THE REEL REALS: Donald O'Connor

Donald O'Connor

Donald O'Connor was a wiry, rubber-faced, exuberant motherfu... Fudge. Fudger... Motherfudger. You know what I mean. This guy wasn't human. He was like a super-jolt of positivity personified, a wholesome humdinger, a jitterbuggin' razzmatazz madman! Like his fellow cinematic, dancing legends-- Astaire, Kelly, Charisse, Rogers-- he had a talent that was hypnotic in its effect. However, while Astaire & Rogers led with romance and Kelly & Charisse led with sex, O'Connor led with humor. He did the most heavenly and obscene things with his body, stretching and projecting himself like both a slingshot and its missile across the screen-- a trick he'd learned on the vaudeville stage, where he'd gotten his start. What he created looked natural, and even painful, but it was always flawlessly executed. His work and craftsmanship, the dedication to his artistry as the physical buffoon, are often still underappreciated. No Gods are born; they are made. Respect.

Descended from a family of circus performers-- acrobats and bareback riders-- Donald grew up with the same daredevil masochism that made fellow clowns like Chaplin and Keaton greats. The game from day one was "entertainment." He'd go as far as you can to "Make 'Em Laugh," even if he needed several days of recuperation afterward-- which was indeed the case in the infamous Singin' in the Rain sequence. Equal to these comics, his hilarity was born of his tragedy. He survived the car crash that claimed his sister and also witnessed his father die from a heart attack while the elder man was dancing on stage. The ceaseless inner motor that churned was one of escapism, pushing the pain of circumstance outward to overcome it. However, the result of such constant, vigorous exorcism certainly took its toll, especially after Paramount and later Universal-- his main home-- began using him as one of its most trusted workhorses. Starting his career at the age of 12, he barely stopped to breathe for the next 40 years of his career. The constant stress led to alcoholism-- another trend among his peers, including good friend Judy Garland who shared a similar energizer-actor frustration. Eventually, Donald was fortunately able to overcome this disease and come out swinging, as he always did.

Needless to say, audiences never saw these demons on the screen, though they were witnessing their energy-- the buoyancy with which Donald tried to out-act, out-dance, out-sing, and out-maneuver them. His filmography is nothing to sniff at: Beau Geste, Mister Big, Francis (and its sequels), Anything Goes, There's No Business Like Show Business, and, of course, Singin' in the Rain. In addition, he performed on his own briefly lived television series, made quest appearances on everything from "The Love Boat" to "Tales from the Crypt," and had a brief cinematic re-emergence in the '90s in Toys among other films. He would pass away at the age of 78 in 2003 leaving those that loved him with a song in their hearts and an indescribable fondness for a one of a kind character. A fascinating figure with his own particular and admirable touch, he kept things interesting on the screen and took audiences to places they had never been before. But hey, ya' know... Anything for a laugh.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Rita Hayworth

Margarita Cansino ~ Rita Hayworth

In encountering or examining the true life of a hero, one is confronted with mixed emotions, depending on the subject. At times, one crumples in laughter; at times, one jumps to the defensive. One is occasionally met with disappointment; one is sometimes filled with almost welcomed envy. After "The End," one wants to move mountains, right wrongs, or reverentially pay tribute. In reliving the life of Margarita Cansino, one wants to do nothing but weep. The problem with adoring Rita Hayworth, who is so easy to adore, is that there never was a Rita Hayworth. Never, in all cinematic history perhaps, has there been a performer who so resolutely was able to draw a thick, impenetrable line between her screen persona and herself. The duality of Rita/Margarita is something that continues to beckon fascination and curiosity. As thoroughly and intelligently analyzed by Adrienne L. McLean in her book Being Rita Hayworth, the construction of Rita Hayworth the movie star was something that was not hidden, but sensationalized and avidly participated in by all concerned-- except for Rita herself. Rita was a sex kitten and the girl-next-door. She was dangerous; she was harmless. She was dominant; she was passive. The one thing that she was consistently was malleable: she was whatever everyone wanted her to be. This is why she remains one of Hollywood's greatest movie stars and actresses of all time.

~     ~     ~

Rita Hayworth's childhood was stolen from her in every conceivable way. A naturally shy girl, she was already at a disadvantage in jumping into the social whirlpool. Whatever chances she had of shedding her protective exterior were annihilated by her unfortunate, inherited circumstances. Her father, Eduardo Cansino, had achieved a measure of acclaim on the vaudeville dance circuit, where he and his sister Elisa-- both non-English speaking imports from their native Spain--  enchanted audiences with their exotic and graceful movements. After he and showgirl Volga Hayworth married, they quickly birthed their first child, Margarita Cansino, in Brooklyn, NY on October 17, 1918. Two sons would follow-- Eduardo, Jr. ("Sonny") and Vernon-- but neither showed the natural penchant toward the family trade like Margarita. Thus, after the original "Dancing Cansinos" went their separate ways, the silent and obedient eldest girl became Eduardo's newest dancing partner. As a sad and embittered Volga increasingly disappeared into alcoholism, Eduardo took on the role of the violent patriarch, coaching Margarita in grueling dance instructions and taking her on tour after her originally chubby, adolescent body started to form into that of a well-crafted athlete. She had no childhood friends, mostly because she received little formal education. She was pulled out of school to work. Neighborhood kids would pass her on their own way home from school and see her silently staring from her porch. If one was so bold to talk to the bashful statue, she would perhaps offer a few sparse words, before she was inevitably called indoors by her controlling father.

The distant Hayworth gaze: one can imagine that this is the same look

she held as a little girl on that front porch.

By now, the family was living in California. Eduardo had intentions toward a career renaissance in the new medium of film. If he worked Margarita hard enough, she could perhaps be his way in and his struggling family's salvation. She put up no argument against his tyrannical and abusive practice sessions, and more and more she became a mere dancing puppet-- seemingly hollow and lacking in identity. She did as she was told and hid her inner sadness behind a stoic, obedient face. The worst was to come in Tijuana, known as "Sin City," because it provided a pleasing outlet for those escaping prohibition. Eduardo claimed to be protective of Rita when they toured here, dancing their routines as "husband and wife"-- because it provided a better front-- but he had no qualms about parading her before the drunken, drooling men who looked at her gorgeous figure and face like starving men looking at a meal. While the thirteen-year-old danced nightly and exhaustively on stage-- usually forced to go out afterward and catch fish for dinner, because Eduardo had, of course, gambled all of their money away-- her brothers went to school and enjoyed comparatively normal childhoods under their caring but distant mother's watch. Volga was not there looking out for Margarita when Eduardo, at this point in the young innocent's life, started repeatedly raping her. As always, Margarita internalized, compartmentalized, and went on with the show. The thick, impenetrable veil she was building up would later become the most intriguing part of her characterizations. In later years, no one would know that the scintillating heat brimming beneath the beauty's cool surface was the burden of pain and shame.

When father and daughter returned, Volga was perhaps the only one who noticed a change in her daughter, and though she never stood up to her husband, she did begin sleeping in Margarita's room, joining the duo on tours, and leaving them alone together as little as possible. Unfortunately, the damage had been done. Despite Margarita's natural sweetness and passivity, inside she was a silent tiger pacing in its cage, waiting for the chance to get out. Ironically, Eduardo's solution of a cinematic career would allow her to escape through one trap door into another prison. But at this point, what choice did she have? A screen test, thanks to Fox production chief Winfield Sheehan, won her a contract with Fox, and soon she was dancing onscreen with Gary Leon in Dante's Inferno- choreographed by Eduardo, of course. Due to her dark features, she was typically cast in Latin roles or as other "exotic" types, such as her turn as Nayda in Charlie Chan in Egypt. Despite potential, she failed to break through to a place of real recognition. Enter the second manipulative man in her life-- Eddie Judson, who was a thirty-nine year old con-artist keen on turning the vulnerable sixteen-year-old into his meal ticket. After Fox dropped her, Eddie was able to land her a new seven-year contract at Columbia, headed by "White Fang" Harry Cohn. Columbia was the "hack lot," always borrowing other stars, because they had none of their own. Little did Cohn know when signing "Rita Cansino" that he had just grabbed a hold of his first, true movie star. Eddie Judson already knew, but he had to build her up before anyone else would see. 

Rita Cansino as she appeared in Dante's Inferno.

Thus began the transformation of Margarita Cansino to Rita Hayworth-- a much more American sounding name. Rita eloped with the man she hoped would be her release from Eduardo in May of 1937, but Eddie Judson proved to be as much of a taskmaster and, in effect, pimp as her father. He submitted her to ruthless diets and workout regimens, dyed her hair red, and forced her to endure months of painful electrolysis to heighten her hairline and create a widow's peak. Papa Eduardo thankfully no longer had a hold over his daughter, but this was sadly because she no longer existed. She belonged to another Ed, and he had total control. Judson initiated press releases about his young bride, keeping her in the public eye and pushing her into meetings with well-to-do executives and filmmakers out at the clubs where, dressed glamorously, the still shy woman ineffectually tried to hob-nob and schmooze. Due to her soft-spoken demeanor and lack of pretense, it was not an easy thing for her to do, and her nightly failures sent Eddie into rages. He even went so far as to tell her not to shy away from opportunities to use sex as a tool-- aka sleep her way to the top. Consider it a business investment. Just how much she listened to these suggestions remains debatable, but with such a soft backbone, one has to admit that in Rita's case, the worst is not only possible but likely. Slowly, Eddie's plans started to work. Rita started catching on in Only Angels Have Wings-- a big coup-- and gained a reputations as a hard-working, diligent actress who was equally welcoming of the press. She was labeled "The Most Co-operative Girl in Hollywood." Unfortunately, this did not make her the happiest. On set, she was silent. She would sit and wait for her scenes, perform, then retreat back inside herself. It was the only way she could hold herself together.

Rita performs with James Cagney and Olivia DeHavilland in

The Strawberry Blonde.

Success and notice grew in The Strawberry Blonde and Blood and Sand, during the latter of which she met close friend and choreographer Hermes Pan. The sensuous, confident, even malevolent women that she was able to craft onscreen were so vastly different from her true self that when people met her after seeing her films, they were shocked. She was a shy violet, a wallflower, and definitely not the man-eating glamour vixen Hollywood had painted her to be. She did possess enough fight to extricate herself from her sadistic husband, a decision that resulted after he tried to push her into a sexual relationship with Cohn. Rita refused. The results were one step forward and two back. While she gained her independence, Eddie walked off with nearly everything, and Cohn would develop an unsatisfied obsession with her that would lead to a complete invasion of her privacy and a possessive stranglehold over her life. Cohn even had wire-taps placed in her dressing room-- a fact that Rita's inner child enjoyed, for all she would talk about in this sacred area was how much she hated Cohn. Still, Cohn was right to want to hold onto Rita. Her popularity was growing every day. Her great talent as a dancer was put to use opposite Fred Astaire in both You'll Never Get Rich and You Were Never Lovelier, and a prime photo in Life Magazine became the pin-up item during wartime, rivalled only by Betty Grable's derriere extraordinaire shot. Though Rita fell into the arms of Victor Mature during My Gal Sal, a kind, down-to-earth guy who did much to support her during her divorce, she would soon fall into the maelstrom of another suitor, who had become enamored after seeing the infamous Bob Landry photo. Orson Welles was determined to make Rita Hayworth his (second) wife. As was his way, he got what he wanted.

Rebecca, Rita, and Orson.

Rita would forever recall Orson Welles as the love of her life. Dubbed "Beauty and the Brains"-- flattering to his ego, but bruising to hers-- the publicity surrounding the strange pairing was dynamite. Orson became the only man to whom Rita would confess her childhood abuse or the horror of her first marriage. But trust took time. Orson was intimidating. Embarrassed by her inferior education, Rita was put off by his interest at first, certain of what he was truly after, but  she later was surprised at his genuine interest and the way he could draw her out of herself. On their first date, he used an old mind-reading trick to actually get her talking. Suddenly, and surprisingly, she felt safe. But there was already danger. Was Rita really a full-blooded woman that Orson loved? Or was she a mere sexual experiment? Was he infatuated, fascinated, curious, or did he uncharacteristically hold deeper feelings? Rita adored Orson; the trouble was that Orson had the same problem. Orson Welles was in love with Orson Welles. If anyone ever came close to claiming his heart, it was indeed Rita, whom he remained protective over even after their marriage hit the skids. His affection remains evident as well in the fact that he was the only man Rita ever tried to win back after she had filed divorce papers. But she had her problems as well. Incredibly jealous and untrusting, Rita's insecurity acted as an isolator. She too had an inferiority complex that could only be quelled with sexual attention, a result of the abuse that she had suffered from her father. After having one child together, daughter Rebecca, Orson's philandering and Rita's mistrust finally got the better of them, and they called it quits. Of course, after seeing Rita's performance in the earth-shattering Gilda, Orson certainly must have had his regrets.

Gilda. There are no words, except "perfection."

Gilda remains the eternal Rita Hayworth film. A film noir, Rita is the perfect femme fatale, yet the life and humanity she gives her character makes her an imperfect villain who is still able to walk away with the hero's heart and the audience's approval. Richard Dyer pinpointed this phenomenon thus: "No other femme fatale dances." It was in her dancing that Rita truly came alive, and her "strip tease" sequence, the most famous moment of her career, is both a self-lacerating and a self-empowering act that proves yet again her amazing duality and complexity as a human being. This is no cardboard cut-out villainess. This is a she-wolf out for blood, but, most importantly, out for love. She would have future moments of genius, but no performance she would give would be so perfect. And there were to follow many brilliant moments, including an even more erotic and jaw-dropping strip tease in Salome. Rita's confidence and dominance presented itself always in her dancing: Cover Girl, Down to Earth, Tonight and Every Night, Affair in Trinidad, The Loves of Carmen, etc. These roles and her execution of them both maintain her status as a genuine talent and confuse the mind as to her unhappy personal life. 

One wonders how she was so able to completely draw the shade, to metamorphose from a child of deep sadness to a heroine of power, sensuality, and confidence. While watching her work, I have often caught myself thinking, "Rita, how are you doing this?!" On the screen she is vibrant, alive, and impassioned. In life, she was broken-hearted, used, misled, and constantly disappointed. Her flaws and sorrows would more ably be applied in her later, more mature roles. When Salome is asked to sell her body and dance for King Herod, Rita had a living well of reference to pull from. When Sgt. O'Hara  learns that Sadie Thompson is a prostitute who has given her body to countless men, he screams at her that she is "dirty!" The pain on her face is evident and echoes back into her very soul. And yet even more impressive is the profound joy and humor she injects into her more light-hearted roles. Rita is kind of a lovable ham! She is always beautiful and poised, but too she makes fun of herself. When she chews the scenery in numbers like "Poor John," she is clearly having a riot. The girl was extraordinary in this respect. While she never wanted stardom, she has the ability like few others to completely enthrall the camera and the viewer, and she had the talent to do it. Scene stealing from Gene Kelly is no easy feat, yet it is one she accomplishes simply by standing there and being Rita. 

The erotically charged and bare-footed dance that Valerie Bettis choreographed for Rita 

in Affair in Trinidad caused quite the scandal... and made more money than Gilda!

If only life had been as kind to her as the movies. Her true self continued to be clouded and her innermost desires ignored. A failed marriage to Persian Prince Aly Khan further proved to her the famous quotation-- always worded differently-- "Men go to bed with Gilda and wake up with me." She was never loved for herself. While Rita was adored, Margarita was unknown. Another con-artist, Dick Haymes, too swindled her into the marriage bed in order to escape his own legal problems, and this ended only in another physically abusive relationship and a subsequently shocking claim of child neglect. While battling out Dick's problems, Rita's children were left in the care of Dorothy Chambers in White Plains, NY. Living conditions were exaggerated by a Confidential press hound who took posed photos of the children playing with trash. Both Orson and Aly Khan (whose daughter with Rita, Princess Yasmin,  was too caught in the chaos) testified on her behalf. Rita finally extricated herself from Haymes and would endure only one more brief marriage to and divorce from producer James Hill before she succumbed to a darker master-- Alzheimer's. Despite all of her trials and tribulations, Rita had always been  a professional on the set. Then, suddenly, dialogue became difficult for her to remember, she became paranoid and frightened, and occasionally she would exhibit strange moments of confusion, memory loss, or erratic acts of anger. For many years, she remained undiagnosed, with no one understanding the source of her outbursts nor how to stop them. Her increased drinking only exacerbated the problem. It was as though, for far too long, Margarita Cansino had tried to be too many different people-- the dutiful daughter, the punching bag, the mother, the love goddess, the little girl lost, and the movie star, Rita Hayworth. Not once had she ever been who she truly wanted to be-- a simple wife and mother in a safe and secure home. The life she had had thrust upon her, the multiple demands made of her, and the countless characters she had played, had fractured her psyche to the breaking point. Maybe she finally wanted to escape, even to a place of not knowing herself. She had never really existed anyway. 

Orson Welles used The Lady from Shanghai as a way to diagnose and dissect his 

multi-faceted wife, a point made clear in the great mirror showdown.

Rita gave the world whatever it wanted. She divulged whatever side was necessary: the sex kitten, the hot-dog eating American gal, the exotic siren, the girl-next-door, etc. Her acting and natural gifts were always underrated due to her natural beauty and allegedly her lack of range. Because she came to set and did what she was told and nothing else, it has been recalled that she was merely another talking prop, a claim that many use when diagnosing Orson's nightmarish masterpiece The Lady from Shaghai. These critics do not take into account that the entire movie is supposed to read like a bad dream-- intricate, but unfeeling; authentic, yet hollow. Rita may have acted as a willing puppet to her husband Orson Welles (whom she was divorcing at the time), but if the effect of her performance is lost, the fault lies with him not her. He asked for a vacant villainess, and she delivered. If anyone can observe her dying character, bleeding out like a crocodile, crying with a savage and multi-layered howl-- "I don't want to die!"--  and not see some stroke of brilliance... well, God help you. This woman had no range? This woman was every range. From the ambitious, conflicted show-girl who breaks Gene Kelly's heart in Cover Girl, to the faded beauty and desperately grasping lost soul who comes calling for salvation in Separate Tables, Rita Hayworth was a force to be reckoned with. Had little Margarita Cansino had a chance, perhaps she could have ruled the world. Imagining the possibilities breaks the heart. Fortunately for us, it takes one mere viewing of Down to Earth to mend it again. But Rita Hayworth, Rita Cansino, Margarita Cansino, whoever, does not belong here with us mortals. A Goddess like that belongs in the Heavens with the rest of the stars.

MENTAL MONTAGE: Use Your Clout

The ultimate film about the entertainment "cat" race, Stage Door:

Kate Hepburn, Lucille Ball, and Ginger Rogers.

Clawing your way to the top of the entertainment ladder is no easy feat. After completing the seemingly insurmountable task, which not all are able to do, one can either be left with a deluded feeling of euphoria, which erases all memory of the aforementioned climb, or one can continue to bear the cuts, bruises, and war wounds of his battle, which serve as daily reminders of his lengthy diligence and hard work. The former group can at times get lost in the twisted web of fame and fortune, drifting into the annoying abyss of entitlement and egotism. This outcome is rarely good. The latter group, however, usually maintains a devout gratitude for their good fortune and thus a dignified sort of humility. This creates a better path, one possessing clear-headedness, good business sense, and a compassion for the underdog. In the history of Hollywood, there are several tales of various stars sticking their necks out for other struggling artists-- using their "clout" as it were-- to help someone in a position from which they themselves have fortunately evolved. These instances of professional aid are at times minute, but the effect is always profound to the object in need, who will forever remember a small moment of kindness that-- if he or she was really lucky-- changed everything.

When Lucille Ball was still making the rounds at various studios, she landed a contract at RKO, where she primarily wound up in featured roles and bit parts. Despite the fact that, as far as the studio was concerned, she was just another one of the dime a dozen hopefuls, she was able to ingratiate herself to different people on the lot by being forever professional, completely willing, and incredibly funny. Hard work was not something that she ever had a problem with. Perhaps fellow nose-to-the-grindstone actress Katharine Hepburn took note of this. The two didn't have much a friendship, for Kate was higher on the acting echelon and being primed for stardom (in constant competition with another RKO leading lady, Ginger Rogers), but the duo would come into direct contact one fateful day-- which, coincidentally, could have been catastrophic for Lucy. Lucy was in the makeup chair, being prepped for yet another publicity photo to help test/boost her appeal, when all of a sudden, she was unceremoniously ushered away to make room for Hepburn, who was being readied for her daily shoot on Mary of Scotland (in wardrobe, left). Hepburn, through no fault of her own, took precedence over Lucy's cosmetic needs: Mary was a huge project for the studio. Lucy, pursing her lips, made her way into the next room, only to realize that she had left her tooth caps behind. Trying not to make a fuss or disturb "the Queen," Lucy tried to flag down the beautician who was working on Kate. She waved her arms at him through a dividing window, but to no avail. Though he saw her, he directly snubbed her flailing and continued with his work. Insulted, her temper grew red-hot, until she threw a steaming coffee pot at him! Unfortunately, the pot hit the table only to splatter all over Kate and her regalia. Lucy's eyes surely bulged as she began to panic! With Kate's dress dirtied with brown coffee spots, the shooting for the day couldn't be done and the studio was out thousands of dollars. Yet, when the top dogs came for blood, Kate stood by Lucy and refused to blame her for the incident. She used what little power she had to diffuse the situation instead of engaging in the expected diva-temper-tantrum. Lucy was also aided by Lela Rogers, Ginger's mother, who had been giving her acting lessons at the studio's behest. Lela believed that Lucy was one of the more promising young hopefuls and made this known to the enraged higher ups. Because of these two ladies, Lucy's job was saved-- temporarily. Interestingly, though her time at RKO would not last, she was there long enough to appear in Stage Door with both Hepburn and Rogers.

After RKO, Lucy would have help from another lady of the screen. Struggling to find work, and being told over and over again that her time was past-- that there was nowhere for a woman in her thirties to go in her career but down-- Lucy was having trouble holding onto her dream. Her self-confidence was at a bottom low, which was effecting her mentally and physically. She had even developed a stutter. Out of nowhere, she couldn't get through the most normal of sentences without breaking into stunted syllables. Just as suddenly, Olivia de Havilland (right) entered the picture. The two were not pals, barely having exchanged more than the usual "Hello, how are yous" at various parties and social affairs, but for some reason Olivia had taken a liking to Lucy. Perhaps she saw in the woman a another version of herself-- a fellow female fighter. As such, when word reached her that the funny, bubbly red head was on a downward spiral, she stepped in. She told her agent, Kurt Frings, to take Lucy on as a client and help to turn her career around. She just knew that the girl had "it" and only needed the right project to reach the stardom she deserved. Since no one said "No" to O de H-- a lesson Jack Warner learned all too well-- Frings agreed and added the stunned Lucy to his roster of clients. In a whirl, Lucy was still a nervous wreck when she began shooting on her first Frings induced project, Lover Come Back, opposite George Brent. Yet, she pulled it together, and once the cameras started rolling, she lost the stutter and regained her swagger. She remained eternally grateful to Olivia for her helping hand. It didn't turn out to be Lucy's big break, but it did help her get one step closer to success and kept her afloat during a confusing and back-breaking time.

Husband Desi Arnaz had also received a little help in his early career from none other than fellow crooner Bing Crosby. With Bing (left), judging from various accounts, you either loved him or hated him. Desi was one of the lucky ones who caught him on a good night. A very good night. Desi was a struggling musician touring with Xavier Cugat and his band, for which he played the guitar. Their itinerary eventually took the troupe to Saratoga, where Bing happened to be in attendance. Bing must have been impressed with Desi's playing, because he gleefully introduced himself-- in Spanish no less-- to the starstruck young man. Very friendly, and perhaps aided by a little too much liquor, "Bing-o" got congenial quickly and started asking the tongue-tied Cuban what he was earning for his talents. Desi responded with the sad truth: a measly $30/week. Bing, who knew Xavier, suddenly became Desi's champion. "That cheap bastard!" he roared. "Come on! Let's get you a raise!" He took Desi by the arm and the two marched right up to Cugat. Bing demanded that Cugat up the ante on Desi's paycheck. After being placed on the spot by such a huge superstar, Cugat was forced to agree... With one stipulation: that Bing perform a song with the band that night. Bing agreed, and Desi got his raise. Soon enough, ol' Dizzy had the money and confidence to tour with his own band, which inched him closer to Hollywood and his soul mate, Lucy.

In 1943, Van Johnson was just another struggling actor. Minor roles and extra work were the daily grind, until through a stroke of luck, he found himself cast in a supporting role in a major motion picture: A Guy Named Joe. Van was ecstatic! This could be his big break-- the opportunity of a lifetime. Enjoying his good fortune, he was out driving with friends Keenan and Eve Wynn (Van's future wife, but that's another story) when he was broadsided by another car. It was a serious accident, which left him badly injured. Very badly: a metal plate had to be put in his head! (In his future film work, you can see the noticeable scar). This tragedy couldn't have come at a worse time. His role as Ted Randall in the upcoming film was in jeopardy, for he needed extensive time to recuperate. Victor Fleming was put in the unfortunate position of looking for a replacement, until two angels came out of the wings. Both Irene Dunne and Spencer Tracy were impressed with Van and believed he was perfect for the role, and they went to bat for him (all three in the finished film, right). Through much persuasion, they convinced Victor and the studio to postpone until Van was completely healed, promising that his performance would help to make the picture a hit. The big wigs surprisingly listened. It turns out that Van, despite the conflicting evidence, was a lucky man, and the film helped to skyrocket him to Stardom. His accident turned out to be a pain and a pleasure, for due to his injury, he was unable to serve in the military during WWII. As one of the few fellas left at home while other stars went off to battle, his capable leading man potential made him a top box-office star. Thanks to Irene and Spence, he had had his breakthrough and would never look back.

Sometimes, the scuffle for a fellow comrade becomes more than a professional courtesy. It's personal. This is something that Betsy Blair knew all too well. Married to the triple threat actor/dancer/singer Gene Kelly, her own career took a back-seat to his, especially after he found success in Hollywood with his breakout role in For Me and My Gal. Betsy didn't mind. She was fine with playing the role of the supportive spouse and loving mother and putting her own career on hold (see happy family, left). A talented actress and dancer herself, she did make the intermittent film but never achieved the same success or notoriety as her husband. At least, not the same kind of notoriety. During the "red scare," Betsy found herself the focus of the HUAC witch hunts. Though not a communist, her leftist politics, outspoken position on African American rights, and her part in the SAG anti-discrimination committee landed her on the blacklist. Her husband, Gene, who was equally liberally minded if not as outspoken, was safe from the same attack because of his growing box-office appeal. Seeing his wife so mistreated and outcast was difficult, to say the least. Her sadness enraged him, particularly when the role of Clara in Marty-- which he thought she would be perfect for-- was kept out of reach due to the current political tide. Tired of seeing his wife held down, Gene marched into studio head Dore Schary's office and gave him an ultimatum: let Betsy off the hook and give her the role, or Gene would simply stop coming to work! This was a bold move and could have quite easily gotten him into legal trouble for breach of contract, or worse, fired and blacklisted himself. However, Gene Kelly's name on the marquee meant guaranteed money, so Dore took the bait. Betsy landed the role of a lifetime in Marty, which would be the most memorable of her career, and received an Oscar nomination for her heart-wrenching performance. Sadly, this would prove to be one of the last happy moments in the Gene-Betsy marriage, which finally collapsed under the tension two years later. Yet, however the relationship may have ended, Betsy would always speak admiringly of her first husband, his courage, and the bold move that deepened her love and respect for him.

HISTORY LESSON: "The [Songs] That [Almost] Got Away"

Joots prepares to unleash her golden voice.

Judy Garland's singing career is indivisible from her acting career. When one hears the name "Judy Garland," it is likely that one will immediately conjure up images of her in the midst of song. With a powerful voice matched by a powerful personality, it is no wonder that the tunes Judy gave us over the course of her career are still ringing in our ears. Some of the most popular songs in film history, and perhaps of all time, were first christened by Joots. Her sad and endearing rendition of "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" from Meet Me in St. Louis has caused it to become one of the holiday's most beloved melodies, and her duet "How About You?" with pal Mickey Rooney in Babes on Broadway can bring a round of smiles to even the most maudlin of occasions. However, some of Judy's most popular hits almost never came to be. Now that they are a part of our cultural and musical repertoire, history and life in general would seem incomplete without them. Here a three stories about three impromptu tunes.

1) "Over the Rainbow" is unarguably the most memorable moment from 1939's The Wizard of Oz. For generations, this film has maintained its endearing hold on the public via the tune that every human being, whether young or old, can relate to. We all still dream, still hope, and still possess some corner of our hearts where our youthful innocence takes harbor. Song writer Richard Arlen, one of MGM's greatest musical workhorses, had no idea how memorable his song would be when he wrote it. He got the idea when he stopped his car outside Schwab's Pharmacy on Sunset Boulevard and was hypnotized by the brilliant colors of the electric sign. When he teamed up with lyricist E.Y. Harburg, his inspiration took shape in a melody that would transcend time and send little Dorothy Gale (right) all the way to the mystical land of her imaginings: Oz.

But, "Over the Rainbow" almost didn't make the cut! After the initial previews in June of '39, the studio heads at Metro weren't sold on many portions of the film. It had been an arduous one to make, not to mention costly, and after all of the stress, they needed a clean, perfected hit to earn back their investment. First of all, the film was too long. An hour and a half was the acceptable length for a musical comedy or-- as the studio called this piece-- "a musical drama." A few minutes, therefore, had to be shaved. In addition to cutting some of the Wicked Witch's most scintillating and downright evil lines-- which, when screened in London, instigated the rule that no child could attend the horrifying film unattended-- a few odds, ends, corners, and even musical numbers had to be snipped. One Suit suggested that "Over the Rainbow" be cut. After all, it was a melancholy little number that merely delayed Dorothy's voyage to Oz, where all of the real action happened. In addition, having one of the studio's biggest assets singing in a barn surrounded by hay and hogs didn't seem like a keen selling point.

Off to see the Wizard.



When Harburg found out, he was furious! To him and nearly everyone else involved with the picture, Judy's rendering of this song was the most important moment of the fim. Not only did it establish her character, but it prepared the audience for what was to come, acting as a bridge to the unbelievable land where Dorothy would journey. King Vidor, who directed the scene, was called in to wrap up the unfilmed footage when Victor Fleming was called away to pick up Gone with the Wind from the ousted George Cukor. (Ironically, Cukor had been an advisor on Wizard after first director Richard Thorpe was fired and before Fleming was brought in). The last minute switch was kismet. Vidor was an alumni of silent film, and his interpretation of the scene, its poetry, the camera's movement, all lent to the beauty of Judy's longing voice. Out of the black and white of the scene comes the first true color of the film before the tornado ever carries Dorothy to Oz. Surprisingly, it was Louis B. Mayer who stepped up to the plate, convinced that the number had to stay. While he often himself appeared like the Tin Man, the sentimentality and wholesomeness of the song appealed to him. Apparently, he did have a heart. And so, the song stayed, and history was made.

2) "Get Happy" is the singular moment of Summer Stock, and one of the most brilliant moments of Judy's career. When watching the movie today, one often gets bored waiting for this one big scene amidst the drudgery and chaos of the surrounding, back-country plot. In fact, the charming Gene Kelly and the matronly Judy (right) seem like an unlikely fit, which makes their romance very confusing-- a far cry from their more suitable For Me and My Gal days. They perform better apart than together. Gene has his time to shine in his solo dance sequence, but even the incomparable, sexual dancer can't top Judy's pipes. "Get Happy" was the saving grace of the film, and it resulted almost by happenstance.

When Judy began work on the picture, she had picked up a little weight. After obtaining rest and relaxation at the Peter Bent Brigham Hospital, where she had been served three square meals a day, she did not look like the svelte beauty she had been in The Clock or Ziegfeld's Follies. In fact, she looked a great deal older than her 27 years. Being adorned in farm-girl attire only hampered her already less-than-startling appearance. After years of overwork, stress, and drugs, Judy was not in a good place emotionally when she started the film, and was also on the brink of a break with MGM. Going on a crash diet increased her edginess and ill feelings. Insecure, she often called in sick, arrived late, or used any possible delaying tactic to avoid coming to work, for-- as she relayed to musical director Saul Chaplin-- "I'm so ugly and untalented, they're going to find me out!" Director Chuck Walters, a constant collaborator with Judy over the years, was by now used to, if not immune to, her hysterics, and he knew how to work around them. He often distracted Judy with other business to keep her mind off work, knowing that if he could just get her up and in front of the camera, she would do her thing. His ploy often worked. He would tell Judy, "Oh, you look tired. Why don't you go home. But first, could you run through this song once for tomorrow?" Judy would agree, start to sing, and then "Whip, Boom, Pow!" She became the star everyone knew and loved, and Walters would turn the camera on to capture it.

La-La-Legs!

After the film wrapped, the studio watched the initial cut but felt that there was something missing. The movie needed one more big number-- a la Judy, of course-- to seal the deal with viewers. So, Judy was called back from vacation in Carmel to begrudgingly film one more song. Her one condition was that it be "Get Happy," written again by Arlen with lyrics by Ted Koehler. It was one of her favorites and was an old piece that Arlen had penned back in 1929. When Judy arrived on the set, she looked quite different. Rest in Carmel had served her well! Trim, sexy, and with her swagger back, she looked ready to go! She pre-recorded the vocals for the song with no problem, but she received an attack of the jitters when it came time to call "action." So drugged up that she could barely stand, Walters had to postpone the shoot until the next day, which the inebriated Judy didn't understand. She found the delay unprofessional, not realizing in her mentally unwound state that she was the source. Nonetheless, she arrived the next day sober, on time, and gorgeous. The pro had stepped up her game. Walters, who had been forced to choreograph the sequence himself, put Judy in a black fedora, jacket, and heels, and let her go. Those legs deserve a song of their own! And when Judy tips that hat and saunters down the stage, it becomes the musical moment worth waiting for. Without it, the film wouldn't have remained as famous and beloved as it is today. "Get Happy" would be Judy's last song at MGM as well as one of the pieces played at her funeral.

3) "The Man That Got Away" is yet another Richard Arlen contribution, this time with lyricist Ira Gershwin. Unlike the aforementioned episodes, this song was purposeful from the get go. An important moment in the film A Star is Born, this piece was calculatingly crafted to relate several things: the character Esther Blodgett's talent, which then induces the fascination and passion of Norman Maine (played by James Mason), and a foreshadowing of the doom their relationship is to endure. The movie has many brilliant moments and memorable songs, including the lengthy "I Was Born in a Trunk" sequence, but "Man" is the one that remains synonymous with the picture. In fact, without this song or Judy's pained and intense performance, the film would have crumpled into an obsolete heap next to the original (starring Janet Gaynor and Fredric March in 1937.)

No, the problem wasn't with the song this time... It was with filming it. It seemed that George Cukor, the director most remembered for his sensitive translations of the female heart, couldn't get this one particular moment right. In fact, he had to film it three times over before everyone, including himself, was satisfied. George adored Judy and was floored time and again by her boundless talent. Her character's painful conversation with Charles Bickford about her husband, Norman, and the emotional disease, obsession, and self-loathing that she can neither comprehend nor help, reveals to the audience a profound truth-- she is talking about herself, the real Judy, who is drowning, and unable to save herself. With such a force at his disposal, Cukor was excited to film the "Man" scene, as he was any musical number with Judy. The first attempt was made on October 21, 1953. Seeing the clip now, it is understandable why it was scrapped. Judy is adorned in an unflattering pink shirt against a pink wall, and she is surrounded by blue decor and musicians in blue suits. The color is garish, and Judy blends right in. The musicians often take precedence over her in the scene, her hair is fairly short and worn down, and the song is abrupt. It starts and it ends. Judy fills the moment with emotion, but it still comes off as anti-climactic. After Jack Warner and Judy's latest hubby Sidney Luft saw the dailies, they asked for a reshoot. Try number two, on October 27, was a bit of an improvement. This time, the instrumental introduction lasts longer. It gives Cukor time to cut away to Norman Maine, seen entering The Downbeat Club and witnessing the rag-tag group of performers and his latest fascination, Esther. The decor is dressed down-- the walls are still pink, but the trimmings are brown and dark. Too dark in fact. And when Judy sings in her now brown dress (as seen above), the audience still has trouble finding her. She looks a sight better than before, her hair half up, but she is still drab. 

 We have a winner!

The scene remained as it was until February of 1954. This time, Cukor attacked with a vengeance. The frumpy wardrobe designed by Mary Ann Nyberg was replaced by a respectable, blue Jean Louis suit-- simple, befitting the character, clean, and elegant. Judy's hair was pulled all the way back from her face, making her appear more youthful and pretty, and Cukor changed the camera angle from center stage to a side shot, more focused on Judy and her piano playing partner (Tom Noonan). The piano figures in as a deliberate prop. Judy moves around it, leans on it, and in one great moment grasps it as she tosses her other arm up in the throes of perfect melody. Another item is infused, for Judy's character is given more humility this time. In previous takes, she had always simply wandered about The Downbeat Bar with her friends before unceremoniously starting to sing. This time, Noonan prods her, "Come on... Take it from the top." Judy then peers down at the music, which makes the moment seem less planned and more serendipitous. Thus her natural, unbridled talent comes across with innocence and not with knowing agenda. With the light in place and in focus on her, she is no longer upstaged by the surrounding musicians, and Judy's accidental songbirg finally comes to life. Cukor too uses the camera to more effect, particularly in pulling back in a long shot during a climactic moment. This time, the greatest triumph is in having all eyes on Judy and her powerful delivery of a painful ballad. It was a sequence necessary to the rest of the film, for-- from this moment-- she has the viewer's sympathy and never lets go.

The almost divine intervention in all three of these films resulted in divine movie moments, and thus timeless, divine movies themselves. Certainly, Judy's voice would have enhanced and carried any film she was in, but the perfection of these three scenes made her work classic and eternal as opposed to merely acceptable. These three are also some of the songs she is most known for, so their absence from cinema would have been a severe detriment to, not only the lady herself, but pop culture in general. As it is, we keep the songs with Judy in our hearts. She is our eternal little girl lost, whom we find again and again in our favorite melodies.

PERSONAL NOTE: Gene Kelly is a Sexpot!

I was sick this past week. Very, VERY sick. Confined to my bed, there was nothing for me to do but stare at the ceiling or the television, so I opted for the latter. In my codeine induced delirium, I was having trouble picking a movie to watch, so I thought to myself, "Hey, I should just go through my DVD collection alphabetically, watching one film of each letter..." (I got to N in 4 days, by the way). First up was Anchors Aweigh, which had been sitting in my stash collecting dust since I bought it. It was my first time seeing the film, and now I am kicking myself for waiting so long to watch such a gem!

I have never considered myself a huge musical fan, but after watching this film I may be a classifiable junkie. Aside from noticing the enjoyable story, catchy tunes, and the extreme skinniness of Frank "Blue Eyes" Sinatra, I was left with one very clear impression: Gene Kelly is phenomenal! Not just as an actor, a singer, or a dancer, but as a man who so easily blends all three categories into one charismatic goldmine of masculinity and grace that he makes all other men look like boys.

It's strange, for I have seen Singin' in the Rain, Cover Girl, etc, but never before have I been so impressed by Kelly's profound athleticism. He doesn't jump, he soars; he doesn't dance, he destroys! He can take the entire frame and fill it up with his own virile frame like it's some kind of magic trick. Then there is the thing I can't put my finger on, which is his incredible essence, his power. Unlike Astaire, whom I equally adore, Kelly leads not with an endearing bashfulness, but with a profound confidence. Both men are graceful, talented, cocky in their own way, but Astaire is innocent and classic, while Kelly is seductive and modern. Indeed, there was one scene at the beginning of Anchors when Kelly is on the phone with his never seen "booty-call," Lola, and as he sensuously strokes the receiver I found myself going, "Whoa! How did that make it past the censors?!?!" 

Perhaps I am not well-versed enough in Kelly's filmography, but I felt that this role was a bit of a departure for him. I always thought of him as a "nice guy," a "gentleman," the "boy-next-door-who-dances." In this film he is a bit more dangerous. He plays the lady killer, ironically opposite the innocent Frank Sinatra character (haha). While he is not a rogue by any means, he has more edge, even if he proves to be more talk than action. He's a bad boy, but the bad boy who is a lover and not a fighter. The typical macho, Alpha male in the package of a graceful body and a trustworthy face, Kelly could have gone on to play truly dangerous men. His immediate likability would make him the perfect predator. I know Kelly did perform in some dramas, and I am interested to see how they turned out.

In any case, if you haven't seen Anchors Aweigh, I suggest you do posthaste, if only for the famous dance sequence Gene Kelly does with the cartoon mouse Jerry of "Tom and Jerry"- (another great thing about Kelly was his innovative way of using technology to expand the possibilities of dance, such as the scene in which he dances with himself in split-screen in Cover Girl). In the mean time, if you have any other good Kelly movies to recommend, I'm all ears!