pictures to sign with B.P. Schulberg, the West Coast partner of the studio and her soon-to-be biz-nemesis, he took one look a her, turned to her agent, and asked, "Is this a joke?" He decided to torture Clara and put her through her paces, essentially humiliating her by demanding that she prove herself to him before he agreed to sign her. Dressed shoddily and deemed overweight, Clara was obviously slighted by BP's rebuff, but before she could even react, he was barking out orders and playing director: "Be happy! Be angry! Now cry!!!" Clara could have caved under the emotional duress, but she played his self-masturbatory mind game and won. A born actress who knew there was no other job for her on earth, she gave the goods-- her face would light up with exuberance, her brows would furrow in fury. The ace up her sleeve was her instantaneous access to tears. She could turn them on and off at will, and her sobering emotion at BP's cry of "cry!" left him stunned. Thus, Clara put the top dog in his place with no backtalk or sass. BP nearly wet his pants, then handed her the pen.

The director Lon Chaney is most associated with is Tod Browning-- a filmmaker with a penchant toward the odd and the macabre who understood the actor's genius and used his own adept creativity to develop a story that let the ravenous Chaney animal out of its cage. Naturally, as friends and frequent collaborators, the two bull-headed men had their share of disagreements. There were countless times when they would get into arguments on the set, mostly with regard to a certain scene and how it was to be played. The third parties-- assistant directors, cinematographers, etc-- would often try to intervene just to get the camera rolling again, but such was a mistake. In the middle of their yelling matches, Tod and Lon would simply turn to the intruder and tell him to "mind his own business" or, more forcefully, "Oh, f*ck off!" At the end of the day, they respected each other and their individual visions, so after the temper tantrums had been exorcised, they got down to business and put their latest genesis of genius on the silver screen. It's hard to find a shared piece of work between the two that isn't fascinating, if not utterly compelling and wonderfully disturbing. (Tod, Marceline Day, and Lon on the set of London After Midnight).

Strangely, the film for which Lon is most often remembered is one that he did not make with Browning. His great love child was The Hunchback of Notre Dame, which he made with Wallace Worsley, but it is The Phantom of the Opera that boasts the face that launched a thousand future fans for the "Man of a Thousand Faces!" A dedicated actor and true artist who molded his many movie mugs with nothing but plaster and vivid imagination, Lon needed a director who understood and trusted the gifts he brought to the table, which included his lifetime experience of both acting and directing. He was not to obtain such synchronicity from Rupert Julian, the director he had once worked with in his early, struggling years in The Kaiser, the Beast of Berlin. Lon found the tyrannical, self-important, trumpet-tooting actor/filmmaker had lost none of his pomposity when shooting on Phantom began. Julian had become something of a von Stroheim wannabe, wearing absurd boots and walking around the set like the Prince of Persia-- or some equally ridiculous, self-important monarch (see left). It was this pretentious indulgence in egomania that Lon the everyman found... distasteful to say the least. 

As Lon took his work seriously and was committed to embodying his characters honestly, and Julian was more interested in flash, their all-out brawls on the set could be heard from Hollywood to Holland. It grew to a point that the two wouldn't even speak to each other and would need the same third party substitutes to deliver various messages between them. Cameraman Charles van Enger was often stuck with the job. He would walk over to Lon and deliver Rupert's "direction" for the forthcoming scene; Lon would listen patiently, then deliver his response: "Tell him to go to Hell." (Ha. Hahaha). Lon won in the long run. In addition to helping direct his co-stars, who trusted him far more than Julian, he also communicated his aesthetic ideas to those on the production side, thereby secretly directing the film himself. Today, people still remember the Phantom's face and are touched by his private, internal Hell. No one, except for perhaps the most steadfast of silent film junkies, even know who the heck Rupert Julian was. (Nor do they care).

Lon makes history as Erik the Phantom. Burn Rupert!

To Be Continued...

MENTAL MONTAGE: The More the Merrier?

Margaret Dumont may have been Groucho's most popular leading lady,
but one damsel was never enough for this comedic scallawag-- here in
A Day at the Circus.

One of the funniest moments in the Marx Brothers' classic Animal Crackers is the following exchange:

Groucho/Capt. Spaulding: [to Mrs. Rittenhouse and Mrs. Whitehead] Let's get married.

Mrs. Whitehead: All of us?

Capt. Spaulding: All of us.

Mrs. Whitehead: Why, that's bigamy!

Capt. Spaulding: Yes, and it's big o' me too.

A surprising number of Hollywood greats must have agreed. If nothing else, celebrities are consistent in their irreverence for the the norm. Their knack for breaking "the rules," which they mistakenly don't believe apply to them, result in many a mugshot, courtroom cameo, or front page article in such publications as the groundbreaking Life & Style or In Touch-- both of which should probably consider changing their titles. One of the favorite nit-picking recreations in which modern society partakes with regard to their falling idols is "the Marriage Game." We roll our eyes at their numerous nuptials (Hello, Liz Taylor) or their shameful divorces (were you on Team Jennifer or Team Angelina?) and consequently declare them unsuited for the supreme honor of wedded bliss. Clearly, these silly stars don't understand the sanctity of marriage nor appreciate it. Or do they appreciate it too much??? Marriage: an event so nice, some do it twice... And occasionally without getting the necessary divorce.

Show-business becomes our business due to its overabundant coverage. We idolize our movie stars and musicians for living abnormal lives of excess and glamour, but we just as easily transition to a mob of teeth-gnashing, rabid dogs when they overindulge in these same things. Ingrid Bergman (left) learned this the hard way when she fell desperately in love with Robert Rossellini at the cost of her first marriage to Petter Lindstrom. As Petter promoted himself as the wronged and totally faultless party in the scandal, public opinion turned against Ingrid with insane rapidity. The former angelic presence of the silver screen was labeled a "whore." The mother of all that was good was suddenly deemed unfit for maternity. Naturally, Ingrid's previously proclaimed superb talent became "overrated" overnight. (People do have an uncanny knack for rewriting history, don't they)? 


Ingrid obtained her divorce from Petter, refusing to contest any of his demands. She considered his attacks deserved retribution for her shameful actions. She wed her Italian beloved and made a new life and a new career in his country. She eventually recovered, but Ingrid was only truly forgiven by her American fans until after she started detaching herself from the erratic and possessive Roberto. It was considered an admission of her own defeat when Ingrid stepped outside his directorial control and performed in the superb Anastasia. After Ingrid decided to divorce Roberto, the US felt as if she had come to her senses and thus welcomed both her and her talent back with open arms. However, this second divorce was a little sticker than the first...

Roberto turned out to be just as vindictive as Petter during the separation, yet at no time did he come close to exhibiting any dignity. He bitterly told Ingrid that Italy did not "recognize" divorce (at the time), and if she ever wed another, she would be labeled a bigamist! In addition, he threatened to take their three children ("Robin," Isabella, and Isotta) away from her. His bitterness cleverly chose to ignore his own philandering during their marriage, of course. Again, Ingrid was appeasing and complacent to most of his demands, but she remained determined to obtain her separation from Roberto. With the help of her crafty lawyer Ercole Graziadei, she was able to obtain an annulment!!! The loophole used was thus: Ingrid had not registered her "proxy" divorce from Petter in Sweden before her Italian marriage to Roberto took place. Therefore, in the eyes of Roman law, she was still technically married to her first husband. Her strategically fashioned Swedish bigamy won her the annulment from Roberto; it was as though the second marriage had never existed. Fortunately, this tactic did not harm her children. At that time in Italy, when a father recognized his "bastard" children, they were considered legitimate. All was well, and Ingrid saw to it that her ties to all past men were totally severed, legally speaking.

Naturally, the public was secretly a little pleased by her estrangement from the man she had left her first husband for. The scale of crime and punishment was balanced once again. After Ingrid's third and final divorce from Lars Schmidt, she decided to avoid the menacing "aisle" at all costs. She openly admitted that her flighty ways, when mixed with her great romanticism, did not instigate the best choices. In reality, she was too much of a free spirit to put down roots anywhere or with anyone. Her great lover always remained her work.

Of course, Ingrid wasn't the only "naughty Marietta" in Tinsel Town. Another diva, who in her time was also considered the greatest of film beauties, had her own share of scrapes with love. Reatha Deane Watson (left) lived one Hell of a bittersweet, short life. At the age of sixteen, she had already run away from home and married one Jack Lytelle. Almost as suddenly, she reappered on her sister's front porch, claiming that her husband had died. (The facts on this remain a bit fuzzy). A wild gypsy at heart, Reatha would soon make her way to Los Angeles in the hopes of becoming a "somebody." She gained some ground when landing a gig in a burlesque. Unfortunately, she was arrested for being underage, hence her infamous appearance in court before the eyes of none other than writer Adela Rogers St. Johns. Labeled "too beautiful" to be in the company of such dirty men and scalawags, Reatha was set free and became an overnight press sensation. 

Yet, within months, she had wed "Max Lawrence," who turned out to truly be the already married father of three Lawrence F. Converse. In addition to participating in Converse's bigamy charge and arrest, there remains the question of Reatha's first marriage. Was her first hubby Jack truly dead, or had Reatha in this instance committed a double bigamy of sorts??? To further sensationalize the scandal, it was widely reported that Converse had knocked himself unconscious in his cell, allegedly for being dramatically distraught over the loss his beautiful, illegitimate bride. When he came to, Converse feigned ignorance of the whole affair, but Reatha could not outrun the scandal, which ruined her reputation in L.A. and drove her to San Francisco. There she performed in a cabaret show and temporarily wed Philip Ainsworth, but he soon left her for what he claimed were her extra-marital dalliances.

Starting fresh yet again, Reatha changed her stage name to Barbara La Mar and married Ben Deeley, though she was not yet quite divorced from Ainsworth. That brings her bigamy tally up to three, by the way. Eventually, the world-worn but still lovely Barbara La Mar became Barbara La Marr and fell in with a new lover-- John Gilbert, (prior to his marriage to Leatrice Joy). She did some extra work and fell under the protection of "Father Confessor" Paul Bern-- who would incidentally have his own bigamy issue of sorts concerning his common law wife Dorothy Millette when he later wed Jean Harlow-- and was handpicked by "Mr. Pep" Douglas Fairbanks to star opposite him in 1921's The Three Musketeers. Every man in existence seemed to fall under Barbara's spell, from homosexual BFF and sometimes "playmate" William Haines to the fawning Louis B. Mayer, who considered her "the most beautiful woman who had ever lived." Sadly, despite or because of her golden looks, Barbara's rough life never won her happiness nor did her trips to the altar gain her true love. She would pass away at the age of 29 after her hard-living body succumbed to tuberculosis. (Barbara right with Ramon Novarro in Trifling Woman).

Rudolph Valentino remains a controversial figure by nature. Uncovering his sexuality has become more important than studying and understanding his work or his influence on the entertainment industry. This is sad indeed. Neither answer, one would assume, should deter people from considering him an incredible cinematic force and one of the greatest symbols of sexual power to ever hit Hollywood. Ironically, one of the pieces of evidence used to argue whether Rudy belongs in the "homo" or "hetero" box is the bigamy case brought against him in 1922. As ever when it comes to this silent heartthrob, this debate remains heavily contested, frustrating, and unsolvable.

Rudy (right) married Jean Acker-- one of Alla Nazimova's cling-ons-- in 1919, a couple of years after he had made it to Los Angeles from Castellaneta, Italy. Unfortunately for Rudy, Jean turned out to be same-sex oriented. Thus, on their wedding night, rumors spread like wildfire that the ultimate lover Valentino had spent his honeymoon trying to beat down his lesbian wife's door. The argument here is that the marriage was a total set-up in order to hide the rising movie star's closeted homosexuality. Yet, Jean's reaction muddles this theory, as does the fact that Rudy hadn't yet obtained enough popularity to need such public protection as a mock marriage. So, was Rudy extremely surprised that night by his lover's reaction or did Jean had some serious second thoughts about their mutual ruse? Who the Hell knows... After a lot of back and forth in which the couple lived apart-- with Rudy allegedly trying to patch things up-- the duo settled on divorce. Though, Rudy's new girlfriend may have had something to do with it.

Rudy became enamored of Natacha Rambova-- yet another Alla Nazimova friend. (FYI-- Rudy hung around Alla quite a bit, which is used to both bolster and refute the homosexuality claims. Alla herself was bisexual, so you have the "guilt" by association slant, yet his association with her also spread his sex-God status. Allegedly, he once overpowered Alla so much in a sexual romp that she fainted mid-coitus). The same consternation of the Acker incident was repeated in the love affair of Rudy and Natacha, who was a creative and artistic force in his life. Rudy certainly preached old-fashioned ideals to friends in terms of marriage and family, but his attraction always veered toward the socially exotic. He was drawn to strength, divergence, and intellectual elevation in women. Whether this represents further proof toward his sexual preference or is irrelevant character information is still unanswered. Yet, his deep attachment to Natacha compelled him to hastily marry her on May 13, 1922 in Mexicali, Mexico. Natacha had assured him that their union would be legal outside the US, despite the fact that he had not waited the legally stipulated full year following his divorce from Jean. Such was not the case, and soon a warrant was out for his arrest!

Rudy turned himself in when the authorities informed him that the corrupt District Attorney Thomas Woolwine had charged him with bigamy on two counts-- both for his double marriage and his consummation of the second. When the case went to court, Rudy's defense argued that the second marriage was not truly legetimate as it had not been consummated. Natacha claimed that she had been ill on the wedding night and, to allow her to rest, Rudy had slept on the porch. This is often used as argument for the pro-homosexual party, as they claim it proves Rudy was not interested in sex with his wife. However, the true person sleeping on the porch that night-- a man physically seen by a passing Indian (?!?) was Douglas Gerrard, a friend who had served as the best man at the wedding. The perjuries committed by Natacha and friend Paul Ivano, who both supported the "unconsummated" defense, were considered a necessary evil to save Rudy from the slammer. The prosecution tried to refute these claims claims and pushed for proof of the standard Honeymoom Delight. They even produced the eye-witness testimony of a maid who had seen the couple wearing matching, purple pajamas while eating breakfast together the next morning. A couple that feeds together, breeds together.  (Feast or farce, right)?

The judge, who was just as confused as you are right now, became so irritated by the ridiculous  arguments and misplaced evidence that he finally had the bigamy charges dropped. An annulment of Rudy's marriage to Natacha necessarily followed to put things right, but this meant that the lovers were separated for a year until they could be properly married. Again. As Rudy's correspondence with Natacha at this time was typically overdramatic but honestly melancholy, it seems that the duo truly cared for each other, though they eventually proved to be incompatible. Had Rudy not died prematurely in 1926, a divorce would most likely have split them apart. Was part of that incompatibility sexual? I unfortunately would have to devote a separate website to that argument. But I do know that he was a bigamist...

...As was his Beyond the Rocks co-star, Gloria Swanson, but then, Gloria always went 'big' (see left). One of the most decadent stars of the silent era, this petite but powerful beauty commanded attention everywhere she went and wore the role of Hollywood Siren as if she had been born playing it. Of course, despite her violent hunger and ambition, Gloria didn't start her career as a lush and intoxicating force of nature. She allegedly began her cinematic employment at about the age of fifteen doing extra work at Essanay in Chicago. Allegedly, production was so taken with her beauty that she was signed to a contract. Before she knew it, she and her mother were moving out to California. Though she suffered through an emotionally scarring and brief marriage to Wallace Beery, Gloria emerged stronger, more resilient, and more determined. Soon enough, she was Cecil B. DeMille's chosen leading lady and one of the most followed fan-favorites in Hollywood.

With her assertive and somewhat intimidating beauty, Gloria had her share of lovers and slobbering supplicants-- from Joe Kennedy to Marshall Neilan-- and her taste for extravagance exposed itself in her six marriages. After Wallace came Herbert K. Somborn of "The Brown Derby" fame, then the dashing Marquis de la Falaise followed, whom she also divorced only to immediately marry Michael Farmer. It was due to this latter relationship that things got sticky. Gloria's impulsive need to be with Michael, which was driven by her severe case of ILL ('in love with love'), caused her to marry him in August of 1931 only to realize that she would not be free from her marriage to the amiable Marquis Henri until November. Thus, the lady received the temporary "bigamy stamp," which she quickly corrected, resolvedly returning to tie the knot with Farmer at end of the year as a legal eagle.

Despite the triumph, all was not smooth with this union. According the couple's biological daughter Michelle Farmer, Michael was "an Irish playboy" with a tendency toward alcoholism. This definitely soured the romance. In addition, despite her turbulent union with Beery (who had raped her on their wedding night), Gloria still craved a man who could, as Michelle put it, "dominate her... Men came into her life like machos and they left like poodles sitting up for a biscuit." Gloria unsuccessfully tried to find a match who could go toe to toe with her own arresting personality (right) while being his own breadwinner; someone to take care of her, while allowing her independence. Being a major and obscenely rich movie star, she was frequently disappointed by her masculine prospects. Such was the case this go-round, and Gloria and the insecure Michael eventually headed for the divorce courts. At least, she did... Michael threatened to sue her for bigamy (yet again!) if she chose to get a divorce without his consent. I guess he didn't know whom he was messing with. Gloria got the divorce two days prior to what would have been their 3rd wedding anniversary.

Gloria would wait over ten years before she faced the altar again, both because she had learned a valid lesson from her past mistakes and also because her career and her life changed a great deal with the talkie revolution. Her star did not shine as bright as it once had once her mysterious magic was forced to speak, despite her talent and strong voice. While struggling with personal issues, she would eventually come out swinging... and wedding. The next stud in her stable was George William Davey, whom she was tied to for less than a year. Her final marriage to William Duffy was the most successful, lasting a full seven years and being ended by her 1983 death. Who knows? Had she survived longer, she may have dragged her wedding gown out of mothballs a few more times!