TAKE ONE, TWO, THREE: Love's a Bitch

It takes a lot of strength to survive one's life. It takes even more courage to live it. Each man's journey from adolescence to adulthood is marked with pivotal moments of chance, insurmountable road blocks, and distracting temptations. All of these things work together to guide one through his own personal life experience and educate him from the boy as whom he started to the man he will become. There have been many novels that have communicated the "long day's journey into night," but one of the most interesting and consequently important in Hollywood history is W. Somerset Maugham's Of Human Bondage. In his description of the nakedly bare and flawed life of Englishman "Philip Carey," the reader is forced to ask what it is that "binds" us in life and to it. What ties us to certain people, what holds us back, what sets us free? And how do we overcome any of these restraints to reach a place of semi-solidarity and happiness? The answer: live. Life will teach you how to grow up, though the voyage will not be easy, particularly once love enters the picture.


Of Human Bondage 'entered the picture(s)' in 1934, followed by two re-makes in 1946 and 1964. In each version, a large portion of Philip's life tale and early childhood is omitted, and the plot revolves more concentratedly around his first, most intense, and most damaging experience of love with the cold, coquettish conundrum, "Mildred Rogers." Maugham makes his leading man a representative of all men, but increases the intensity of his personal life struggle by giving him a physical handicap: a club foot. This serves not to evoke pity from the audience. The club foot is never a club foot-- it is a physical representation of man's emotional insecurity, which hampers his ability to advance and to mature. It is a ball and chain of self doubt. Mildred is another such malady-- the ugly side of man's desire, which holds him back from true love and binds him to his own self-indulgent torment. Philip's battle with Mildred becomes his battle to overcome his own demons and the dissenting voices in his head that tell him he is subhuman. But breaking these bonds is not easy, and  they are never fully escapable. One can't forget the past but simply move from it, accepting the ugliness one has suffered and inflicted to survive.  The real bonds are those that tie boy to monster to man, and they shall be connected always. The difference, Maugham suggests, lies in which side you allow to do the leading.

Sounds like a great story. Roll cameras!

As in most cases, the original offering is also the best. The 1934 casting is superb, the performances are legendary, and the direction of John Cromwell uncovers and translates the themes of the book in such an intelligent and direct fashion that Maugham's world, while in black and white, is still reflective of all the shades and colors of natural disaster. Leslie Howard (left) is cast as Philip. Handsome but not masculine, his frail physique is further hampered by his noticeable limp. In body and soul, there couldn't have been a better choice for the leading man. Leslie's Philip is romantic, emotionally immature, and feeble, but his weaknesses are balanced by his armored intellect and posture. Throughout the film, Leslie remains very still in an effort to remain composed and controlled. This intensifies the desire in him, which the audience waits expectantly to see reach a boiling point. Yet, Leslie's Philip is the perfect villain, only ever a villain to himself.


The film opens on Philip, who-- almost as soon as the film begins-- is metaphorically castrated before the audience. First, his dreams of being an artist are crushed when he is told in no uncertain terms that he lacks the talent to be a true genius. This presents another Maugham theme: Pragmatism vs. Idealism. In life, it is pragmatism that almost universally wins out, and youthful folly is consequently left behind. So, Phil is immediately told he is not one of the "special ones" who can live his dreams. He decides to become a doctor instead: useful to his fellow man. During one of his medical labs, he is confronted with a little boy who too has a club foot, and his instructor humiliates him by having Phil remove his own shoe so that the other students can compare his mutation with the young patient's. This is his physical castration.  Before he knows it, he is at a restaurant trying unsuccessfully to flirt with a waitress, Mildred, on whom his friend has a crush. Mildred is hard, ambivalent, and completely immune to Phil's charms, despite the fact that she is-- as his friends make clear throughout the course of the film-- nothing but a "low class whore." In addition, she is not beautiful. At best, she is attractive, at worst-- as Phil himself says-- she's "anemic." Yet, to be shunned by such a low, uncouth specimen is doubly humiliating, resulting in Phil's final castration-- a sexual one. Physically disabled, deprived of passion, and now romantically inadequate, Phil has suffered three strikes within the first ten minutes. He's out.

This feeling of inferiority is what binds him to the equally inferior Mildred-- played by Bette Davis in her star-making role. Phil exits the restaurant, and Cromwell's camera follows his disfigured feet as they walk away and return full circle back to Mildred. Set against the intense and melodramatic score, the message can't be missed: it is Phil's handicap and his own definition of himself as a "cripple" that keeps bringing him back to Mildred, who in turn is a social cripple-- a cast away. In effect, the two are perfect opposites. Both are low, yet both assume that they are just slightly superior to the other. Mildred quickly identifies Phil's handicap, and Bette brilliantly lets a look of embarrassment flash over her face before she laughs it and him off: "Pft." That 'pft' is all Phil will ever mean to her. He is "fine." He is a "gentleman in every sense of the word." But, he is no man.  Bette brings life to her offensive antagonist with closed-off mannerisms and avoidance. The detail she uses is hypnotic, including the way she uses her eyes. Her stony indifference and lack of eye contact is her protection (see right). She only looks at Philip with strategy-- studying him and his weaknesses when he is not watching, or seducing him with a look just enough to keep him caught in her web when his gaze is fixed on her.

The man that a girl like Mildred wants is the one played by Alan Hale: "Emil Miller." He is gruff, masculine, and financially secure. He even gives advice to Phil at one point, because they are both after the same thing-- sex with Mildred. The suggestion is that Emil has no qualms about sharing Mildred as a sexual partner. But then, he is a caveman, which coincidentally is the advice he gives to Phil-- be more manly. But Phil is not a "man's man." He is a dreamer, a poet, a romantic-- these are the tools of his escape. Mildred is a realist-- the tool of her escape is her body. Cromwell displays this brilliantly in the direct to camera shots he gives both actors. They sip champagne, and through Phil's eyes we see Mildred in romantic, soft lighting, with big, enticing eyes (left). Mildred's view of Phil is different: she sees a desperate, frail rodent to play with. Mildred may not be smart, but she's not stupid. She knows her limitations as a working class woman: either sleep her way into the marital bed with a man who can support her, or wind up on her back supporting herself. Thus, it is only to Miller that she will give her laughter and smiles, because he is a worthy risk. Still, she plays with the continued affections of Phil as security, in case her current investment with Miller doesn't pay off in matrimony. It is this sexual power that places her above Phil in her mindset.


Phil, in his mind, is higher than Mildred in intellect and class. Though his youthful ideals of a life of beauty in art were foiled-- "it is better to be a good butcher than a bad artist"-- he is now on track to become a doctor. He has recognized that he will not be special, so he has decided to be useful. He is at least going places. Mildred is going nowhere. She, like him, is a reject. This makes him want her. She is perhaps the only woman low enough to accept him. Thus, he follows her around like a puppy, begging for kisses and not receiving them; asking for dates and receiving only Mildred's noncommittal "I don't mind..." The relationship is doomed to fail because both are seeking freedom in domination. The harder they struggle, the more they tie themselves to each other, and the uglier they become. Phil struggles to obtain Mildred, to prove his virility as a man, and to flatter his vanity as a man of higher class. He insults Mildred's ignorance from time to time, just as she insults his lack of sex. He desperately follows her, spies on her, just as she desperately chases Emil, whom she eventually tells Phil that she is going to marry. The news devastates Phil, then sets him free. Or so he thinks...

When one is hurt and brokenhearted, the instinct is to turn to one's mommy. This the orphaned Phil does by turning to the more mature and maternal affections of dime novelist "Norah." In the role, Kay Johnson (right) is heavenly, supportive, and affectionate. With her total devotion and love, Phil regains confidence, he passes his medical exams, and wonders what the heck he ever saw in Mildred. The answer: sex. His relationship with Norah cannot work, or else it would become Oedipal. This is a fact Cromwell makes apparent when Norah comes looking for Phil after a long absence. She leans her head against the door, trying in vain to be sexy, but her eroticism falls flat. It feels like incest. Phil can't test his virility on a nun, after all. Thus, their relationship remains fond but asexual. Norah pines and plays the love-sick pup giving all to the man who can give nothing in return. He doesn't really want her, and when Mildred re-enters his life, he easily leaves Norah behind to try once again to conquer the whore. The angst of youth instructs one that love and pain are the same thing, so Phil departs to cut himself on Mildred.


Unfortunately, Mildred comes to Phil as her surrogate father figure, to ease her pain and heal the wounds she has suffered. Phil is her Norah. It turns out, Mildred never married Emil, because he already was married, but she is pregnant with his child. The cripple in Phil, who doesn't believe he deserves happiness, takes Mildred in. He pays for her room and board and the birth of the baby. It is a self-lacerating act, but when his penance is done, he hopes to have a grateful Mildred on her knees in contrition for his divine acts. No dice. While desperation has temporarily softened her, Mildred has no passion for Phil. She falls instead for his more sexually adept friend, "Griffiths" (Reginald Denny). Phil puts Mildred in the same room with the suave Griffiths just to test her, to see if she will take the more appealing bate, and perhaps to punish himself further. The result is as expected. Mildred and Griffiths hit it off. Phil begs Griffiths to leave Mildred to him, and later tries to insult Mildred's sexuality by saying that Griffiths doesn't give a damn about her. Mildred stops this diatribe quickly by waving a love letter from Griffiths in Phil's face-- castrating him once again. Phil reacts by calling her "cheap." She slaps him! But, in her eyes, Phil has grown a little taller. He has used the one word that demeans her and puts her below him. He has found the source of his own power, which was not his fragile kindness but the kind of masculine hatred reserved for disposable females. Mildred's face for the first time grows panicked. She apologizes. She backs out of Phil's life and into the arms of Griffiths, who like any respectable man uses and discards of her quickly. Her second gamble again fails to pay off, as did Phil's gamble on her. Watching Bette cry on the harsh Denny's doorstep, while he callously tells a policeman to take her away, is a damning and moving piece of film.

Now a little wiser and loveworn, it is time for Phil to leave sexual immaturity behind and become a family man. Enter his latest patient, "Thorpe Athelny," (the convivial Reginald Owen) who is indeed a husband and father. He breaks bread with Phil and extends legions of fatherly advice, including the gem: "Don't marry a lady." He essentially bolsters Phil's internal need to rise up and become the conqueror and not the conquered. The fact that he introduces his daughter "Sally" (France Dee) to Phil and encourages a romance between them too implicates that Sally, while much more polished than Mildred, is equally 'not a lady' (all three left). Fairly uneducated in anything other than domestic chores, Sally will make a good wife-- a support system/servant lacking in the defensive venom of the love of youth. (Feminists could have a field day with this, but I won't go there today). Another thing that attracts Phil to Sally is her fortunate attraction for him, enhanced by the fact that she is quite pretty and apparently has a slew of men who are interested in her. To obtain such an admired flower would do wonders for his self-esteem. He knows this. But, his insecurity still holds him back. He is bound to the Devil in his ear-- the one who is afraid to grow, who is afraid he can't hack it in a man's world. Just so, Mildred's voice calls to him in the dark and summons him back to her rooms. He goes.


Mildred is an official whore now, making money the only way she can. She has become increasingly socially crippled with years, just as Phil has continued to grow out of his impairment. The reason could be that Phil learns from his mistakes, accepting his faults as he surpasses them. The reason too could be a simple one of sexual politics-- at this period of history, a woman had fewer options in life, and none if she broke the rules. Mildred's attempt to sleep her way to the top has thus left her in the gutter. Again, Phil takes Mildred in, partially as a result of his own guilt over the fact that it was abusive men like himself who pushed Mildred into the dark corner in which she now lives-- he may not have taken advantage of her, but had he been born a man with Griffith or Emil's virility, he surely would have, as he did countless times in his mind. He too is testing his own strength, and indeed, Phil has outgrown her. Her sexual powers no longer work on him, try as she may to seduce him. 

Mildred plays her last card, and throws herself sexually at Philip, 

a "fine" but inferior man.

Mildred is affronted by the nude drawings that Phil uses to cover his walls-- mementos from his art days. The idea that his eye could be attracted to another female form threatens her power. This presents a slippery theology: man must make whores of certain women in order to make Madonnas of others. The role both sexes play in this game is self-fulfilling, self-flagellating, and sadistic. Again, Phil has survived, because he has the option-- men have the great luxury of being untainted by sex. With Phil's final refusal of her, Mildred rages against him. Bette lashes out as a caged animal (in the scene that should have won her the Oscar). While her Mildred is dirty, selfish, and cruel, it is the world that made her this animal. Her human education was her undoing. One can't help but empathize with her, to scream, "Hell yeah!" in chorus with her final eviscerating act-- of telling Phil that every time he kissed her she would wipe her mouth!!! A refusal from one even as low as she, and Phil is suddenly left feeling like a small, vulnerable child again. Yet, watching her lose control is like watching the tormented beast of his own character. He pities it and is able to let it go, because he understands it.

After Mildred trashes his apartment, cuts his paintings to ribbons, and steals his money, Phil is forced to drop out of medical school yet again. But this final confrontation with Mildred has erased any last question he could have about the path he must take. Left with nothing, he has nothing but himself. It is time to grow up. Not coincidentally, just as he cuts Mildred out of his life, he has his foot operated on. He too has the continued devotion of Sally. Physically and romantically, he is remade. He has but to establish himself in the working world-- acquire a new passion-- and he will have overcome all of his prior castrations and arrive fully into manhood. After a brief spell of poverty, he obtains a job as a window-dresser-- a touch of the old artist. His uncle dies, leaving him money, and he is able at last to return to med school. Here, he says goodbye to Mildred for good-- she has died of syphilis. The shot of Bette's corpse, a total wreck of a woman, is one for the ages (right). 


Phil's plan to practice medicine abroad is forgone now, for he has no reason to run away. The temptress is dead. He opts to remain in London with Sally and marry her. With nothing holding him back, he is a man ready to be united to her woman. Why? She does not bind him with anything other than affection. In this, he has freedom and thus the freedom to love her of his own volition. We know this because, she initially tries to reject his proposal, fearing he says it only out of "obligation." The film leaves out a tasty bit of trivia here, which is that, in the book, Sally believed herself pregnant with Phil's bastard. To remove this unacceptable truth, the censors replaced the characters' dialogue in this final scene with the beeping of car horns. It is awkward, but well informed readers know what is being said beneath the honking: Sally, it turns out, is not pregnant. Phil is therefore free to do as he chooses, and he chooses Sally-- a nice normal girl, not a lady and not a whore.


The themes of dreams and illusions versus the demands of life are a large part of the tale, wherein Maugham mixed a lot of his own personal doubt about his craft and shame of himself as an artist. The passions of youth versus the responsibilities of adulthood are also examined, with the bittersweet notion that one must surrender divine hope to obtain happiness and security. Mildred reached too high, pretending to be a first class citizen, when she was meant to be human driftwood. Phil, in time, accepts his mediocrity and makes the most of it. His triumph, thus, is his acceptance that he will not triumph, but merely live as a serviceable man, and a man most of all-- one who has survived youth and quieted with time the childish voice of sexual deviance and impracticality. His existence is still a compromise, a cage in many respects-- a windowless room without impossible dreams-- but he fears it not, because he has chosen it.

~     ~     ~

I will devote less time to the other two films because, a) they follow the same plot with minor changes, and b) both fail to live up to the expectations put forth in the original. In 1946, Edmund Goulding was brought on as director. Though a well-respected filmmaker who produced many a quality movie, he was left with conflicting pieces of a puzzle that fail to fit together properly. The casting at first glance seems perfect. Eleanor Parker (left), a gutsy actress in her own right, seems to fit well into the ideal of Mildred. Like Bette, she is attractive, but not a knock-out. Willing to take chances and get ugly, her characterization is unapologetic and demoralizing... but too much so. She seems to be working so hard at out-doing Bette that she misses the soft nuances, sensuality, and vulnerability that made Bette's Mildred so human. Eleanor's appearance too-- bravely going without make-up-- is commendable, but so drab is her appearance that she blends with the sets, and the audience is left with no conceivable idea as to why Phil is interested in her. And why would he be? He's Paul Henreid! Paul is far too sophisticated and handsome (and too old) to be playing the role of Philip. His seductive foreign appeal works against him, as he is completely unable to metamorphose into the desperate weasel that Leslie created in the earlier film. When he tries to make love to Mildred, it chafes the skin. You keep waiting for Ingrid Bergman to walk in and whisk him away, or for him to light up a cigarette and say, "Auf Wiedersehen, baby."

The supporting cast, however, is strong, but we see too little of them. Alexis Smith appears at the beginning of the film as Nora, and she is so full of life and smarts that she actually presents a better player opposite Paul's Phil (right). They become friends, or acquaintances at least, before Phil even meets Mildred, and one assumes that the story is going to alter from the original: Phil will wind up with Nora, his good friend, who stuck with him through thick and thin. Not so. Nora does play a large part in his life up until about a third of the way through the film. Then she abruptly disappears, never to return. Her beauty and presence are palpably missed in the remainder of the drab picture. Patric Knowles also makes a good representation of Griffiths with his boyish good looks and charm, presenting a less menacing presence than Reginald Denny in the first film, but he is also used too little. Edmund Gwenn is another saving grace as the father figure Athelny, but his advice to and guidance of an already mature Henreid is ridiculous. His efforts seem forced, and the teacher does not fit the pupil. All in all, these interesting periphery characters are not utilized properly enough to give the film room to breathe or come alive. So much time is wasted on the moodiness of Phil's misplaced brooding that I honestly had trouble staying awake. Goulding mires the pictures in a dark atmosphere, eliminating the lighter qualities of Phil's whimsy to elevate the story. I wanted Phil to kill Mildred, or Mildred to kill Phil, but that clearly does not happen in the plot.


Another problem that effected the outcome was the editing. Apparently, the studio cut the film so much that whatever positives there were in the original were lost to the cutting room floor, including a supposedly heart-breaking death scene by Eleanor-- a too often forgotten and normally superb actress. The bits and pieces remaining are so clumsily strung together and hard to follow that the film becomes a wasted opportunity. The film is not so much about Philip's voyage to personal and sexual maturity as it is about why one should never try to re-make a classic.

This is a message that Ken Hughes failed to receive when he made his attempt at another adaptation in 1964. Despite its failings, one can say that this offering is at least superior to the '46 version. Hughes (with a little help from Henry Hathaway and Bryan Forbes) opens the film in a devastating fashion-- and I mean that in a good way. We start on Philip as a young boy still in school. He is violently bullied by his classmates, who ridicule him for his deformity. It is always painful to witness a child being tormented, particularly one with such an obvious handicap, and the scene is a moving way to open a piece that we are led to believe will revolve around the tortured little boy still living inside Philip. Next, the opening credits roll upon the backdrop of sculptures... Sexual ones. Naked men and women of stone wrap around each other, tear at each other, and exhibit ecstasy and pain. We see in this all of the beauty and danger of love. We also are led to believe that the movie is going to be much more about man's sexual nature-- again, feeding that external beast to quiet the whimpering boy within. Does Hughes follow through? Yes and no.

Hughes fails to live up to his promises, but mostly because the studio clearly muted him. They didn't want this artistry; they wanted a block-buster. The film becomes too polished and overridden with the star system mentality. Phil is played again by a man far too composed and handsome for him: Laurence Harvey. Working in Laurence's favor is his intensity, but he is playing, in this version, too vanilla a character for all of his dark layers to come out. He seems to be trying too hard to control his instincts as an actor. Whereas in '46 you expect Paul to bow and exit for better prospects, here you expect Larry to bitch-slap Mildred and have his naughty way with her. He slaps her at one point, but it is less than effective. Mildred is played this time by Kim Novak. Kim is no Bette Davis, but to her credit, she knows it. She doesn't seek to replicate or improve upon Bette's previous interpretation of the role, but makes it her own. Whereas Bette saw Leslie's club foot with contempt, Kim sees Laurence's foot and feels genuine pity. Her Mildred is light, sexy, and by all accounts kind. She lets Philip make love to her, because she feels sorry for him. The script is indeed more steeped in sex, and this time Mildred openly seduces and sleeps with Philip. It is her way of saying that she is "sorry": sorry he is crippled, sorry she ran off with someone else (twice), sorry she was born with this irresistible body, etc. Her character's transformation becomes a bit more fascinating to watch, because her original, playful intent to give Phil a kick with her flirting and charm transforms into her desperate hold over him-- the only man she can really count on.


However, in the end, Kim is too damn nice and too damn pretty. While she makes the role something different and more suitable to her gifts, she does not make her Mildred Maugham's Mildred. The supporting cast this time is strong but not as interesting as in past versions, minus perhaps Siobhan McKenna as an older Nora, of whom you wish to see more. The whole film seems almost to be occurring in Philip's head, with Mildred representing the sexual parasite he must exorcise in order to embrace the again too pretty Nanette Newman as his bride Sally. The studio clearly wanted one film-- a romantic one, which is enhanced by the musical score that does not fit the tone at all-- while Hughes wanted another one-- a film tormented and realistic. The compromise reached does not satisfy the audience. While the film is enjoyable to watch, once it is over, I wasn't certain what it was about.

Bette's "shoulda-won-an-Oscar" moment.

That being said, I think it is clear that one should look to 1934 for the most sublime version of the film, if only for that one moment where Bette really lets the she-wolf out and cuts Leslie down to size one last time. While the film revels more in sexual themes and themes of love, one should also look to the book for further analyses of man's struggle against and for the meaning of life. One important fact missed and not utilized in any of the films is an analogy one of Philip's friends makes between a Persian carpet and this search for "meaning." Philip fails to connect the dots for the majority of the book until he banishes Mildred and all other selfish acts of youth from his mind. He finally sees that in life one must seek to "make a design, intricate and beautiful, out of the myriad, meaningless facts of life: had he not seen also that the simplest pattern, that in which a man was born, worked, married, had children, and died was likewise the most perfect? It might be that to surrender to happiness was to accept defeat, but it was a defeat better than many victories." Mildred represents a very intricate part of the pattern of his life, one powerful, visible, and permanent. She is a part of the fiber of his being now, but woven with the other threads and stitches, she is harmless and unthreatening. Her ugliness has become a part of his life's beauty. To remove her completely, would be to leave a hole in him, and certainly a gaping one in our cinematic history!

HISTORY LESSON: Hollywood at War

Bob Hope performs for the boys in Sicily, 1943.

For a brief period, film existed solely as a pure artistic venture blended with scientific innovation. Almost immediately, this sanctity was corrupted by business, which both heightened its possibilities and tangled its intentions. Cinema as a propaganda device was always forthcoming, but despite the expected birth of celebrity product endorsements, the most influential collision of stardom and salesmanship didn't occur until the Great War. The different ages of American War have revealed themselves in various ways through our movies, but perhaps the most interesting moments occurred not in the later rallying, reactionary cries of the Vietnam or Korean Wars, but in the earlier calls to arms of WWI and WWII. This equally paranoid and frightful time produced in Hollywood a profound moment of unity, patriotism, and brotherhood. On the screen or behind the cameras, an attitude of "One for all, and all for one" reigned supreme. The movies of the day were used to relay this message, as did its stars, who for once proudly took a back seat to the Stars (and Stripes) of the American Flag. Though contention and doubts did exist, an indestructible, unified front was always presented, which was perhaps simply due to the source of the battles being waged-- particularly the genocidal WWII. In a continuing celebration of Independence Day, here is a look back the impact of war on Hollywood, and the impact of Hollywood on the war.

While the Revolutionary War called upon a young and insecure landscape to defy its tormentors (and sometimes its own inhabitants) in order to proclaim itself a union, and the Civil War pitted brother against brother when incongruous versions of scruples and ethics threatened to tear the country apart, The Great War was entered into willingly by a freshly healed and newly thriving society. Its effect would render America not only unarguably the most powerful nation in the world, but-- as it was the lone combatant to emerge without war torn soil-- it too would rise victoriously as the film capital of the world. During a period of low economic peril that would lead to the euphoria of the roaring twenties, the strength and positivity of the nation was echoed loudly through its silent film players. Most memorably, Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, and Charlie Chaplin would embark on a tour selling war bonds (left), using their popularity and charisma to maintain and enhance the country's participation in the movement. The films of the time showcased their dedication, such as Mary Pickford's The Little American, which put America's Sweetheart right in the throes of German atrocities. The picture was passionately directed by Cecil B. DeMille-- a strong supporter of both the war movement and the armed forces-- who had in fact established the Home Guard, via Famous Players-Lasky, as its Captain when the war began in April of 1917. Yet, it is Douglas Fairbanks who was perhaps most indicative of American patriotism at the time. Healthy, virile, in incredible shape, and possessing both an optimistic spirit and a zest for life-- which, if canistered, could probably have provided enough energy to power a large city for 100 years-- "Mr. Pep" was the era's masculine ideal. He proudly made several short propaganda films to get his brethren in the spirit of battle, such as Swat the Kaiser and Sick 'em Sam.

Chaplin too did a great deal to express his feelings about the war, but as a more calculating aesthete and a true humanitarian, his efforts most often revealed themselves through his own compelling work. The strongest statement he ever made about war came about prior to WWII in his defiant, tragicomic masterpiece The Great Dictator (right). While many remained blind to or even embraced the shocking new stratagems of Adolf Hitler during his rise to power, Charlie always remained aghast, dismayed, and disgusted by the Fascist's lunacy. When Hitler's administration mutated into abject madness, Chaplin was not surprised, and The Great Dictator became his impassioned wake up call to America. The artistry of the film remains pure poetry, yet at the time its honesty was under-appreciated: Hitler banned it in Germany and all other Nazi-occupied countries. It was the presence of Hitler, recalled quite accurately as one of the most crazed and demonic beings to ever live, that propelled Hollywood more emphatically into its support of the war, making WWII even moreso than WWI an interesting period to look at cinematically. While it was a Japanese attack that pulled America directly into battle, it was Naziism that more accurately identified the threat of the times. Yet, after the tragedies and losses of the Great War, there was a still a hesitant skepticism about entering into another foreign battle. Not surprisingly, most early support was coming from British actors like Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh, whose homeland was already suffering graphic actualities that America was only theoretically pondering. Then, the eternal day of infamy arrived at Pearl Harbor and erased all doubts. America went to war with a vigor that has yet to be matched.

A very vocal spokesperson at the beginning of America's entrance into WWII was Carole Lombard (selling bonds, left). Everyone's favorite and most beautiful kook definitely had a serious side when it came to Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. She gave her staunch support to the cause and went on a nationwide war bond tour for which she was able to raise over $2 million in one day. Her shocking death while on her way home from this tour had a great impact on the American people in general but most specifically on her Hollywood friends. Jack Benny couldn't even bring himself to perform his radio show when he heard the news. Respectfully, Carole was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by FDR and given the notoriety of being the first woman killed in the line of duty. Carole had been prodding husband Clark Gable to enlist since before the war even began, but he-- fearing that he was not cut out for it-- had demurred. After her death and in honor of it, he did indeed enlist and, as many in his regiment would attest, started volunteering for the most dangerous missions. While fighting, he wore a locket containing the last remnants of his beloved wife: a few sparse pieces of her jewelry collected from the crash site.

Clark was not the only member of the Hollywood community to serve heroically. A large portion of the male actors fought, including Douglas Fairbanks, Jr (who enlisted before war was even declared), Henry Fonda, Glenn Ford, Robert Montgomery, Tyrone Power (right), David Niven, Alan Hale, Mickey Rooney, William Holden, etc. Jimmy Stewart, who had to sweet-talk his way into the war (due to the fact that he was underweight), would become the most decorated actor to ever serve his country. Directors like John Huston, George Stevens, and Frank Capra too contributed by going overseas and filming raw footage, which was subsequently compiled for newsreels and war documentaries. This is not to imply that these fellas were blithely fearless. The old paranoia remained, which is perhaps why Jack Warner, fearful that his studio would be misconstrued from the sky as an army base, had "LOCKHEED" painted on the roofs in large, bold letters. However, the war department demanded that he have the label removed. This was an obvious overreaction on the mogul's part, but there was reason to worry. War is a very real thing, after all. Leslie Howard became another Saint of the cause, joining Lombard, when he and sixteen others were shot down by the Germans when flying over the Bay of Biscay.

The women also did what they could in terms of entertaining the troops, participating in war bond rallies, and making public service announcements and war propaganda advertisements. Veronica Lake (right) participated in a memorable campaign that persuaded women to wear their hair up at the factories, where so many females were seeking employment during the war effort. It turns out, too many of their copied, peek-a-boo hairstyles were getting caught in the machines! War was about social fusion not fashion! (However, it could be argued that this was a mere publicity ploy to publicize Paramount's latest, sexy star). Actresses too encouraged their sisters to ration supplies, including their precious silk stockings. Rarely recalled, as well, is the fact that a young Audrey Hepburn was a courier for resistance fighters in Holland at this time. 

However, there were some men who were unable to serve due to various injuries, ailments, or simply their age. If these reasons were explained thoroughly enough by the press, the public forgave the trespasses, but there was occasional, savage hostility directed at the men whose absence from the front identified them as cowardly or emasculate. Errol Flynn irritatingly received a 4F classification from the army-- a crushing blow to such a screen hero-- due to the ravages of past and recurring illnesses. His lung was marred by an unmistakable shadow-- an effect of TB-- and he too suffered recurring bouts of malaria. There also were alleged problems with his heart, though it was only after he was refused entree into the army that it was truly broken. (He does his part for the effort in The Dawn Patrol with David Niven, left). John Wayne was too left out of the loop due to an old knee injury, and Van Johnson's recent car crash and head injury extricated him from combat. Left at home, these boys carried on the tradition of screen heroism, and their careers boomed as Hollywood churned out more and more patriotically themed films.

John Garfield was another macho guy, ironically left behind due to his weak heart. Frustrated by inactivity, he yearned for a way to do something special for the war effort. He decided to team up with friend Bette Davis (left, serving her autograph to a serviceman) to form the Hollywood Canteen, the dream oasis and dance hall for soldiers with a night off. Instead of cruising around to the nearest local bar, fighters lucky enough to have landed in Hollywood now had a chance to go to the infamous Canteen and talk to, be served by, and even dance with, some of the most famous stars of the silver screen. This memorable hot spot is but one of many examples of Hollywood's selflessness during the war. The way these different celebrities turned the spotlight away from themselves and onto the brave men serving their country added a great deal of gravity and character into an industry that had grown increasingly self-absorbed. The bugle sound of battle had awakened more than just a need to defend human rights; it had brought the city of angels down to earth. Movie stars making thousands upon thousands of dollars a picture were reminded of their good fortune. Thus, the immortals, the untouchables, made a conscious effort to repay a great debt to the viewers who basically allowed them their lavish privileges, and what's more, were fighting for them. Barbara Stanwyck, Ann Sheridan, Jennifer Jones, Marlene Dietrich, and Claudette Colbert were some of the many beautiful ladies who dedicated their time to the soldiers, sometimes dancing with them until their feet started to bleed! But, the men came too, and Gary Cooper, Cary Grant, and the Marx Brothers offered up jokes and laughs, chumming up to the brave men and doing their part. Before Tony Curtis became one of these elite, he came to the Canteen as a young navy officer to stare awestruck at such personalities. As such, John and Bette's landmark achievement became a Hollywood monument, (though it is rumored that Bette was a little overly patriotic in her attentions to some of the soldiers. Not that they complained).

The most dedicated and selfless offerings came from those stars who devoted their time to entertaining the troops. A majority of stars would make such a contribution, particularly to the local California army bases. Those who are truly noteworthy went overseas and into the heart of danger to bring a bit of home to the men abroad. Bob Hope's efforts are legendary as are Jack Benny's. But the army's number one girl during WWII was none other than Carole Landis (hitching a ride, right). The tom-boy knock-out was dedicated to the cause from the get-go, singing at bases, volunteering, and gamely donating both blood and money. She saw the war coming before it had reached American soil, and had even requested an acting job in England so that she could be closer to those who were already fighting. She earned her own pilot's license, hoping to enlist with the ATS, but she sadly withdrew when she learned that she would have to surrender her American citizenship, which was something the All-American-Girl was not apt to do. Her solution was to devote as much time as she could to "the boys." She remained as active as possible, and actually carried a trunk in her car filled with a variety of uniforms and wardrobe options for whichever random event should happen to claim her attention. She motored back and forth to countless benefits. By 1942, she was already made an honorary Colonel by Hollywood Post 43. She became a favorite of soldiers on leave, whom she honestly befriended. She offered up her beach house to them, and many a lucky gang found themselves taking a breather there and being served breakfast by Carole and her mother. (No funny business. She treated them as her own brothers, and they as their sister). Carole also always volunteered for the foxhole tours, which were considered the most dangerous. To her, the fellows here were the most in need.

Carole was aching to do more, and her most memorable gift to the servicemen came when she enlisted the help of actress Kay Francis, dancer Mitzi Mayfair, and comedienne Martha Raye to join her in a trip to entertain the troops stationed in Britain (all Four Jills in a Jeep, left). With her singing talents, the quadruple threat was a welcome relief to many young men whose first words to them often were, "I haven't seen an American girl in months!" Warm, fresh faces from home-sweet-home, and famous faces at that, were a dream come true in the hellish nightmare of war. Taking Cary Grant's advice to pack as many warm clothes as she possibly could, Carole and her talented retinue took on the dangerous task of spreading cheer with heart and courage. And it was dangerous. After a brief and unexpected stopover with the troops in Bermuda, the ladies traipsed on to England and later Africa. Carole documented her memories in a blue notebook that one friendly soldier gifted her early in her travels, which she would later turn into a book, and Fox would turn into a movie: Four Jills in a Jeep. However, this film, which does much to showcase the ladies' talents, does little to reveal the realities of the ordeals they went through. Carole would recall freezing nights, explosions that shook the girls to the bone and blew through their bedrooms, and life-threatening experiences-- such as a near-crash landing with the plane still ablaze! She and the ladies were once thrown into safety by some of their soldier friends, who protected their bodies from flying shrapnel. Though they donned their fancy duds on stage, where they performed a number of exhausting shows nearly every day, they wore army regulation clothing and boots on their off time, wherein they unglamorously clomped through the mud with the boys.

Carole's memories of the war and of the men she encountered would change her life and leave her with bittersweet feelings (with Mitzi at the Biskra Air Base, right). She committed herself fully, and at a cost (she would have recurring bouts of malaria and painful stomach ailments for the remainder of her short life). The height was meeting so many people, befriending them, and touching their lives; the downside was the pain of learning that they had been injured in battle or had lost their lives. Carole visited the hospitals devotedly, memorizing names, palling around with the nurses, and even refusing a private room when she herself became ill. When her tour was halted from proceeding further, Carole and Kay petitioned to Dwight Eisenhower himself for aid in allowing them to continue their mission to the frontline, come Hell or high water. He found it impossible to say no to them, and their persistence eventually got them to Africa. As tiring as the entire process was, doing eight shows a day over and over for thousands of men, traveling to strange and dangerous destinations, and getting little sleep, there was some time for fun. A few of her favorite soldiers took her and Mitzi especially around, showed them what remained of the wrecked local life, and indulged them in jitterbugging. Carole too found time for love, falling for soldier Thomas Wallace, and fulfilling what she must have believed was a patriotic duty in marrying him. The trials she had to get through merely to get this process done was arduous enough in wartime England, but with her usual persistence, a little luck, and the help of friends-- who offered up their wartime coupons, so she could buy a wedding dress-- she completed this ultimate fantasy on January 5, 1943. Another high point was being able to perform for the Queen of England. It was always Carole's singing finales that brought down the house. After four and a half months, Carole and her gal pals ended their unified journey. Carole would never forget it, nor the soldiers her.

Back at home, Carole motored on with radio work, filmmaking, writing her war memoirs, and continuing in her patriotic efforts-- even performing in the rain for an ecstatic public who came to see her. As the war ended-- and her storybook marriage to Tommy-- she found it hard to re-assimilate to the banal existence of a once again self serving Hollywood. It certainly contributed to the depression that would later claim her life. Perhaps she felt the impact of that brief moment of history a little too deeply. Perhaps her knowledge of it was simply more profound than so many others-- who had remained ignorantly comfortable on American shores-- to understand. Existing on war-torn terrain and returning to a land of glamour and phony prestige no longer seemed bearable. But then, this was not the total reason for her end. She had lived for the boys, and she would have continued to do so had it not been for other factors affecting her emotional life. Certainly, when she took her own life, she broke a million hearts. These hadn't been lads who had merely caught a glimpse of her, but those who shook her hand, knew her by her first name, had confided in her their fears, stories about their families, tragic tales about their battles, and the dreams that they had held for the future. (Carole sings in her favorite dress, in which she would also be buried, left). To say that she touched many lives would be the understatement of the century.

Ann Sheridan at the Hollywood Canteen.

Carole was one of the many who saw to it that, for once, this topsy-turvy world was inverted, and that honor was bestowed in the right place. During WWII especially, soldiers became the celebrities. They were the ones receiving admiration and unadulterated respect. That so many Hollywood personalities would step down from their ivory towers to make this known is still a mind-boggling and moving concept. This was an odd and unrepeatable moment of cohesion and certainty, which in our confused, modern world no longer makes sense. Normally our cinema reflects social turmoil, escapist fantasy, and the product of constant human questioning. Movies, thus, become the products of our disagreements. Rarely, as in these periods of war, it becomes instead of medium of complete agreement, when the living heart and the filmic heart beat in unison. When this moment ends, and our bickering continues-- our political debates and communal banter-- it only renders our artistic and actual freedom more perfect. Our ability to vocally, visually, and even vapidly express ourselves and the things that we always fight over, is the very thing we've always been fighting for. God Bless America and American Film!

MENTAL MONTAGE: Random Act(or)s of Kindness

The eternal Robin Hood, Errol Flynn, defends Olivia De Havilland's 

Maid Marian.

Our movie stars are our heroes. Whether fighting for true love, knocking the bad guys around, or even saving the world, they always come out on top, making us believe in our heart of hearts that somehow everything is going to be all right. Of course, after the director yells cut, these actors and actresses are brought back to earth with the rest of us, and their colossal onscreen efforts, more often than not, stand in sharp contrast to the normal, every day lives they lead. Thus, it is comforting to hear that someone we all admire is actually deserving of our admiration beyond the bounds of performance. The following stories introduce a slew of good deeds by our celebrity immortals, who in some way or other went above and beyond for their common man.

A little kindness goes a long way, so when a larger-than-life figure delivers a dose of goodness, it seems to speak in louder volumes than when the rest of us do it. There are certain individuals who used their power for good with regard to those beneath them on the totem pole. Par example: Robert Mitchum. The tough guy with a poet's heart (right) was always looking out for the little guy. When RKO cracked down on budgets and cut out donuts and coffee on the set for the cast and crew of 1951's His Kind of Woman, Bob was irked. He thought it was only fair that those who worked hard for the studio should-- at the very least-- get a good breakfast. Bob was known for being a hard worker and a punctual one, but he used his clout to needle the studio by coming to set late every morning after this. His reason? He was using studio time to shop for coffee and donuts for everyone on the set. It meant a lot to every one he worked with, and with the schedule lagging behind because of this minor heroism, the studio finally caved and returned donuts and coffee to the menu. Bob showed up for work on time from then on out.

Ingrid Bergman also lent a hand to a female co-star. Rhonda Fleming (left) worked with Ingrid during Spellbound, her first motion picture, with Hitchcock no less. Needless to say, she was a bit nervous, but she had no need to be. When she met the beautiful and illustrious Ingrid for the first time, Ingrid came up to her, shook her hand and said, "At last! Eyeball to eyeball!" Both of the women were tall, with Ingrid being 5'10" and Rhonda being 5'8", and the former was glad to not be hovering over the ingenue. They had few scenes together, but Rhonda got a chance to talk to Ingrid between takes. She confided that her young husband was overseas fighting in the second World War. Not long after, Ingrid would travel abroad to entertain the troops. When she landed in Germany, she made sure to look up Rhonda's husband and introduce herself, which was a real treat to him. She called Rhonda to tell her that her man was healthy and happy. It meant a lot to the young actress, and she worshipped Ingrid even more after that.

These helping hands on the professional level also extend to casting. More than one actor has aided a fellow struggling performer by insisting that he or she be given a certain role. Star of the Month Groucho Marx was instrumental in giving Marilyn Monroe her first big break. When casting began for Love Happy, the final of the Marx Brothers' films, three ingenues were brought in to audition for the role of the sexy client who comes knocking on Detective Sam Grunion's door (see right). The scene was brief, but it needed an eye-catching girl. So, the three women paraded in front of Groucho one at a time, and producer Lester Cowan asked which he preferred. Groucho replied, "You've gotta be kidding! How can you choose anyone else but that girl?!" He was of course, referring to Marilyn. He saw a potential in her, along with her extreme beauty, and gave her a major boost in her career. It was not the role of a lifetime, nor the one that would bring her notoriety, but with it she was able to increase her experience and her fan following. With Marilyn, it seems she was destined for fame, but without Groucho, who knows what would've happened?

Leslie Howard also had an opinion or two when it came time to cast The Petrified Forest (left) with Bette Davis. He had performed in the stage version with Humphrey Bogart on Broadway, and the two became good friends. Leslie was a bigger star at this point, but he was impressed with Bogie's talent and believed that his career would really take off if only given the chance. Initially, Warner Bros. didn't want Bogart to resume his role in the screen adaptation of the play, but Leslie used his star power to insist. In fact, he refused to appear in the film himself should Bogie be denied his rightful place opposite him. Humphrey indeed got the part, and though it was the later The Maltese Falcon that would push him over the edge into cinematic legend, he was forever grateful to his friend for this small favor. In fact, he would name his daughter Leslie Howard Bogart as a thank you.

Margaret Sullavan was equally instrumental in helping a young Jimmy Stewart in his early career. The two had met and dated briefly when Jimmy was stage-managing one of Margaret's plays. While she soon after rose to stardom via Only Yesterday and So Red the Rose, Jimmy was still feebly trying to make a name for himself. She never forgot the good-humored boy, though. So, when an opening came up for a male lead in Next Time We Love, she hand-picked him as her costar. The studio almost immediately reneged on the deal after seeing his inexperience in the dailies. Margaret fought for him though and rehearsed with him privately each night, (much as Barbara Stanwyck would do with the young William Holden during Golden Boy). Jimmy improved quickly and audiences responded to the pair. Margaret once again insisted on Jimmy when they re-teamed for The Shop Worn Angel. The film was such a hit, that MGM finally had to admit that they had quite the asset on their hands. Jimmy's star would continue rising thanks to performances in You Can't Take It with You and Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, but Jimmy might never have 'Gone to Hollywood' had it not been for one of his biggest fans and best friends-- many gossiped that the two were engaged in a lifelong, unconsummated love affair. Their four films together remain classics, including the most memorable, The Shop Around the Corner (right).

Not all of these gifts remain in the acting circle; sometimes the goodness these performers did extended far beyond the confines of the movie set. In fact, in certain cases the personal stances they made had moral implications. For example, when Grace Kelly was dining at The Stork Club in New York in the early '50s, she couldn't help but overhear a ruckus that was taking place in the restaurant. Apparently, the notorious and talented Josephine Baker was being denied entre due to her skin color. Grace was outraged! She rose from her chair, walked over to the commotion, grabbed Josephine by the hand, and stormed out, vowing never to return! Josephine, who was normally much more extroverted, (see left), was quite shocked to see the iconically placid ice queen playing the raging heroine! Grace proved to be an ally, and from that night on the strangers would indeed became good friends. Grace never did return to The Stork Club, and when Josephine died of a stroke in 1975, Grace continued her generosity by paying for her funeral expenses and arranging for her to be buried close by in Monaco.

John Garfield is often cited as the pre-method "method" actor, paving the way for Marlon Brando, Maureen Stapleton, and Eli Wallach with his raw intensity and honesty. These qualities followed him off the soundstage. Often playing edgy, hard-knock characters who yet maintained an uncanny likability, he was a bad boy that audiences embraced, much as they had James Cagney's anger fueled characterizations. The world that Garfield was raging against was the same one viewers existed in all the time in the real world. They trusted him, believing he would never let them down. They weren't wrong. When John (right) was called before the House Un-American Activities Committee as a witness, his career was put in jeapardy if he refused to "name names." However, just as in his films, John was no rat. He kept his lips sealed, refusing to throw any friends he had under the bus. Though he himself was not a communist, he believed that in America everyone should be entitled to the freedom of thought at the very least. He said, in effect, "No one likes a snitch." His career started to decline after this action, and he would pass away not much later in New York due to a heart attack, though many would claim it was HUAC and his treatment by the industry afterward that killed him. The legend of his acting and his courage has enabled him to have the last laugh.

There too are legitimate heroes and lifesavers in the world of cinema. John Gilbert was a swashbuckling lover onscreen, often saving actresses like Eleanor Boardman (left in Bardelys the Magnificent) or Norma Shearer from danger. However, in reality, it would be his own daughter, Leatrice Gilbert (Fountain) whose life he would legitimately save. John had divorced from Leatrice Joy in 1925 shortly after baby Leatrice was born. It left him brokenhearted. Because John was still in love with his ex-wife, it was often difficult for him to be around her, which put a great deal of distance between him and his daughter. However, he was always watching. One day, when living with her mother near the beach, Leatrice ventured out too far in the waves and began to drown. Before she knew what was happening, she was pulled back onto the beach. As she regained consciousness and got her bearings, she soon realized that the handsome rescuer looking down at her was her own father! John scolded her for swimming out too far, sent her back home to her mother, and disappeared almost like a dream. The man who had seemed so distant was in fact her guardian angel.

Finally, Lon Chaney was the soldier of pain for nearly the entire world. The underdogs, the hardened criminals with aching hearts, and the forgotten men were all represented by him (see his dark side, right, in The Blackbird). No one understood sorrow like Lon, and no one fought so hard to give his performances the vitality and brutality of the hard truth. Though very secretive in his private life, those who befriended and worked with him got to catch a glimpse of the kind and decent man behind the myth. Whether preparing Christmas cards for the entire lot or seeing to it that work always ended at five-- even if production was put behind schedule-- just to give the extras another paid day of work, he won the respect of many he met. It would have fooled many fans, whom were often left quaking in their boots, to know what a gentleman and gentle man he truly was. But Lon knew the power of his dark image and used it. For example, one day someone happened to pass him on the lot and saw that he was picking up a nest of fallen birds. Lon cupped the chirping creatures delicately in his hands and placed them gently back into their tree. When he saw that he was being watched he said, "Whatever you do, don't tell anyone. Everyone thinks I'm so hard-broiled, I'll never live it down!"

One more accurate example of heroism occurred when Lon was just starting out at Universal with Carl Laemmle. At this time, the many actors were sharing dressing rooms, which were small and cramped-- far from the lavish star apartments they would later become. In fact, at one point he and Jean Hersholt shared a dressing room! Universal City was like a happy home for these thespians. A unique and independent movie town, everybody knew everybody else. They were like family. It was not all fun and games however. Lon once passed the dressing room of a young actress, whom he must have heard weeping in pain. Upon investigation, he discovered that the girl was suffering the consequences of a botched abortion. The details of the occurrence are quite fuzzy, primarily because whatever happened, Lon kept a secret-- he was not one to gossip, particularly about the sad case of a troubled young girl-- but it is known that he saved her life. The girl had allegedly had an affair with a prominent, unnamed director, become pregnant, and tried to self-induce the abortion. Lon arrived in the nick of time, picked her up, and carried her to the studio hospital. Had he not been passing at that moment and offered his services to the distressed stranger, whose life was literally slipping away, she may have become yet another one of Hollywood tragedies. (Lon shows his softer side, left, with a gorgeous Joan Crawford in The Unknown).


Whether extending a hand to a friend in need or giving a boost to a complete stranger, these few stars proved themselves to be worthy of the iconic heroism often bestowed upon them by fans. Few knew about the behind-the-scenes gestures that made them flesh and blood champions, choosing instead to worship these golden idols for their cinematic performances. Both sides of the coin are admirable, but the aforementioned little bits of information make the magic they produced on the screen shine much more brightly. Perhaps the elusive "it" factor people can see echoing out from the eyes of their favorite personalities often has a great deal to do with the genuine goodness within.