STAR OF THE MONTH: Mary Pickford Part 1

Gladys Louise Smith aka Mary Pickford

The land of silent cinema is a place of dreams. It is a land of wide open spaces, the most human of beauties, and the fragile innocence of a new found frontier. Watching silent films is like watching children learn to walk and watching our artistic selves evolve into a powerhouse of emotional honesty-- in a medium that we had no idea how much we needed. The face of this bygone, almost mythic era most often belongs to Chaplin, but that clown of clowns and interpreter of heartbreak belongs in his own category. He represents all that cinema is or could be at its best. No, the true face of silent filmdom belongs to Mary Pickford, because more than any other performer or artist who made his or her claim on the rocky terrain of the flicker shows, she alone is the representative of that historical moment: cinema's birth, its infancy, its articulation, its soul, its hold on the public, and its limitless possibilities. It was little Mary who made the biggest impression with her gumption and charm; it was the girl with golden curls who enchanted America and warmed every citizen's heart. It is also little Mary whose always palpable sadness still haunts us; who makes us ponder, when brave enough, the loss of an intangible era that we can never get back. We have forgotten it; we have forgotten her.

'Little Mary 'when she was truly little-- nine years old--
 during "Uncle Tom's Cabin," although the look in
her eyes already registers a startling maturity. 

It is strange to note that the woman who became synonymous in her lifetime with the majesty of the USA was actually  a purebred Canadian. Gladys Louise Smith was born in Toronto on April 8, 1892. Her father, John Charles, was a charming, lackadaisical, and undependable man, who left most of the family burden on the sturdy Charlotte Hennessy's able shoulders. Charlotte used her knack for sewing to keep the family afloat, and this talent came in handy when John disappeared to the local bars or disappeared period-- leaving his wife alone with three children: Gladys, followed by Lottie and Jack. The struggle for income, for survival, is a beastly thing that separates man from mouse. After John Charles died, due to a freak head injury, it was little Gladys who put on the family pants, as it were. Herein was established the incredibly close rapport  she shared with mother Charlotte. They were more than mother and daughter; they were partners, allies, friends, and a strange, obviously non-sexual pairing of husband and wife. Gladys vowed that she would get her family to a place where there was no more hunger, no more worry, no more scrambling to pay bills. As Jack was too young to understand these familial responsibilities and Lottie was too flighty and immature to carry them herself, Gladys bore them alone and too carried with her a continued guilt. Her duty was to her family, first and foremost, forever. It was a hefty burden for a six year old.

Jack and Lottie would complain that Gladys was a harsh taskmaster, calling her "the Czarina," but it was their eldest sister's fortitude that would save them from complete destruction. It turned out that Gladys, in addition to being a very lovely child, could also act. Charlotte did not begin as your run-of-the-mill stagemother. She hesitated about pushing Gladys before the foot-lights. But, the determined Gladys wanted to help. At the age of eight, due to a fortunate connection with the stage manager of the Cumming Stock Company, both Gladys and Lottie were offered small roles in "The Silver King." Charlotte, in addition, played the piano to give the audience mood music. The family never looked back. They were bona fide theater people. Slowly, Gladys earned more roles, which became increasingly larger and more emotionally demanding. Lottie and Jack participated when they could, but neither had the natural talent nor discipline that Gladys possessed. The family traveled with different troupes on various circuits, with everyone pitching into the family money pot. Mary, due to her own brief but poignant life experience, had a natural ability of empathy and translation. She easily felt the emotions of her characters and followed direction well. She liked the excuse of yelling, stomping her feet, or sobbing uncontrollably, as she usually had to keep her feelings under wraps in life. The more experience she gained, the bolder she became, and more than one director was approached by the pint-sized girl-- who never surpassed 5'--  who asked for a bigger role or a better opportunity. As such, she was soon playing "Little Eva" in "Uncle Tom's Cabin," then appearing on the Great White Way credited as "Baby Gladys." This was life and death, after all. She had mouths to feed, and shyness had long since flown the coop.

On stage in "The Warrens of Virginia" with Charlotte

Walker and Richard Storey.

Her greatest professional triumph in her youth was working with the infamous master of the stage, the ever-eccentric "Bishop of Broadway," David Belasco. The intimidating man was approached by the persistent Gladys who sat in his office and refused to leave until she was seen. The fresh innocence of her face mixed with the contrast of her fiery determination-- despite her later admitted inner nerves-- made her a tempting collaborator. Below him, looking up with big, hazel eyes was an angelic beauty with an astounding maturity and a head for business to boot. She declared that it was time for her to get serious about earning a real living, because she was "the father of [her] family." David changed her name to "Mary Pickford," and cast the fifteen-year-old young woman in "The Warrens of Virginia." Finally, she could consider herself a real actress! As with many of her future male directors and authority figures, she would butt heads with Belasco, who enjoyed indulging his God complex on many of the victims in his repertory. Mary wasn't immune, she would cry, but she would also stand up for herself and threaten to walk out if she were being mistreated, underpaid, or disrespected. Male figureheads were beguiled, irritated, and secretly enchanted by her unattainability. Yet, despite her growing resume, Mary hit a rough patch in her career when she entered her late teens. She was not yet old enough to portray a leading lady, and the roles of youth had now been outgrown. To continue working steadily, she glumly took a step down on the career ladder to enter the slap-shod, classless medium of the movies. Ironically, this venue would give her the opportunity to consistently earn a living by primarily playing little girls far below her age range.

In The New York Hat, her last short for Biograph.

The man to give her a leg up was Kentucky-bred director D.W. Griffith, whose reaction to her was much the same as Belasco's. The unknown, inexperienced teen came to Biograph looking for acting work and demanding a hefty paycheck because she was a "real actress who had worked with David Belasco." Griffith was hypnotized!  He tried ineptly to seduce her, assuming she was like all of the other desperate chickens who came tip-toeing through the Biograph door, but Mary was unaffected by his clumsy, arrogant charms. Plus, he was married. She was there to work, she declared, and that was just what she did. She was plugged in several shorts, in major and minor roles, until she grew in popularity. She was unlike the typical, demure Griffith prototype. He preferred delicate, angelic women-- infantile Southern Belles. Mary had a a feistier temper, and it was her strength and unconscious pre-feminist attitude that would so endear her to audiences. After Florence Lawrence left the studio for other ventures at IMP, the still nameless Mary, (as all performer names were kept under wraps in those days), was labeled "the Biograph girl." Fans looked for her familiar face incessantly in any new release. They loved her-- her sass, her sweetness, her hair!!! She too had fallen in love, both with the art of film acting and with constant co-star Owen Moore, a man possessing many of the attributes of her father, two of which were charm and alcohol.  Perhaps seeking escape from her dutiful daughter role and looking for a life of her own, Mary took a gamble on the man who had won her heart. The duo secretly eloped on January 7, 1911. Despite the romance of this tempestuous move, Mary, who was not yet nineteen, was immediately wracked with guilt. She returned home that evening to her oblivious mother and siblings, maintaining her dark secret, while her new husband spent his wedding night alone.

Eventually, the truth came out, Charlotte flew into hysterics, Lottie and Jack wept, and the Pickford-Moore wedding was consequently doomed. The union would putter on for nine more years, but it was basically a marriage in name only. The two spent little time together, and the times that they did were more tense than blissful. Mary's devotion remained with her kin and most specifically with her mother, who was essentially her business partner. In addition to the wedge of family between them, Owen also had to contend with Mary's growing popularity and public coronation as "America's Sweetheart." As her fame increased, so did his drinking. Mary's solution and safe ground was always her work. It was Flo Lawrence who was labeled the first movie star, but it was Mary who redefined the term. Once the name Mary Pickford was presented to the world, it seemed to be the only one worth knowing. Mary possessed a presence on the screen that people could trust. She portrayed young women who were chaste and virginal, pure of heart and darling, even if a little uncouth. She was diminutive, which rendered her non-threatening to the opposite sex, though there was a subtle sexuality underlying her performances. She was warm and vulnerable, which made her endearing to the older generation, who looked upon her as a lovable granddaughter. She too was an inspiration to women, who watched her fearlessly hold her own against various villains, hold the reins of her romantic relationships, and sometimes get mad as a hornet, kick, stomp, and even haul a shot-gun. 

Mary in 1914's Heart's Adrift, one of her first features for Famous-Players. 

Mary adapted the scenario from a magazine herself, as she often did in

 the early days when one wore many hats in the business.

As shorts became features, Mary further cultivated her specific place in cinematic history by performing as the back-woods Tess of the Storm Country (in 1914 & 1922) to the less fitting Madame Butterfly. She played rich girls and poor girls, sweethearts and hillbillies, but the common denominator was always her spunk and her pathos. She had life and death. A gifted comedienne, she could bulge her eyes and purse her mouth like nobody's business, but it was more than mugging. Her acting, which certainly still bore the mark of the exaggerated, silent style of interpretation, was also ahead of its time. She was natural. Her emotions rang true. Her viewers could see the world in her eyes, whether they relayed softness, anger, or despair. She had charisma, something that even a modern viewer cannot ignore. She was a "star" before the world understood what that meant. Strangely, she is often portrayed by modern scholars as being backward or anti-feminist-- a representative of the male wish of passivity, youthful beauty, and complacence. Her legendary golden locks are sometimes viewed as chains and shackles, keeping women trapped under foot, rather than a lustrous extremity and symbol of feminine beauty. Such is not so. One cannot watch her use her intelligence to save her true love's life in Romance of the Redwoods nor witness her sludge a train of children through the swamp in Sparrows, among alligators no less, and not see a hero. When Mary stood, she stood alone. If a man happened to be nearby, good for him. Love was always secondary to her independence and spirit. She could and did consistently hold her own.

Even still, it would be nice if she could find a worthy man to go toe-to-toe with her one-woman-army...

HISTORY LESSON: Hollywood's Best Friend

Man's Best Friend. Hint: it's actually the guy on the left.

Life in show business is and has always been a bit cut-throat. Or a lot cut-throat... Needless to say, while competitive artists are scrambling to get to the top, or even just to get a paycheck, a lot of back-stabbing and corporate manhandling manifests itself in typical, menacing fashion. They say keep your friends close and your enemies closer, but in Hollywood-- the land of superficial relationships-- when you find a "good egg," it always works to one's benefit to hold onto it. One such diamond in the rough during the final roar of the studio era was Roddy McDowall. Due to the length of his career in film-- which spanned 6 decades, from the age of 10 to the age of 70-- and his naturally generous nature, Roddy became the sort of go-to boy about town. During his reign as a Hollywood character actor and occasional, atypical leading man, he got to know and befriend some of Hollywood's brightest talents and tragediennes. As a result, until his death, he was too a major source of information for any historian, author, or documentarian looking to dig into the secrets of Movieland's past. Having starred in everything from Lassie Come Home to Planet of the Apes, his career was nothing to sniff at either. He was, in fact, issued an apology from the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences when they failed to nominate him for his performance as "Octavian" in Cleopatra, beings that his contribution was one of the few bright, honest moments in an otherwise disastrous, albeit fascinating, experiment in cinematic gluttony. Everyone seemed to love Roddy, professionally and personally, though he is far less recognized than many of his heartthrob contemporaries. So, what was it that made this guy so darn swell? If you want to know the measure of a man, count his friends:

Montgomery Clift (left) had a slow start in entering the social stratosphere. Home schooled for the majority of his early life, his brief attempt at public school was cut short when he and his elder brother, Brooks, were mercilessly bullied and harassed by the other students-- not a promising indication of civilian life. As such, his childhood, while filled with intellectual and artistic pursuits, was bereft of friendships outside his family-- which included his super close twin sister, with whom he had a secret, collaborative language. It is thus surprising that Monty turned out as warm, curious, and friendly as he did. Nonetheless, despite his many friendships within and without the industry, he was not one prone to trust others and rarely forged relationships that made him comfortable enough to confide his own personal issues. He took Elizabeth Taylor to his heart, of course. Another pal he let into his inner circle was the always non-threatening, easy-going Roddy. In fact, it was Roddy's 'easy-goingness' that was so effective in the friendship. The duo became acquainted by running in the same circle of friends, often going to parties together. When Monty's sour side would reveal itself, Roddy could always be counted on to temper the stormy conditions. For example, Monty didn't take a liking to Merv Griffin at one particular party-- the reasons remain unknown-- and the two ended up having a friendly, but not really friendly, pie-throwing fight. Sensing trouble brewing, Roddy would step in on occasions such as these by offering up a joke or aside that rendered the antagonistic situation hilarious and ended the hostility. Blaine Waller recalled, "[Roddy] was one of the funniest people I've ever met... We would actually fall on the floor laughing at him."

This sense of humor would carry over into smaller social gatherings, most particularly in the Monty-Liz Taylor-Roddy trio. The pals once ran amok at the Plaza Hotel after Elizabeth was presented with an exorbitant bill. In retaliation, she called for back-up. Roddy and Monty appeared, and the three performers caused quite a ruckus by getting tipsy on martinis and engaging in over-the-top pranks. They started hanging all the pictures they could get their hands on upside down, unscrewing bathroom fixtures, and throwing toilet paper around like streamers on New Years! Monty also swiped some exclusive Plaza towels and subsequently set them out for Elizabeth whenever she came to visit him at his own home. Laughs aside, the skirmish got the three friends in trouble, because the charade landed in the press. But, friends that play together, stay together. Monty trusted Roddy implicitly, and Roddy was equally enchanted by Monty's vitality, passion, and talent. His empathy for Monty's personal torments made him an easy ear and reliable shoulder. Monty's various secretaries always screened his calls, but Roddy was one of few whose voice was able to go directly through to the troubled actor. Always curious and supportive of Monty's career, he became an even more reliable touchstone after Monty's devastating car accident. He was deeply grieved at his death, and thus he treasured a photo he had taken of him, which he placed in his notorious powder room, now on display at The Hollywood Museum. The two would collaborate on but one picture, Monty's last: The Defector. (Liz and Roddy frolic in younger days, right).

Roddy, having literally grown up within the industry, had a profound respect for both it and the artists who had endured, survived, and even thrived within it. He had a particular fascination with female stars of the past, whom he idolized. As such, he struck up many odd and unlikely bonds with some of the most evasive Queens of the silver screen. One of these was Jean Arthur (left). In fact, Jean must have sensed a like soul, for she actually pursued a friendship with Roddy, sending him a fan letter after seeing him perform in a "Hallmark Hall of Fame" production of Saint Joan. Having earlier performed in the role of Joan of Arc herself, she saw in Roddy the perfect cast mate that she'd never had. Roddy returned the favor by visiting Jean on the set of her new television show, which was unfortunately a quick flop. He was surprised to see such a huge starlet, known as a creme-de-la-creme comedienne, behaving as frightened, stressed, and insecure as Jean. For whatever reason, Jean took Roddy into her inner circle, and he remained a steadfast confidante until her death. He worked diligently, but ineffectually, at bolstering her self-esteem, and was able to maneuver the precarious mine-field of Jean's emotions and mistrust. Jean loved Roddy, but she had ground rules: for example, No Pictures! Yet, Roddy was able to sneak photos of her on his camera when she wasn't paying attention. She even acquiesced and let him publish two of her pictures in his celebrity picture book Double Exposure: Take Two. Roddy was both flabbergasted and honored. It was Jean's way of showing that, deep down, she recognized his support and wanted to return the favor. It was always clear that a relationship with Jean could be a one-way street. Despite her peculiarities, Roddy loved her anyway.

Louise Brooks (right) was equally indignant to scrutiny in her later years, although she became much more vocal about her Hollywood experiences through interviews with people such as Kenneth Tynan, in addition to her own writings. Yet, she let few into her inner circle, perhaps worried about how avid fans would react to her age and the loss of her famous beauty. It was a sentiment shared by many of the women who had once been held up in their youths for their physical perfections. Luckily, with Louise, it was always more about brains than body, so she could let her guard down when she felt appreciated for the former. Enter Roddy, who again would use his passion for photography to crack a tough cookie. Roddy approached Louise in 1965 about appearing in his first effort, Double Exposure, to which the actress surprisingly agreed and even offered a blurb about Buster Keaton. Already a 37-year-old man at the time, Roddy was still so moved by Louise's presence, voice, and personal power that he left her apartment moved beyond comprehension. He would recall how he had randomly begun crying in the elevator upon his departure, as if he had just stepped away from God himself! Of course, he had to endure the usual attacks of paranoia that Louise exhibited and even moments of cruelty, in which she blatantly trashed Planet of the Apes, for example-- a film of which Roddy had been a part. Of course, the latter insult was meant to be protective, for she thought he was "wasting his talent." Roddy was equally protective of Louise, and because she had entrusted him into her life, he honored the privilege by not "selling her out" to others. As with Jean, Roddy respected the actress enough to adhere to the stipulations of her odd behavior, perhaps understanding, as a survivor of the film world himself, that the effects are often hard to get over.

Ava Gardner (left) too became enchanted with Roddy when they worked together on his sole directorial effort Tam Lin (The Devil's Widow). The two had actually met in the forties, when Roddy was but a young boy and Ava a much more developed young woman, though a mere six years his senior. They saw each other at the MGM "school" for child stars, though a more social friendship would have to wait a few years. Another faded love goddess by 1969, Roddy's eager interest in Ava's life and career and his utmost respect for her as a person put her at ease during the shoot and allowed her to relax under the pressure of her role. Though only in her late forties, she felt like an ancient, old lady among the rest of the youthful cast. In the film, Ava was to play a "demonic godmother to a band of swinging, stoned young wastrels." More literally, she played a witch in a contemporary "horror fable." Ava didn't want to accept the project, as she had been enjoying time away from pressure-filled Hollywood, but Roddy coaxed her into it. He wanted to get her back to work, and she wanted to help him become a director. The project didn't wind up doing much for either professionally, but it did help them forge a strong bond. Roddy adored Ava, and vice versa. Ava wound up enjoying her time on the shoot for the most part, where she became den mother to the younger actors, who always called her "Big A." Roddy tried to get Ava to trust herself as an actress, but as she had never valued her own talent, his constant compliments and reassurances did little good, other than to warm her heart a bit. His attentions did provide a missing comfort from her life, and it was enough to make them friends for life.

Clearly, despite his own fame and reputation, Roddy could definitely "geek out" in the presence of celebrities whom he considered iconic, and who had in fact inspired his own childhood fascination with acting and cinema. For this reason, the fanatic in him would go out of his way to meet those personalities whom he had especially admired. He had a little help from George Cukor in arranging the following dream situation: a meeting between Greta Garbo and Mae West (right)! Roddy approached George with a kind of dare to get the two infamous and obviously different women together: "George, you're the only person who could get Greta Garbo and Mae West to your house for dinner together, and I want to be invited!" Challenge extended. Challenge accepted! If there were any man who got around more-- in a totally innocent sense-- than Roddy McDowall, it was George Cukor. Thus, a miracle occurred, and two polar opposites on the feminine, sexual spectrum met... and became thick as thieves for their brief meeting! Both were somewhat intimidated and definitely impressed by the opposing woman's talents and fame. Mae, when introduced, even gave the bashful Garbo a kiss, a moment that George noted was particularly unusual. After a bit of an awkward dinner, the two women found a quiet corner and talked all night long. The rest of the guests, Roddy included, sat salivating nearby and watched with rapt attention: What could they possibly be talking about!? Roddy could have used the moment to edge his way in, but somehow, what he was witnessing was too perfect to disrupt. He never became close with either woman as a result, but watching the sexually ambivalent Greta talking to the sexually luxurious Mae about the latter's surprisingly heavy shoes was enough for him. 

It is always interesting to witness a star who is just as starstruck as the Average Joe. Roddy definitely fit the bill, and it is perhaps his humble and genial nature that, not only made him an appealing presence on the screen, but allowed him to endear himself to so many big screen performers. His loyalty to the cinematic realm was very strong and equally devout. In fact, he is allegedly responsible for another particularly moving honor: bestowing Florence Lawrence with her headstone at Hollywood Forever Cemetery, for her grave had for a great many years remained unmarked. If true, it indicates indeed Roddy's passion and interest in the people that made the world of movies so grand. The respect he paid to others has certainly been paid back to him in the continued interest each generation shows in his work. Roddy, thank you for being a friend!

MENTAL MONTAGE: Movie Stars on the Radio

The body (minus the leg warmers) that inspired America to "do the
Jane Fonda..." and Mickey Avalon to write a hit song.

When it comes down to it, movie stars are nothing more than romanticized human beings: romanticized in their dramatic performances and romanticized in the public consciousness. They put themselves before the camera, and we place them on pedestals. And so, it is not really surprising that so many of our beloved celebrities become muses of song. In Byron's day, we would have read about some random, faceless damsel whom he was lusting over in one of his lyrical opuses. Today, instrumental inspiration often comes from a more obvious source, and so songwriters, rock-stars, and pop-idols reveal their own personal fanaticism by penning ballads and hit songs about the grand stars of cinema's bygone glory era. When these musical offerings are not straight-forward dedications to the Gods of Mt. Olympus, they are at least homages to the singular figures in our ever-growing pop culture.


Buggy Bette

The best celebs always have a trademark. For Harlow, it was her flaxen hair. For Flynn, it was his debonair mustache. For Bette-pop-eyed-Davis (left), it was her large, invasive peepers... (and perhaps a cigarette). Bette's luminous eyes did a great deal of her acting, taking her characters even in moments of stillness from anything from dewy wonder to murderous intent. As such, her baby blues inspired the lyrics to the 1974 Jackie DeShannon song, "Bette Davis Eyes," which described a dangerous coquette who knows how to use her sensuality to get what she wants: "She's precocious, and she knows just what it takes to make a crow blush." The song became more famous when it was re-recorded with minor lyrical changes-- crow became pro-- by Kim Carnes in 1981, where it became the #1 hit of the year. Bette was so flattered to be initiated into yet another generation of fans that she personally thanked Carnes for the "shout out." It meant a great deal to her that, years past her prime, she was still looked upon as the staple of female sexual power.


Jack White's Red-head

Alternative rock musician Jack White has enjoyed success in a number of realms: in various bands, in a solo career, as a music producer, and even as a film actor. His work is often interesting for its articulate yet untidy homages to different artists of the past. He makes no secret of his adoration for heroines like Loretta Lynn or Wanda Jackson, for both of whom he spearheaded new albums. His appreciation of the musicians of yesteryear is always apparent, and his respect blends mediums. Nursing a clear crush on the gorgeous Rita Hayworth (right), he made her the leading lady in the song "Take, Take, Take"-- his perspective on the draining and abusive side of celebrity. Released in 2005 on the White Stripes album Get Behind Me Satan, Rita Hayworth is described as being accosted repeatedly by an increasingly demanding fan whose obsession finally chases her away: "Well it's just not fair/ I want to get a piece of hair." The question both raised and answered is: "What price fame?"

Jack also pays a very direct homage to Rita's hubby Orson Welles in a Citizen Kane tribute. From the 2001 White Stripes album White Blood Cells, "The Union Forever" is totally comprised of pieces of dialogue from the Kane script. A seemingly impossible feat, White weaves the story of Charles Foster Kane (left) into a macabre translation of destructive capitalism and the ravages suffered by its most famous cinematic victim. "The union forever" is thus illustrated as a death sentence, and the painful life of isolation-- "It can't be love, for there is no true love"-- that Kane is left to suffer in his untouchable castle on a hill is sonically translated by White. In listening, movie fans can connect to the otherwise unrelatable character on a whole other level.

Hello, Norma Jeane...

Marilyn Monroe's (right) name pops up everywhere, so it barely joggles the mind anymore when she presents herself in song. However, the most famous and direct offering to Hollywood's sacrificed movie angel is Elton John's "Candle in the Wind." Released in 1973, Elton composed a cathartic release for a world still in mourning for the luminous star who died too soon. The song is particularly fascinating in the way Elton's empathy for the fallen idol and his poignant childhood memories reflect the powerful impact that she had and has maintained on the universal culture. Marilyn was as American as apple pie, but her beauty and vulnerability crossed over borders and oceans to reach people around the world. Few people can have such an amazing effect. Elton would alter the lyrics in 1997 to honor the death of another far-reaching woman, Lady Diana, after her equally shocking and affecting death, but the fact that Sir Elton's feelings of loss were as palpable for a starlet he never knew as they were for a close friend speaks volumes: "I would have liked to have known you,/ but I was just a kid."

In Thine Honor

The tragedy of Frances Farmer (right) has become one of the most famous cautionary tales about Hollywood: if you come here and try to maintain your independence, you will be lobotomized. I am hearing Marilyn Manson's "Beautiful People" in my head as I say this, as he has been known to make a commentary or two on celebrity (Hello, "Dope Show" and ass-less pants). But, a much less dramatic and equally tortured musician added his two cents to the Tinsel Town blood bank. Kurt Cobain continued the saga of fame's destruction with his own drug overdose in 1994. One of rock's most complicated and raw poets, his personal demons certainly found a soul mate in Frances, to whom he penned an ode in 1993's In Utero. The song "Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge on Seattle" not only explored Cobain's empathy for the destroyed muse, but reflected his understanding of her inability to compromise. At the time, his internal battle to maintain artistic integrity with the growing popularity of his band caused him to draw a connection between himself and the actress, who fought the same losing battle so many decades before. He would too lose his fight by succumbing to his addictions, but through his words, they both come out victorious, leaving an indelible mark on our cultural history: "She'll come back as fire, And burn all the liars,/ leave a blanket of ash on the ground." We're still burning.


Not Too Fast to Leave a Mark

James Dean (right) remains the poster boy for his generation and a symbol to every generation of youth that follows. He carries the torch of existential confusion, youthful rebellion, and the sort of obstinate bravery that gets us all through puberty. As such, he has influenced many people. Many would try to copy his look to replicate that James Dean cool, but The Eagles tried instead to synthesize his sound. Their 1974 offering "James Dean," from their album On the Border, is an example of a direct star tribute. There is no metaphor; there is no mystery in the lines. Don Henley et al simply wanted to write a song about pretty much the coolest person in their personal recollection. The impenetrability of Dean's bravado on the screen gave him a great power that many an adolescent wished to possess, hence the remaining fascination with his persona: "James Dean, you said it all so clean/ And I know my life would look all right/ If I could see it on the silver screen." Herein too does the band solve the mystery behind Dean's immortality: tragically killed in an auto accident in life, on the screen he still survives. Behind the shield of cinema hides the eternal elixir of life. Too fast to live, too famous to die.


Music in Silence

Not all the glory went to our more contemporary idols. Even in the days of silent films, movie stars were making a lot of noise. One of the crazes of the day was to write songs in honor of popular, current figures. In keeping with this mindset, the world's first movie star, Florence Lawrence (left), got her melodious comeuppance while at the pinnacle of her career. In the days of vaudeville, barber shop quartets, and fox trots, music had a very different personality from the one it bears today-- which is very schizophrenic at times. But, imagine an era where you could actually identify the instrument you were hearing-- I know, it's a long shot. While visiting with friends, one might hear a musician tickling the ivories to "Sweet Rosie O'Grady." A drunken night with friends might end with a house band encore of "And the Band Played On." In 1916, Carl Laemmle hosted a company party for the employees of Universal-- a masked ball no less-- to which his ace star Flo was invited. Imagine her surprise and delight when the MacDonald and Steiner Company's most recent hit, "Florence Lawrence," started echoing through the air and extolling the virtues of her "eyes like the violent, lips like the cherry." Had she any question that she was famous, it was quickly answered, and one can imagine she waltzed it up-- in between blushes, of course.


The Great Profile

Montgomery Clift was pretty (see right). Pretty talented, but also just really damn pretty. Before his tragic car crash, which marred his otherwise perfect visage, it was fairly well agreed upon that he was born with the right profile. Hence, The Clash's 1979 London Calling offering, "The Right Profile." The entire song is written about the public's agony, confusion, and even cold-heartedness after witnessing the movie star's altered appearance in Raintree County: "Monty's face is broken on a wheel/ Is he alive? Can he still feel?"  Monty's downward slide and addiction to pain pills and alcohol are also melodized, as is the hypocrisy of a world that turned its back on one of their prettiest people when he wasn't so pretty anymore. As the idol of Red River and A Place in the Sun, Monty had overcome the crutch of his good looks to bring forth great performances of depth and feeling. After his car crash, Monty in one respect found himself unbound-- as an actor, he was now able to pursue more character roles that would have been denied him in his pristine condition. But too, he suffered the ego blow of his fall from grace when he lost his face. In his life, he became both beauty and the beast, a point that The Clash illustrated with their typical howling and hard-hitting rhythms. 


Quick Hits:

As Lon Chaney (right) is "The Man of a Thousand Faces," it is fitting that he too become "The Man of a Thousand Songs." Countless numbers have been written for the sad actor whose continuing pain and influence never seem to wane. He has been mentioned or directly written about in songs from multiple artists: from Vetiver, to Garland Jeffreys, to Rob Zombie-- not to mention the hit from The Hollywood Revue of 1929, "Lon Chaney's Gonna Get You If You Don't Watch Out!" From Lon's martyrdom to his grotesquerie, he continues to inspire like-minded sufferers, freaks, and idolaters. Over 80 years after his death, his growing legion of fans hold tightly to his memory, as if hoping that he will emerge from the grave and perhaps in turn wear their faces too when they become too heavy. At the very least, these different musical artists return the favor by taking turns wearing his.

When John Ford's The Searchers hit theaters in 1956, he probably hoped at best to have made a great film. Little did he know that it would become an instant classic and the movie that future filmmakers like Steven Spielberg would look to as the prototype of perfect filmmaking. The success of the flick centered around the layered and complicated performance of John Wayne (left), whose hardened, prejudiced cowboy reflected the political unrest of a society undergoing change. His stubborn behavior was clearly indicated in his constant retort: "That'll be the day..." By the film's end, the day of reckoning did come... and so too did Buddy Holly's hit "That'll Be the Day," which was lyrically if not thematically inspired by the film and Wayne's performance in it.

This one remains nameless, but the song "The Second Time Around," which was penned by Sammy Cahn and Jimmy Van Heusen in 1960, was dedicated to one very special lady. While the song made its debut via Bing Crosby, it was more heavily associated over the years with King Crooner Frank Sinatra. This is not just because Frank recorded and performed the song himself many times, but because it was through him that Van Heusen met Shirley MacLaine (right), an often forgotten female member of the infamous Rat Pack. Van Heusen fell in love with Shirley, who unfortunately was married to Steve Parker. While he pined, poor Jimmy wrote the ballad for his lady love, whom he prayed would leave her husband. She did, but not until the '80s. Jimmy didn't get Shirley, but at least Frank got a hit out of it.

And the bands play on...

DIDJA KNOW: Part IV

Errol Flynn as immortalized by friend John Decker.

The latest batch of trivia tid bits and humdingers. Didja know...


... that Babs wore blackface?

It was only once, and I assure you not for any sort of racist intent. While filming Ball of Fire, cinematographer Gregg Toland was hoping to punch up the style on a romantic scene between Barbara Stanwyck (left) and Gary Cooper. In the script, Coop's  "Professor Potts" comes to Barbara's "Sugarpuss O'Shea" the night before their wedding to profess his love for her. She, in the meantime, is trying to finagle a way out of the matrimonial plans and escape with her gangster boyfriend, "Joe Lilac" (Dana Andrews). However, when the poetic yet understated Potts comes to her dark room, her emotional internal battle is supposed to come to the surface, and as his words reach her, the audience is meant to realize the depths of her feelings for him. In order to pull this off, Gregg got creative. He wanted Sugarpuss's eyes to shine out of the darkness as she silently watches Potts and listens to his heartfelt plea. Babs would thus be left to show the metamorphosis of predator to pussy cat through only her oculars. A novel concept, but one not easy to film. In order to create the illusion wherein Sugarpuss's eyes would truly pop from the blackness, Gregg had her put on blackface, so her skin would blend with the shadows, leaving only the whites of her eyes to be lighted. The plot worked, but the result was a bit odd. It became one moment in a screwball comedy that was somewhat terrifying, like something out of a horror movie. Instead of seeing a woman caught up in emotional turmoil, the audience is left with the impression of a dangerous feline stalking her prey: will she pounce on her victim, or embrace him? In any case, it made the final cut, as incompatible as it was with the rest of the light-hearted film. As ever, Babs would do anything for her work.


... that in silent films, there were no blue eyes allowed?

In the early process of filmmaking, there was a strange bigotry that manifested itself in the casting process. More often than not, brown-eyed actors were preferred as performers and thus had the upper hand when it came time to choose a cast. This wasn't personal; it was purely business. Lighter colored eyes simply didn't register as well in early films, due to the novice lighting procedures and orthochromatic film stock of the still infantile artistic medium. For example, you can see in Stan Laurel's early films that his eyes appear almost translucent, which gives him an unintentionally creepy effect. Since eyes are the windows to the soul, directors wanted players whose peepers would photograph well. Blue eyes came off a bit vacant and blank, whereas darker eyes were captured in all their detail. Dark eyed Mary Pickford was thus an ideal actress, as was Lon Chaney. As times improved and technology picked up the pace, this eye issue was an issue no more, but for a time it was a hassle-- particularly for a perfectionistic director like Cecil B. DeMille. He was dying to have the great opera star Geraldine Farrar (right) in his romantic and erotic (of course) production of Carmen, but this saucy songstress had gray eyes. What was he to do? Improvise, of course. When filming Carmen's precursor with Geraldine, Maria Rosa, Cecil discovered that if her eyes were focused on a dark piece of cloth, her eyes appeared darker, (due to the expansion of the retinas). This meant that they photographed better. Thus, Cecil kept a piece of black velvet out of camera range and in her eye line, where Geri could gaze... and dilate. Voila! Her eyes were captured perfectly. Geraldine used this trick for the rest of her career.


... that Lulu wrote for Times?

Louise Brooks (left) may be remembered as one of the most beautiful silent film actresses of all time, but this woman had brains too. After she left Hollywood behind with 13 years worth of cinematic experience, she had plenty to say about Tinsel Town. What followed was a surprising career with the pen, writing film criticism and historical analyses of celebrity, which were printed in several publications, particularly in the foreign market. Of course, there is her notable biographical effort Lulu in Hollywood to take into account as well. However, those who were shocked at her brazen literary skills would perhaps be further surprised to learn that she had a 50-odd year head start in the profession of scripture. When Louise was working as a dancer in NYC, she was dating Herman Mankiewicz, then a drama critic for the "New York Times" (and today better known as being Joseph L's brother). On one of their outings, Herman took Louise to the opening performance of "No, No, Nanette." Louise played hooky from her gig at the Ziegfeld Follies to attend on her new beau's arm. Unfortunately, Herman liked liquor even more than he liked Louise, and by the time they arrived at the infamous Globe Theatre on Broadway, he was already schnockered. He promptly fell asleep, which-- apart from being rude-- was a poor career move, for he was expected to write a review of the performance. Louise, deciding to make the most of a bad situation, used this courting mishap to exercise her brain cells. She soaked in the play, took notes, and dutifully wrote Herman's review for him-- and did a bang up job of it too! She referred to it in overall positive terms, calling it "a highly meritous paradigm of its kind." Herman turned in the piece, and no one on staff at the illustrious paper ever knew that they had printed a review by an 18-year-old chorus girl!

... the skinny on Laird Cregar?

The media's influence on body perception and expectation is not a new topic. The more superficial and self-conscious society becomes, the more cases there seem to be of anorexia, bulimia, body dysmorphia, etc. Starvation diets and intense workout regimens, cleanses and acai pills... Man, where'd the self-love go? As we continue to feed this body-conscious monster, the number of its victims continue to grow. Women are most popularly effected, but men too are being usurped by the apparent cult of "There is but One Form of Beauty" fanatics. Despite the fact that more curvaceous figures were favored in the studio era, women-- such as Rita Hayworth, Jean Harlow, and Marilyn Monroe-- were still induced to go on strict diets to maintain their trim physiques. But there would too be a very public male sufferer of this stress. Laird Cregar was growing in popularity at Twentieth-Century Fox as a character man who had delivered stellar supporting roles in films like Blood and Sand and This Gun for Hire. Yet, Laird was not satisfied with his films nor himself-- he longed to be a matinee idol like his co-star Tyrone Power. As such, he began an intense starvation diet, which quickly took him from 300lbs to 200 lbs. When filming began on Hangover Square, with him in a lead role (right) opposite Linda Darnell, he was noticeably thinner-- shockingly so. From the outside, it seemed that he was in good health and that he was doing a superb job getting himself in shape. However, he took his ambitions too far: he would die on Dec. 9, 1944 of cardiac arrest following a stomach operation-- a result of the stress he had put on his dwindling body. He was but 31-years-old. It doesn't always pay to be thin.

... that John Decker was the go-to guy for celebrity art?

John Decker was notorious in Hollywood for a number of reasons, one of which was his raucous friendships with Hollywood hellraisers like John Barrymore and W.C. Fields. He too was known for his artistic abilities and his unique gift of duplicating well known works of art. He once gave pal Thomas Mitchell a "genuine" Rembrandt of "Bust of Christ"-- Tom never knew that it was a forgery, and it was a private joke that John enjoyed until his early, alcohol fueled death in 1947. (It is now owned by Harvard). John was even more notorious around town for his portraits of stars, which in more cases than not were caricatures of sorts. While his talent for perfectly replicating faces on canvas with impeccable detail was certainly not humorous, his decision to use celebrity faces to bring to life other historical figures was creative, amusing, and at times absurd. This little twist was thoroughly enjoyed by his paying customers, who liked to see themselves both glorified and lampooned on such a grand scale. Some of his victims were Clark Gable painted as a cavalier, Katharine Hepburn as Mary of Scotland,  and W.C. Fields as Queen Victoria. Clark and Kate were not amused by their renditions, but the majority were. John did, of course, do the occasional straight portrait of his friends: Barrymore, Anthony Quinn, and Errol Flynn,etc. In the latter case, instead of making the obvious choice to depict Errol as a mythical knight or some other epic heroic figure, his adept skill picked up on his good friend's darker side and haunted nature. He gifted his painting to Errol, and it became one of his most prized possessions, even after his friendship with John hit the skids. It remains in the possession of Errol's last wife, Patrice Wymore. After Errol's death, his property in Jamaica-- where the painting was hanging-- was hit by a hurricane. The painting was thrown clear of the home, and while it suffered some damage, it remains in tact. Decker's art is, therefore, both priceless and indestructible. Too bad the same could not be said for John himself! (John's regal interpretation of William Powell, left).

... that studio tours are almost as old as studios themselves?

Carl Laemmle, the man responsible for Universal Studios and the first independent movie colony, Universal City (est. March 15, 1915), was clearly a business-savvy man. Just as he jumped on the movie-gravy train and made his fortune on a gimmick that so many had waved off as a passing fad, so too would he predict the audience fascination with the behind-the-scenes filmmaking process. We have him to thank for our introduction to the first, official movie star, Florence Lawrence, whom he "outed" in an astounding publicity coup in 1910, and we too have him to thank for the still running and now heavily copied studio tours, where ravenous movie fans go to watch the magic happen. At the opening ceremony of Studio City, Carl invited members of the public to attend and had actors from his stables give them tours of the grounds. There was such an enthusiastic, awe-struck response, that Carl saw dollar signs. Lots of them. He opened the studio for regular tours for a mere 25 cents a head, so every-day folk could see how movies were made (see ticket, right). It was a huge success! Too huge... The tours started interrupting filming, which became costly. Thus, the tours came to an end, not to be resumed until the 1960s, when management had a better handle on how to combine tour scheduling with film scheduling. Yet, Carl's early move had inspired many. Doug Fairbanks, another innovator who had a soft spot for his fans, too created a tour of sorts while he was filming Robin Hood, which he allowed tourists to come watch over the fifteen weeks of its production. Not only were the impromptu viewers astounded, but Doug performed even better with a live audience to impress. Nearly one-hundred years later, almost every major studio in Hollywood continues these tours, including Warner Brothers, Paramount, and Sony (formerly MGM). Who would have thought that Carl's sudden inspiration would become a foregone (and profitable) conclusion?

An eager audience watches Harry Carey on the Universal Studio Tour in 1916.