MENTAL MONTAGE: The Sincerest Form of Flattery

Marlene, as an extreme personality- here in Blonde Venus-- 

was practically begging to be caricatured.

The struggle for fame and celebrity in Hollywood is a continual one. Even when someone has a few films under his belt and has a somewhat familiar face, the work that goes into maintaining his star status and position is more difficult than the public can ever imagine. Therefore, it naturally follows that no celeb is ever comfortable on his pedestal, which at any moment may topple. If he takes a break to blink, his moment may be over forever. From the outside, it looks easy, but to the one swimming upstream, it is impossible to ever utter the words, "I made it!" There is one tell-tale sign, however, to intimate that one has evolved past the cluster of "working actors" to the realm of bona fide "star," or perhaps even to the land of "legend." If you're popular enough to be mocked, heavily referenced, or flat-out imitated, you may have finally surmounted the curve. Today's stars can look forward to a lambast on "SNL" or "South Park," but before the days of television, there were only movies. Here are some stars who were big enough to be [mocked] in pictures.

The most obvious example is the hilarious haranguing of this month's muse, Marlene Dietrich, by one of the Queens of Comedy, Madeline Kahn, in Blazing Saddles (left). Mel Brooks's lampoon of the Western genre was derived from many classic films, including Dodge City, but the reference to Destry Rides Again never becomes more obvious than when Madeline takes the stage as Lili Von Schtupp. "Lili," one assumes, is a reference to one of Marlene's classic songs, "Lili Marleen" and "Schtupp" to... well, that's one Yiddish word everyone understands, I think. Madeline's every mannerism as Lili is clearly taken from the assertively sexual "Frenchy" that Marlene portrayed in Destry, and Madeline's impression of Marlene's accented speech is too humorously exaggerated and aped: "Oh, a wed wose..." Nothing is so spectacular as her rendition of the original song, "I'm So Tired." Her comedic expertise makes the performance more than a hammy imitation, it is genius. With Gene Wilder's so-quick-you'll-miss-it gun draw and Cleavon Little's confident and sly portrayal of the west's first black sheriff, there are few moments for one to draw breaths between laughs during the film, but it is Madeline's Marlene that takes the cake. As Marlene was still alive when the film was released, one wonders at her reaction, if she even saw it. Another screen beauty, Hedy Lamarr, gets a "shout out" as well, since Harvey Korman's character is named "Hedley Lamar." However, Hedy was not flattered, and sued Mel Brooks for what she considered to be the gross use of her name.

Another great parody comes via Carole Lombard in The Princess Comes Across. This screwball comedy is a mish-mash of mystery, murder, and maritime love. Carole portrays actress wannabe Wanda Nash who, in order to conceal her identity, pretends to be a Swedish princess (Olga) on her cruise to America, resulting in a lengthy, pitch-perfect send up of none other than Greta Garbo. From the moment Carole appears as Olga, beautiful, glamorous, and aloof, there is no question as to whom she is imitating. Her distant, irritated poise and uber-European accent-- "Dis is verry annoying..."-- draws an instant comparison to the eternal, gorgeous hermit who only wanted to "be alone." Of course, Carole is at her best when the mask comes off and her abrupt Brooklyn character has time to rant and fuss about the stress of maintaining her hidden identity and dealing with all those dead bodies that keep piling up on deck. A romance too ensues between Olga/Wanda and bandleader King Mantell, portrayed by a constant Carole co-star, (there's an alliteration for ya'), Fred MacMurray. Greta's very anti-social, dramatic, enigmatic, and slightly egotistical persona made her an easy person to duplicate, but through Carole's comedic expertise the likeness is exquisite (see right). With that special Carole stamp, we have a character who is part elegant and part kooky. For one great Hollywood screen goddess to portray another is superb, and the divide between the easy-going, deviant manner of Carole versus the otherworldy iciness of Garbo is both clear and divine.

In the film Monkey Business, Groucho, Chico, Zeppo, and Harpo Marx all used their singing skills and slight physical resemblance to Maurice Chevalier to comic effect. On yet another seafaring voyage, the four brothers are stow-aways (see left) who cause the usual amount of Marxian chaos and girl-chasing on their way to America. Groucho woos Thelma Todd, Zeppo befriends a pretty passenger, and Harpo and Chico step in as the vessel's very under-qualified barbers, all while evading capture and the anger of one very miffed gangster. After they make it across the Atlantic, they are left in a quandary: without passports, they will  be unable to disembark. Luckily, they swipe an ID from a passenger who coincidentally happens to be the Maurice Chevalier. One by one, they take turns offering the passport to the authorities, who of course doubt their identity. Forced to prove themselves as the French crooner and Lothario, they each sing the Chevalier classic, "You Brought a New Kind of Love to Me," only to be denied access to American soil for their very poor impersonations. Ironically, the deliberately mute Harpo comes closest to victory, as he lip syncs the verses to a recording strapped on his back, but a slight malfunction botches his liberation as well. However, as in all things Marx, all's well that ends crazily, and hats off to Maurice for the honorary mention.

A very direct homage was paid to everyone's favorite ghoul, Boris Karloff (right), as well. "Arsenic and Old Lace" was a play penned by Joseph Kesselring in the early '40s. The plot revolved around two lovable old ladies who perform the benevolent service of murdering old, lonely men past their prime-- somewhat akin to the way the Eskimos set their elder community members adrift, or so I've heard. Their plot is discovered by their nephew, Mortimer, who is in the midst of possible matrimony. As if the shock of blood on his sweet aunties' hands isn't enough, he too has to combat an uncle who thinks he's Teddy Roosevelt, and his brother Jonathan, another murdering criminal, who returns home with a new face to hide his identity. Unfortunately, the doctor who performed the plastic surgery was intoxicated during the operation, and Jonathan came out looking like... Boris Karloff. Of all the horrifying faces to be trapped with! Audiences totally responded to the joke, which obviously runs throughout the entire play. Of course, the real clincher was that Boris Karloff was playing the role of Jonathan himself! Sadly, for various contractual reasons, Boris was unable to participate in the film version of 1944, which starred Cary Grant as Mortimer and the capable Raymond Massey stepping in as the facially mutated Jonathan. Since the play and the film made Boris even more immortal than he already was, I suppose he had the last laugh.

Sometimes, in the quest for stardom, one starlet makes it over another by a hair. This was definitely the case with Veronica Lake, whose iconic 'do (left) made her a sensation in her own day and keeps her a legend in ours. Ronni's hair was her "thing," just like Marlene was known for her gams and Jimmy Durante was known for his schnoz. Articles were written about her mop's hygienic upkeep and daily grooming regimen, public service announcements for safety were made with her hair used as a prop, and countless jokes were made at her expense. Possessing a good sense of humor, Ronni took the jests in kind. After all, they only helped to boost her appeal. If it took her mane to keep her in the mainstream, then so be it. Yet another reference to her famous tresses was made in Billy Wilder's first directorial effort, The Major and the Minor. Ginger Rogers, in yet another case of hidden identity, runs into trouble when she cannot afford an adult train ticket, which causes her to pose as an adolescent for cheaper fare. Unfortunately, she gets mixed up with, and sexually attracted to, fellow traveler Ray Milland while in disguise and winds up at his military academy still portraying a precocious pre-teen. Forced to attend a junior dance, she encounters a room full of young women who "all think they're Veronica Lake": cue camera pan to a row of seated girls with their faces half-covered in hair. It is a priceless guffaw that is typical of Wilder's comedies. Not only was it a fantastic gag at the time, but this small, hilarious reference also places it firmly in its timeline when modern viewers watch it today.

Speaking of sexpots... Marilyn Monroe topped them all (right). Her star power would be exemplified ad nauseum during her life, as it continues to be in her death, but interestingly it too was brought to life via Jack Lemmon. The two had worked together in the film Some Like It Hot, and while the consummately professional Jack was a little put off by Marilyn's at times erratic behavior, he could not deny her inexplicable charisma and warmth, which in the end gave him a soft spot for her. A year later, now as one of Billy Wilder's favorite actors, Jack was given the leading role in The Apartment opposite Shirley MacLaine. Acclaimed for its comedy and sympathy, it in a way reunited Jack with his conflicted friend when one particular scene pays homage to Marilyn-- although, since Billy too worked with Marilyn, this was a way of professionally tipping his hat to her screen power despite their post-Hot feud. Early in the film, Jack's C.C. Baxter is called by work colleague Joe Dobisch (Ray Walston), who is in a frenzy, because he just picked up a girl and has nowhere to take her for a sexual rendezvous. Since Baxter's apartment has become the go-to for cheating spouses, Joe asks for the use of his digs. When Baxter begs off so he can rest, Joe becomes adamant. The girl, he insists, is exceptional: "She looks like Marilyn Monroe!" With that, how can Baxter refuse? He gives up his room so that his work superior can live out every man's fantasy-- or at least as close as a guy like him will ever get. "Marilyn" and "Monroe" were apparantly the secret passwords.

  

Marilyn co-operated in another public celeb kudos earlier in her career when she starred in How to Marry a Millionaire, however Lauren Bacall rightfully maintains the bulk of the credit. The movie, of course, is about three lovely but struggling young women (Lauren, Marilyn, and Betty Grable) who are Hell-bent and determined to marry well to rich men. In the film, Lauren befriends the elder but always gentlemanly William Powell, who resists her advances due to their May-December age gap, yet later decides to court her in earnest (see left). In doing so, the other two gals question Lauren's choice-- he is old after all. But, Lauren rebuffs their quips by making an example of all of the handsome older men in the world: "I've always liked older men. Look at Roosevelt, look at Churchill. Look at that old fellow what's-his-name in The African Queen. Absolutely crazy about him!" In this case, the crack wasn't just business, it was personal, for in real life Lauren was already married to Queen star Humphrey Bogart-- her senior by nearly 25 years. One imagines he found the cinematic joke hilarious and, of course, appreciated the extra publicity.

Lauren Bacall enjoys a day off with her "old man."

STAR OF THE MONTH: Lucille Ball

Lucille Desiree Ball

John Lennon once said that in the world of music, "Before Elvis, there was nothing."  I suppose that it is safe to say, in the world of Television, Before Lucy... there was nothing. Though I normally choose to dedicate my articles to those who helped shape the film world, there can be no denying the impact that Lucy had on that new-fangled contraption called the TV set. Though she wasn't the first performer to appear on the small screen, she would become the biggest. Along with husband Desi Arnaz, Lucille Ball would redefine-- in fact invent-- the situation comedy. Due to her weekly accessibility to salivating viewers, she too would finally achieve the stardom and celebrity she had always craved. In order to be big, Lucy had to get small. In result, she remains one of the most famous and recognizable actresses that ever lived.

In her early career, Lucille was compared to blonde screwball Carole Lombard-- 

a good friend-- whom she closely resembles here (before she went red).

All was not rosy, however. Comedians are perhaps the best actors, adeptly using laughter to detract and distract from their own personal torments. The facade of the hilarious, romantic, and peachy-keen domestic bliss of Lucy and Ricky Ricardo is a testament to the talent of both Lucy and Desi-- whose marriage was crumbling even as their hit TV show was skyrocketing them to fame and fortune. For Lucy, pain and personal tragedy were more familiar that laughs and hijinks. She would spend her life outrunning, out-thinking, and flat-out mugging her way out of obscurity, poverty, and invisibility. A born leader with a one-track-mind kind of ambition since her youth, Lucille Ball always pushed past the downward spirals in life in the belief that achieving her dreams would erase all sorrow. The eldest of three children by Henry Durrell Ball and Desiree Evelyn Hunt, Lucy was the most effected by her father's early, shocking death to typhoid fever. She was then neglected the paternal love she so craved by her new step-father, the gruff Ed Peterson. Shuffled between her mother, her grandparents, and any relative that would have her, Lucy's tenderest years were spent on shaky ground. When she dreamed of the future-- of performing, of being an actress, of being a star-- it wasn't the fame or money that called to her so much as the need for security. Safety. To live without financial worry was incredibly important. To have the adulation of fans was a promise of love. Yet every time she reached a peak, she clutched madly at it, certain that she would lose her grip on the life for which she had fought so hard. This insecurity, the same that fueled her tireless work ethic, was also the one that sabotaged her happiness. Even after becoming the Lucy that we all know and love, she would cry to herself: "Why can't I be happy?"

In an early RKO bit part in Follow the Fleet with Fred and Ginge. 

As with many actors, Lucy's one blanket of safety from her own conflicting and destructive thoughts was performing. From an early age, she had a knack for it. Whether BS-ing her way through a job as a short order cook in her native Jamestown, NY, earning rave reviews for her thirteen-year-old debut in a local musical (for which she was compared to the Jeanne Eagles), or taking on any and every silly role flung her way once she reached Hollywood, when on stage, she was always able to (temporarily) put the blues behind her. But it wasn't easy. Lucy was hard to peg. A hard worker, she was attractive but not "gorgeous," though she did find early work as a model. Her odd ball energy made her difficult to categorize. The studios doubted her leading lady ability, normally casting her as the smart-mouthed best friend in films like Stage Door or tough cookies and bad girls in films like Dance Girl Dance. Her blink-and-you'll-miss-them roles opposite rising stars like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire at RKO were what kept food on the table, as well as her badly written, poorly produced clunkers that made her, as she called herself, "Queen of the Bs." Still, her performances were solid when given the chance. She holds her own against George Sanders and Boris Karloff in Lured, and in The Big Street, her complex and deeply felt portrayal of a crippled show-girl breaks your heart. Yet, after appearing opposite The Marx Brothers, The Stooges, and Hepburn and Tracy, the poor girl still couldn't get anywhere above the title. Time, diligence, and love would later change this.

A match made in Hollywood Heaven and 

Personal Hell: the tortured love of Lucy and Desi.

Lucille Ball was attracted to the handsome Cuban musician Desi Arnaz since the moment she saw him performing on stage in "Too Many Girls." When the two were cast in the film version of this hit, lightning struck them both. Five years her junior, there was something about the passionate, charismatic, and exotic man that fascinated her. Their relationship was tumultuous and full of jealousy from the get-go, but in the early stages this only fueled their infatuation. Quickly ditching the people they were with, their subsequent marriage was more of a dare or challenge than a well thought out plan. Lucille must have had a premonition of what was to come: she wore black to her wedding. Madly in love and angry as Hell most of the time, the two rarely saw each other, merely passing cars on the hill as Lucy drove off to work in the morning and Desi was arriving home from working the clubs the previous night. Affairs were numerous, mostly on Desi's side, but it is also speculated that Lucy dabbled herself. As she clawed for her career, she too fought for the solid family life that had always been denied her. It was like forcing square pegs into round holes-- with their mutual ambitions, a quiet domesticity was never in the cards. Lucy yearned for a child, but with Desi always travelling with his band, getting pregnant was next to impossible. The most she could hope for was her career. In this at least it can be said that the Arnaz's were in union. Despite their bickering, philandering, and contention, they equally recognized each other's talents. In 1951, they would get a chance to showcase them together.

In the Season One Episode "Lucy Does a TV Commercial," Lucy performed in what 

she recalled as the greatest comedic moment of her career-- 

pushing Vitameatavegamin with disastrous results.

Lucy was doing the radio show "My Favorite Husband" when, after much praise, the idea was born to turn it into a television program. Lucy was adamant that Desi replace Richard Denning as her husband and that the show be refashioned to suit his persona. With the help of producer Jess Oppenheimer, writers Bob Carroll and Madelyn Pugh, and CBS, many hours of blood, sweat, toil, and tears, brought about "I Love Lucy." All concerned worked tirelessly to take a shaky premise, constantly rewritten scripts, and an insecure, nitpicking leading lady-- whose perfectionism made her demanding one minute and left her in tears the next-- to create a pilot about a married couple whose relationship is constantly tested by the entertainer husband's patriarchal stances and the wife's madcap attempts to be a part of his show. The finished idea sold, and after some minor changes-- including casting an older landlord couple played by Vivian Vance and William Frawley-- the game was set. For 9 Seasons, "I Love Lucy" triumphed. Desi proved himself to be a gifted businessman, who spearheaded his own show's success, as well as that of other shows that would be produced at Desilu studios, (including "The Untouchables"). The show broke barriers by introducing an "interracial" couple, by showing a wedded couple in bed together (though their twins were pushed together and not legitimately a double), and by daring to have Lucy announce to Ricky that she was "pregnant"-- which at that time was as gasp-inducing as "Murphy Brown's" later out-of-wedlock pregnancy.

From Season 2's "The Operetta." Lucy had no humility or vanity 

when it came to comedy. She would do whatever it took.

On the screen, Ricky and Lucy were in love. Off screen, Lucy and Desi fought constantly, as did Vivian Vance and William Frawley, whose mutual antipathy was mirrored in a much more cushiony version through their characters. Yet, for the sake of the show, everyone grinned and bore it. Frawley gave up booze while filming, though his shakes are often painfully visible to the viewer. Vance, who was constantly undergoing emotional breakdowns, remained a strong force of reason whose keen perception of story helped forge stronger scripts. While originally Lucy was intimidated by Vance, once pulling her false lashes from her face because "Only Lucy has fake lashes on this show!" the two grew on each other. Lucy came to rely on Vance, and Vance grew to understand Lucy's outbursts as indicative of her raging vulnerabilities. Desi enjoyed his position at the studio, becoming very knowledgeable about everyone on staff, helping to expand the empire, and gaining a reputation as a great judge of talent. Yet, in the end, as the Lucy/Desi marriage fell apart, so too did the Ricardos. After the dueling duo could go no longer, they would divorce each other, and "I Love Lucy" would divorce itself from living rooms around the world.

With a constant collaborator (especially in later years), Bob Hope, 

in The Facts of Life.

By the end of "I Love Lucy," Lucille Ball was enough of an icon to retire, had she so wanted. Yet, the perpetual laborer in her continued on. She returned sans Desi in "The Lucy Show," (again with Vance), and later flew solo in "Here's Lucy!", but both shows failed to attract the same adoration. She too took on stage roles and returned to cinema opposite other aging contemporaries like Bob Hope. Her most lasting effort would be with Henry Fonda in Yours Mine and Ours, though she continued working ceaselessly until her death. Lucy, always superstitious, believed that the letters "AR" gave her luck. She herself would say that "Lucille Ball" was a nobody until she became an "Arnaz" and even moreso "Lucy Ricardo." After her divorce from Desi, she would marry comedian Gary Morton, perhaps in the hope that he would bring the same good vibrations. Yet, though Gary offered constancy, the vim and vigor of Desi was irreplaceable. Though horrible as husband and wife and lackluster as parents due to their obsessive careers (they would eventually have two children, Lucie and Desi, Jr), some theorize that Lucy and Desi never truly fell out of love with each other. Their lives were too deeply interconnected to completely split asunder. The best of them remains in the continuing syndication of their best-beloved hit. Even today, new generations fall under the Ricardos' spell.

A brilliant photo depicting the fascinating, mysterious

 duality of Lucille Ball. One perspective reveals her 

determination, the other her vulnerability.

The true honor, however, belongs to the adorable, rubber-faced, accident-prone, but ever-loving Lucy. In one being, she was both Beauty and Bananas. Goofing for her audiences, she hoped that some of the joy she gave would be returned to her; that her audiences' laughter would warm her. For this, she fought until her dying day. It would be easy to say that she was merely a ham, but in her performances there is great depth and awareness, which would allow the show to maintain its power even after the collapse of the nostalgic nuclear family and the heights of the feminist movement. Lucy has become one of the biggest female icons of all time, building her empire out of the tiny box that most actors feared. Her lasting impression is that of joy, of letting go, of finding the humor and innocence in every day life. Groucho Marx would once say that Lucy wasn't a comedienne, she was an actress. Some interpreted this as an insult, but I find it to be a precise observation. There was art in what Lucy did. Orson Welles would agree. When observing Lucy rehearse on her show, he openly stated that he was "watching the world's greatest actress." Her hard work continues to pay off. In black and white, the fiery red head with the big blue eyes continues her reign as the eternal Queen of Comedy. We still Love you Lucy.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Groucho Marx

Mama's serving up Turkey early this year with November's Star of the Month: Groucho Marx!!!

Groucho Marx: Overgrown Child and 

Man of a Thousand Disgraces!

There are several distinct personalities that stand out in cinematic history.  Bogey, Cagney, Chaplin, Ball... They were so much more than the characters they played, because they were characters themselves. One of the most outrageous members of this exclusive club was Groucho Marx, (though of course he wouldn't have wanted to be a member, right?). With his crew of brothers Chico, Harpo, Zeppo, and the behind-the-scenes Gummo, Groucho would be catapulted to stardom. His face remains instantly recognizable because he wisely marketed himself to be remembered. The brothers created distinctive stage names, adapted from a comic strip about "Sherlock-o," which made them stand out from their contemporaries. In addition, Groucho's notorious grease mustache, glasses, cigar, and dancing eyebrows forced the audiences of his time to recognize him whether they wanted to or not! As such, he remains firmly entrenched in our collective consciousness today, continuing to inspire modern comedians and incite modern audiences to laughter.

The original onscreen foursome:

Harpo, Groucho, Zeppo, and Chico

But Grouch' was much, much more than a shtick. He was the center and anchor of his brothers' chaotic antics, driving the plot along while confusing it at the same time. His quick-as-a-whip mind was always ready with a string of one-liners to follow any comment, and the hilarious daggers he threw continue to be repeated to this day: "I never forget a face, but in your case I'll make an exception." While Harpo frolicked like a merry elf, strumming his harp, and Chico sputtered out Italian nonsense while causing more, Groucho stood back with a look of disgust and annoyance on his face, batted his eyes at the pretty girls, and finally jumped into the comic fire with his bros, because what the Hell else was he gonna do? Their onscreen antics are uproarious, nonsensical, manic, and masterful. It is a wonder how their almost catastrophic imperfections came together so perfectly on the screen.

 Making music and mayhem in Animal Crackers,

while Margaret Dumont (center) looks on.

The group started out as four: Groucho, Chico, Harpo, and Zeppo. Their first five films at Paramount were big successes. Cocoanuts and Animal Crackers were actually adaptations of the stage shows that they had created and performed in NY after years of struggling and hard work. The magic key to their success was "the insult," which they found after they discovered that people laughed harder when they simply pointed out man's most obvious absurdities. Embarrassment, or witnessing someone else's embarrassment, mysteriously created a slew of guffaws. So, Groucho, in his time, became the king of witty puns, stingers, and zingers, delivering razor sharp observations and thumbing his nose at society with style. A slap in the face from one of Groucho's one-liners was thus a greatly sought after souvenir. After Zeppo stepped out of the act to pursue his own multitudinous goals, Groucho, Chico, and Harpo remained to make more films and more chaos over at MGM, thanks to Irving Thalberg. With A Night at the Opera, their careers skyrocketed once more, and with more discernible plot lines they were able to win back a waning audience.

 The remaining trio in A Day at the Races

Groucho, Chico, and Harpo.

Over the years, times changed and comedy did too, but no matter what else happened in the world, people could always depend on Groucho. He continued working in film without his brothers, appeared nightly in viewers' homes on NBC's "You Bet Your Life," (which helped to revolutionize the new phenomenon called Television), and performed in stage concerts and one man shows, being Grammy-nominated for a taped recording of his act "An Evening with Groucho." He too won an Oscar for his lifetime achievement in the film industry, and in his speech he made sure to thank his frequent co-star, the baffled and matronly Margaret Dumont, and his mother, Minnie, who had done so much to help all of her sons achieve their incredible success. Groucho passed away at the ripe old age of 86, still on top, still making people laugh, and still making goo-goo eyes at the dames. He truly was one of a kind, and the kind and decent man he was in his personal life-- though always cloaked behind his naughty persona-- only made him more deserving of the successes he was able to enjoy.

Laughter is the best medicine, they say, and with a Marx Brothers movie you always get more than one dose. It is impossible not to laugh, forget your worries, and get lost in the mayhem of such talented and good-hearted-- though miscreant-- men. Groucho stands alone as the ring-leader, lecher, bad dog, and mad child. One roll of the eyes and he's got you in the palm of his hand, then he says what most only wish they could say and somehow gets away with it. After all, someone has to do the dirty work!

PERSONAL NOTE: Confessions of a Gravehunter

I have decided to take a segue into the macabre this week, if you find graveyards macabre that is. I personally do not, but that shall become obvious throughout the following article. With Rudy as my inspiration for the month, I began thinking about his grave site at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, and how ardent fans still make their pilgrimages to see him every day. There is a mystifying quality to his crypt in the Cathedral Mausoleum, and legend has it that the ghost of the notorious "Lady in Black" still pays him visits as well as Rudy himself. It seems a bit odd for a ghost to haunt his or her own grave, if we indulge for a moment in the suspension of disbelief to give ourselves over to the idea of an afterlife, but cemeteries seem to be hot beds for unruly and restless spirits. Instead of reiterating the countless stories of specific hauntings, I thought that I would share with you a few of my own experiences. Having turned over nearly every stone in every cemetery in Los Angeles, I have more than one odd experience under my belt. Believe me or not, here are some of the best:


WESTWOOD MEMORIAL:


I'll begin with the most entertaining story. Westwood Memorial is one of the strangest cemeteries that I have come across. It is tucked behind a couple of skyscrapers in the middle of the city, situated in such an unlikely place that I drove up and down the street looking for it several times before realizing its less than obvious locale.  Once I found it, I was amazed at how small it was and yet how many of our fallen stars have landed there: Marilyn Monroe, Dean Martin, Natalie Wood, Jack Lemmon... I could go on, and on, and on. The nice thing about it is that it is an accepted tourist destination, so no one really minds if you're there taking pictures or just roaming around. You can't help but star gaze, after all, for every step you take lands you on someone famous.


One day I was there making a final trip to round off my list of the famous interred. It was a nice day, and I was listening to my ipod, which I normally never do at cemeteries, but this one is so lax it seemed appropriate. It turned out to be a fortunate decision. As I strolled around with my ipod on "shuffle," I came to Burt Lancaster's grave. After taking a moment to pay my respects, I snapped a shot and reached for my trusty list to see who was next. Right as my eyes hit the name "Carl Wilson," the song Good Vibrations came on my ipod. I froze for a second, with an "Oh my God" look on my face, and then I looked down. I was literally standing right on his stone! Needless to say, my eyes were bulging. I was quite tickled. I felt like this Beach Boy was just saying "Hi." Coincidence or not, the memory always makes me smile.

MOUNTAIN VIEW CEMETERY:


Now, despite the fact that I have become a sort of cemetery navigating expert, I can't deny that I quite often get lost, turned around, or just generally confused when covering new ground. Some of these graveyards are massive, and when visiting a new one I generally spend hours looking for just one person like a needle in a haystack. (Sometimes I think someone is playing games with me. Not cool). Sweating in the sun, climbing hills, searching for numbers and plots that don't seem to exhist... It gets quite exhausting. I'm pretty used to it by now and come prepared for every scavenger hunt, aware that it may take me all day, if not a few trips, to see everyone I want to see.

With this in mind, I made my trip up north to Mountain View. There was only one person on my list buried there, Superman George Reeves (right). For this reason, I delayed visiting for some time. It was a bit of a drive up to Pasadena, so I always found some excuse to put it off. One day, for no particular reason, I thought, "What the heck." So, into my car I went. All I knew was that he was buried in a mausoleum there. That's it. I expected to waste oodles of time bugging my eyes out for one little name but tried to focus on more pleasant thoughts. Now, in addition to getting lost in cemeteries, I must confess that I get lost in general. I get lost on my way home, on the way to a friend's house, on my way to places I've been a million times before. It's a problem-- driving in circles is kind of a curse with me. I expected as much with my drive up to Mountain View.


Thus, when I arrived unscathed, in record time, with not a wrong turn, I was a bit surprised to say the least. It was literally like I was driving to a place I had been a million times before. "Strange," I thought to myself warily. Once I pulled into the gates of the graveyard, I got a little intimidated. So much ground to cover, so little time. So, I thought, "Right or left?" For the Hell of it, I went right. I drove a pace and saw another side street to the right. "Should I take a chance and turn, or keep going?" I decided again to turn. There, behind the trees, was a mausoleum. I wasn't sure if it was the one I was looking for, but I thought I'd go for it. You gotta start somewhere.


I walked inside, and again wondered, "Right or left?" Both hallways looked menacing and long, so I decided to change it up and go left. As I strolled down the hallway, not a few steps, I saw something move beside me.  I jumped, like an idiot, only to realize that it was my own reflection in the mirror lining the wall. Catching my breath and laughing at myself, my eye was then attracted to something behind me in the mirror. Looking closer, I realized that it was an urn. An urn that said "Superman" in reverse. Gulp. I slowly turned around, and right before my eyes was the final resting place of George Reeves. Holy Moly. I didn't know what to do, so I just said, "Hi, George." This was one guy who really wanted to be found. Never have I ever been drawn so effortlessly to a grave.

HOME OF PEACE:


Despite the occasional "spooktacular" event like the aforementioned, cemeteries in general do not frighten me or ruffle my feathers. In fact, there has only been one cemetery that I can remember having a very foreboding presence. That was the Jewish graveyard, Home of Peace. This place serves as the eternal napping location of two Stooges, Curly and Shemp, and the illustrious Warner brothers. (Jack, needless to say, has his own large and separate plot outside the family crypt). The grounds of the cemetery didn't bother me, and I found it quite interesting that several of the graves were buried under  elevated, cement slabs. (I don't know if that is a normal practice within the faith or is purely a choice of the cemetery, but I am interested to know).

The real danger, I would soon discover, seemed to be lurking in the mausoleum. I went inside to see the Laemmle family crypt and a few others. I didn't feel too bad immediately upon entering, but then I was close to the door. However, the farther back I went into the building, the more I began to feel incredibly claustrophobic. I felt as though I were being watched, and so paranoid did I become that I began thinking crazy thoughts like, "They don't want me here..." I decided to pick up the pace a little, got a few shots, and saw that the last name on the list was Louis B. Mayer himself. Of course, he was interred allllll the way at the back of the building. Great.


I mustered the courage to take a quick run, and I do mean run, to the back, where I found his crypt. I didn't feel well at all. I can't say for sure that it was Louis the whole time that was following me around or making me ill at ease, but I know that the moment I locked eyes with the picture of him on his marble slab was the climax of my discomfort. This voyage was an early one of my ventures, so I knew little of LB other than that he was a big studio mogul. Strange as it sounds, though, my instinctual feelings were telling me: "I don't like this guy." After learning more about him and how he used MGM as his personal brothel, I can justify where those feeling were coming from, but then again, maybe I was just over-excited and making a mountain out of a mole-hill. I got my picture and ran like Hell. Real or imagined, that is the one cemetery I have never returned to.

*** I have had similar experiences when I am strangely affected by a particular grave either positively or negatively. Another example similar to the LB experience was when I met the devious Bugsy Segal in the Beth Olam Mausoleum. I referred to this event in my previous article on Elizabeth"The Black Dahlia" Short. However, occassionally, I have a happy meeting with a deceased friend. The first time I came to the Douglas Fairbanks, Sr. and Jr. monument, I was filled with a profound sense of happiness. I felt oddly right at home. I have returned there several times to sit, relax, and say "hi" to the Dougs.


GLENDALE FOREST LAWN:


This has got to be the most frustrating cemetery in creation! Everyone is there. Everyone! But, the majority of them are locked up tight in the Great Mausoleum where no mere mortal is ever allowed to tread. For this reason, Norma Shearer, Jean Harlow, Gable and Lombard, Wallace Reid, Lon Chaney, etc, ad nauseum, continue to evade me. Despite this, it is nice to go inside to see the jaw-dropping Last Supper Window and know that you are surrounded by the remnants of greatness, even if you can't see them.


On the grounds, which are more expansive than you can imagine, you can easily find Jimmy Stewart, Alla Nazimova, Spencer Tracy, and Errol Flynn.  However, there are some gardens that are restricted and though the Freedom Mausoleum is open to the public, all of its corridors are roped off on the main floor. It seems like such a waste that such places are forbidden, and all those who martyred themselves from the public are now guarded from their fans like precious jewels. Ironic, considering how hard most of them fought to achieve their fame. 


Now, a normal person would shrug her shoulders at such obstacles and give up; say "Oh, well. What does it matter?" Not I. Oh, no. Not by a long shot. What follows goes down in history as one of the craziest series of events in my life.

My umpteenth voyage to FLG began almost apathetically. I had just finished researching the great Mary Pickford (left), and I was dying to go pay my respects, but I knew that she was locked away tight, so making the trek to Glendale seemed pointless. Still, I decided to go. At least I knew that there were still plenty of peeps I could visit while there who were out in the open. Armed with nothing more than hope, and oodles of time, I went.







Upon arriving, I had become more determined. I started with the Freedom Mausoleum. Clara Bow is a favorite. I had been able to crane my neck down the hallway to peek at her resting place before, but had not gotten close enough for a good look. Suddenly, I felt empowered, as if Clara were saying, "Go for it, honey." I decided that this was my chance, caution be damned! So, peering around to see if there were any cameras or guards watching, I hopped the iron rope down her corridor and snapped a shot of her. And Alan Ladd... and Jeanette MacDonald, (you get the idea). Quick as a flash, I returned to the main hall, acting calm and casual of course-- "Who me? I was here the whole time." I sauntered down a bit to the alcove where Dorothy Dandridge was interred and re-enacted my previous shenanigans. Now, I was a bit nervous, because this whole time I had heard two men talking downstairs rather loudly. I thought, "Crap, I hope that's not security." Still, I finished my feat and voila! Victory!

Notice the shaky camera work, haha!

Done with the upstairs, I figured I would take a chance and wander downstairs, hoping that the gentlemen whom I'd heard conversing so animatedly were guests and not employees. But, as I hit the middle of the staircase, the voices suddenly stopped. Silence. It was like they had heard me coming and didn't want to be rude by continuing their noisy chat. Curious, I continued down, expecting to see or pass someone. There was no one there. I peered down the hallways and didn't see a single soul. Where had they gone? I would have heard the large doors open and close if they had exited, not to mention the fact that their voices would not have stopped so abruptly but would have audibly receded as they distanced themselves from the area. I got chills. Had I mistakenly witnessed a post-mortem convo? I like to tell myself that it was Chico (below) and Gummo Marx-- both buried below-- hamming it up, but that's purely my imagination. I only wish now that I could remember what the voices had been saying. Could have been explainable; could've been paranormal. Who knows?

Now, my favorite part. Riding high off my Freedom Mausoleum experiences, I felt like I was invinceable. I was surging with energy, feeling like something was cosmically locking into place. The cemetery, and its residents, were my friends today. It is hard to explain, but I felt a synchronicity, which gave me a little more courage when I headed over to see little Mary. When I made it over to her nook by the David statue, the best I hoped to accomplish was catching a glimpse of the original movie queen's grave over the surrounding wall. I rounded the corner past the Miracle of Life sculpture and froze in my tracks. The door to the garden, normally locked and bolted, was wide open! As it turned out, they were mowing the inner lawn that day. God bless coincidence, (though, I personally prefer to think that Mary was with me that day, guiding me to see her). Not wasting a second, I ran inside, crouched down, and got a shot of the elaborate bacchanal of a stone that housed Mary Pickford and her brother, sister, and mother. I was beaming! Then I realized, hey... Isn't Bogey in here too??? Worried that a groundskeeper would appear at any moment, I moved fast. I found the location of Humphrey Bogart's ashes, snapped a shot, flashed a grin, and decided not to press my luck. Out I went, having accomplished every possible goal I could have imagined!

Now looking back at all of these little adventures, I think that I was simply carried away, let my imagination run away with me, and created epic "hauntings" in my mind. I had probably experienced nothing more than my own nerves. Had you asked me at the time, though, I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that I had encountered other-worldly presences while roaming around the haven of their afterlives. Sometimes, the feelings I receive are positive, as if the people I admire are somehow communicating with me and accepting me as one of their own. Other times, I feel unnerved and desperately in need of an escape route. Either way, I get chills.


I don't claim to know what happens to us when we die, and there are plenty of times that I think I should have my head examined for any of my obsessive delvings into the past, which clearly seem to go too far. But, I cannot deny my own instincts. It only makes sense that in voyaging into the past, coming to know so many different personalities, and literally walking the streets were they lived, died, and lie, that some hint of who and what they were would reach out to me. If you spend the majority of your life looking for ghosts, you are bound to find at least one. I feel proud to say that more than one has found me.

MENTAL MONTAGE: Eerie Uncanny

Movie stars seem to have it made-- living lives of luxury, lying carefree on their bed of roses... However, every rose has its thorn, so imagine the sting! When we watch one of our shooting stars fall to earth, we ask ourselves how someone so "blessed" could come to such tragedy. At times, it seems that some people are just guided by a blacker fate. Odd premonitory events or strange post mortem occurrences often seal in our minds the image of a fallen idol as doomed from the start. In the wake of yet another demise-- that of Corey Haim-- here are a few examples of uncanny coincidences in celluloid history that seemed to echo the tragedies that have or would soon befall our Kings and Queens of the screen. These oddities beg the question, Is it all happenstance, or are we all entwined in some kind of twisted destiny?

THELMA TODD

In the film Monkey Business, Groucho Marx, as usual, filled his dialogues with puns, zingers, and one-liners that left audiences howling with laughter. With new leading lady, (and star of the month), Hot Toddy, he had a whole new bag of witticisms he could use to play off her beauty, sex appeal, and naughtiness. It is strange that one of the funniest bits in the film would later lose all of its hilarity.  

Monkey Business was already hitting close to home with Thelma. Her character is trapped in marriage to a gangster, just as she would be married to underworld pawn Pat DiCicco. Of course, she would later become involved with another mobster-- Lucky Luciano. However, this example of art-imitating-life is chicken feed. It is Groucho's line in the film that sends the real chill up the back of your neck:

• "You're a woman who's been getting nothing but dirty breaks. Well, we can clean and tighten your brakes, but you'll have to stay in the garage all night."

Four years after this film was released, Thelma would be found dead in her garage. The joke is no longer funny. Hearing it now, one feels saddened and a bit uncomfortable. Odd coincidence or foreshadowing?

SHARON TATE

Roman Polanski, who was always something of a notorious figure, would become even more troubled and haunted after the brutal murder of his beautiful wife, Sharon Tate. Sharon was one of the many victims butchered by the demented "Manson Family" in 1969. Clearly disturbed by the loss, Polanski used his work to communicate his resulting inner demons. The violence he would inject into his later films seemed symbolic of his tortured memories. Some would speculate that Polanski was cursed for making the devil-themed film, Rosemary's Baby, which explored the impregnation of a woman by Satan himself. Perhaps in conversing with occult leader Anton LaVey, (for research during the production of the film), he inadvertently opened a door to a certain evil that would later claim his wife's life, and ironically, the life of his own unborn child.

However, this is all spiritual conjecture. It was later, while shooting his adaptation of The Tragedy of Macbeth, that a truly chilling and concrete episode occurred. In keeping with the most savage of Shakespeare's plays, the film was packed with violence, obsession, and blood. Indeed, during one sequence, much of the cast and many of the extras had to be covered in fake blood. One small girl, drenched head to toe in red, caught Roman's eye. A pretty little thing, the contrast of her innocent eyes and blood-caked face spoke to him. She seemed nervous and a bit frightened by the ensuing chaos, so he approached her, perhaps hoping to calm her. He then politely asked her name, to which she replied: "Sharon." One can only imagine his reaction, for his thoughts certainly went right to another blood-soaked beauty.

RIVER PHOENIX

Hollywood and every teenage girl alive mourned the loss of River Phoenix when he shockingly died of a drug overdose on Halloween morning of 1993. A promising young actor, River overcame many personal tragedies to arrive at super-stardom by giving performances filled with nuance and intelligence. However, all of the old ghosts who remained locked in the back of his mind, ones he never really faced or dealt with-- mostly because they involved misuse by his own family-- drove him to bury himself unnecessarily in drugs and alcohol. Had he received counseling or been supported by a stronger system, his life may have been a very different story.

Or would it? It seemed that River was hexed from the start, not through any kind of magic or voodoo, but by his very name. It would take time for people to make the connection after River collapsed outside The Viper Room in Hollywood-- supposedly after receiving a bad "hit" from personal friend, John Frusciante of the Red Hot Chili Peppers-- but an anagram of River's name spelled out his very doom: River Phoenix = Viper Heroin X.

JUDY GARLAND

When Judy Garland began making films, audiences were immediately charmed by the awkward little girl with the big voice. However, it wasn't until she had her world turned upside down by a tornado in The Wizard of Oz that she really took Hollywood by storm. This film changed her life, and despite all of the ups and downs that would follow, she would always remember the making of this film as one of the highlights of her career, as well as one of the fondest memories of her life.

Judy would go on to make many movies and sing many songs, but it was "Over the Rainbow" that sealed her forever in the American heart. Despite her addictions to drugs and alcohol, people could never really turn their backs on her. They always recalled the nervous and vulnerable child underneath, who-- at heart-- just wanted to go home. We lost Judy far too soon, but she will live on forever because of her participation in one of the greatest films of all time. I think she knew this too. Fittingly, on the day of her death a tornado swept through Kansas. Perhaps this was Judy taking her final bow... She certainly liked to go out big.

JOHN BARRYMORE

John had a select pack of pals that he regularly spent his time with. This tight-knit group included the likes of artists (John Decker), actors (John Carradine), and writers (Ben Hecht). One such comrade was Gene Fowler-- intellectual and journalist extraordinaire. As with all of John's friends, Gene respected and adored John, and was devastated when he saw "the great profile's" physical and mental condition crumbling. John was a tough man to love, but those who knew him best stuck by him and remained loyal to the man beneath the monster.

One of John's most cherished possessions was a cuckoo clock that sat in his Beverly Hills home. It had ceased to work long ago, but it remained sitting against the wall for guests to admire. When John passed away on May 29, 1942, Gene (right) thought it befitting to set the time on John's beloved clock to his time of death at 10:20pm, forever immortalizing that fateful hour. However, when Gene approached the dial, he froze. The clock already read 10:20! Strangely, John and his clock had died at the same time, only years apart. Was the cuckoo eerily predicting the hour of John's passing?

Hollywood offers glamour, prestige, adulation, wealth, and a variety of other assorted splendors, but it seems that its underbelly is just as gruesome as its face is fair. Sometimes, the horrid events that take the world by storm seem almost preordained, for in looking back, you can find the signs screaming "Beware!" to the unwitting victims who walk the Boulevard of Broken Dreams. Too many take the chance of treading on this brittle path and suffer the consequences. Though their deaths serve as a shocking wake up call to us, we can only hope that they themselves are now finally able to rest in peace.