CAST-AWAYS: Red River

John Ireland and Monty Clift in Red River

Didja Know: that in Red River, the roles of Cherry Valance (John Ireland) and Matt Garth (Montgomery Clift) nearly went to Cary Grant and Gary Cooper respectively?! Can you imagine the competitive, scene-stealing machismo triple pack of John Wayne, Grant and Coop in one film!? I think the chemistry mixed better in the final product, don't you?

HISTORY LESSON: Man Enough? Part 3 - Method to Modern Times

Continued from Part One - The Silents and Part Two - The Studio Era: 

The Wild One was not a fantastic film all considered, but it remains interesting
for its incite into the angst of the youth culture in the 1950s. Brando's line in this
scene summed it all up. As he beats on the juke box, with a contemptuous
eye fixed on his surroundings, he's asked, "Hey, Johnny... What are you
rebelling against?" He replies: "Whaddya got?" Gold.

Guttural actors of passion, guts, and loins have been acting their hearts out in cinema since from its very advent. However, something different started happening as the 1940s transitioned to the 1950s. With World War II over, another battle was inevitable. Mercifully and mercilessly, this one would be “Cold.” Broken by the horrifying glimpse into man’s darkest chasms—the Holocaust, the Devil and/is Adolf Hitler, the American boys coming home in coffins—the United States lost its trust, and the word “united” stopped being aptly descriptive of the nation. The country would be divided, not between North and South, Republican from Democrat, or Caucasian from all others, but instead everyone from everything. This new paranoia naturally led to the red scare—the obsession regarding an impending war that was only theoretical. We sought to identify villains, weed them out, and destroy them before they could strike. Less focus was given to the “Commie Bastards” building missiles on the other side of the globe than to the silent threat hiding among us: the radicals, the divergents, and those threatening the sanctity of our fictional impenetrability. A skeptical eye was turned on every neighbor, and the witch hunts began.

The movies followed, both before and behind the scenes. As the Hollywood Ten were called before the bench of public opinion and hypocrisy, celebrities of the past were forced to confront the HUAC tribunal—The Father (Joseph McCarthy), The Son (Paranoia), and the Scapegoat. Those too proud to beg (Dalton Trumbo, Lester Cole) or those too petrified to argue (Elia Kazan, Robert Taylor), became the sacrificial lambs in the nation’s shamefully unfolding history. Most kept their heads down and stayed "polite" and non-political (Gary Cooper), some were scolded for their resistance and then silenced (Humphrey Bogart), but others flew into a rage of protest (John Huston, Gene Kelly), the same vigor within them that had drawn them to art hastening them to protect humanity. This created conflict on the screen; film noir grew even darker and the heightened paranoia punched up storylines. In the meantime, while Hollywood would continue to produce films starring the greats of the past, these men were aging. Audiences held onto them as necessities, guys indivisible from the very name America, but our hold on them was loosening. 

John Garfield, the wronged man in They
Made Me a Criminal.

New actors with fresh perspectives started to emerge. These guys came with a contrasting conscience to their macho forbears. John Garfield is often credited with paving the way for the method actors to come, his art being his lack of art. He was not a superhero, a cowboy, a villain, or a martyr. He was just a man, and he presented himself as such. He mumbled with streetwise, apathetic articulation, and his movements were natural and un-mannered. His prototype of masculine authenticity became a game-changer: each man is his own sinner and saint. Your worst enemy is not he at whom you point your judgmental finger, but the voice you hear in your head-- the one you are often too weak to combat. So, Garfield fell prey to both greed and his desire for Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice, played the underdog as the desperate boxer turned puppet in Body and Soul, and represented the wronged minority as the Jewish Dave Goldman in Gentleman’s Agreement.

Kirk Douglas as the unconscionable reporter in Billy Wilder's 
Ace in the Hole, one of his many shades of gray
morality pieces.

Film had always asked moral questions, but it had never penetrated the gauze of hypocrisy that simplified black and white philosophy to ask truly social questions. The distinction was no longer that of "Is this right or is this wrong," but "What does this say about us? What if there is no hero? What if there is no solution?" Hollywood doesn’t like open endings, sad endings, nor any package that is not cleanly wrapped. So, while the monarchs of the past—Gable, Wayne, Cooper—carried the torch of vintage Americana, actors like Garfield, Burt Lancaster, and Kirk Douglas acted as progressive, envelope-pushing phenoms of male complexity and rebellion, slowly paving the way for those others reacting to a changing world. Confinement is not acceptable to the male animal, and while some stayed behind, others would mature with their world, working to untie the knots that they had seen formed even in their own lifetime. Yet, the tug-of-war between the past (a lost era that can never be revisited) and the future (a horrifying but necessary prospect) would begin and end in one word: “Stella!”

Brando's Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named
Desire. His macrocosm of machismo would
knock the socks off Hollywood.

Marlon Brando killed Tinsel Town. After he ripped off her crown, it was no longer possible for the public to ignore her lies. Every new generation of man has a need to discover the world for himself, and such evolution necessitates demolishing the old images we had once so relied upon. The New Kids, those of the Stanislavsky or the Strasberg or whatever school, lashed out at their parents as all children do. They translated the world as they saw it, maturing into ungovernable, multifaceted anti-heroes performing only accidental heroics. Brando’s appearance as the cave man of humanity’s past in A Streetcar Named Desire unleashed a horridly brutal portrait of those theories of manhood that we had once held sacrosanct. He was a man unmannerly, primitively sexual, alcoholic, abusive, and even sadistic, all of these qualities simultaneously enclosing a scared boy desperately clinging to/rejecting his mother’s breast-- exemplified in the mother of his own child, Stella (Kim Stanley). He desires and is addicted to her earthy appeal, even supplicating himself before it, while shunning the pretense of the past, mercilessly raping false Hollywood’s personification in Blanche Dubois (Vivien Leigh). He makes her antiquity a joke. It was a savage way to bring us into a new era, but it worked.

Working alongside him were Montgomery Clift, Eli Wallach, Paul Newman, Steve McQueen, Ben Gazzara, James Dean, and Dennis Hopper. These artists in the early method days were like a jolt of adrenaline in the arm of America. While Hollywood tried to package them, they rebuffed the shackles of the star system by doing something different with their performances. They weren't playing to their audiences; they were playing their audiences. Neither enunciation nor dialogue were as important as internal and thus physical authenticity. Brando mumbled and tossed lines away. Clift spoke with his eyes and his body. Dean went to another planet, playing hide and seek with the camera, giving it the proverbial finger while making his audiences search for him and the truth. Newman defied his good looks by wearing a chip on his shoulder and letting his guts hang inside out-- the only man in known history to eat "fifty eggs" to prove a point. Actors suddenly weren't actors, they were people. In a return to the "every man" appeal of the silent days, stars were replaced with standard, every day guys, albeit with a little artistic elevation. 

Monty Clift, post-crash.

With an enthusiasm for the art that eclipsed the drive for celebrity, these actors seemed to resent themselves. Most openly admitted to an embarrassment over their chosen profession. A real man would be the men they pretended to be instead of being imitations. Their ego was hurt by society's definition of them as "pansies." Perhaps their reaction to this was a result of the fact that they were being more emotionally open than actors of the past. Yet, in their unapologetic tears and vulnerability, there was an aggression, a naked abandon, a sense of dissatisfaction and fear, which often revealed itself in moments of poetry. They were flawed men, and as such, they were relatable men. But, they were still men for other men to look up to. They took movie star status and brought it back down to earth. The polish was gone; the anger was still there. Clift perhaps embodied this best, as his great beauty and "movie star looks" were corrupted by his fatal crash. His life as his art, most specifically in A Place in the Sun, thus visually revealed what many instinctively felt-- that the American Dream was broken, and they were left the sons of its still perjuring manipulations. 




McQueen on the move in Bullitt.

Men were not portrayed as valiant fighters of the Flynn or Wayne variety. They were only accidental heroes. Brando's conflicted and bitter character in On the Waterfront had no desire for social glory. His own feelings of social rejection-- the boxer who didn't make it-- have made him disinterested in its salvation, until he finally stands up to the "the Man," Lee J. Cobb, to reclaim his integrity-- the only real thing a man has to hold onto. In keeping, Dean's Jett Rink in Giant starts out a buffoon chasing "the dream" and ends a ruined, despicable tycoon. An audience that understood his desperate rise and fall never withdrew its sympathy. McQueen did everything fast and hard, barely stopping for breath, sleeping his way through every beautiful woman's bed in every movie, rejecting his responsibility to them all in the desperate attempt to make The Great Escape from America's uncertain cobweb. No matter the struggle or his characters' flaws, the existential discontentment that followed him from film to film always made him a victim of circumstance. As in Papillon, he never stops trying to break from imprisonment. 

People needed this carnality. Men particularly were desperate to make such carnal howls. As young men were called to serve in the Vietnam War, their drafts arriving like preordered toe tags, there was plenty to scream about. As women grew more independent and feminism started taking a more assertive stand, the male position in the generally accepted patriarchy started to crumble. As society endured race riots, police brutality, the push toward desegregation, the arrival of the hippie, the metamorphosis of sock-hop rock 'n' roll to the Kinks early premonitions of Heavy Metal, the world seemed to be moving faster than it had since the 1920s without the nonchalance. Men onscreen began to inhabit all facets of the male human conundrum. His desire for love, and his desire to dominate; his quest for order and peace of mind, and his desire to escape the roots of his father. His brute force was supercharged but tempered with an increasing attraction to knowledge. A child of communal hysteria, he questioned the world around him. He defied it, and fell prey to it. The jig was up, and a new game was set: there is no peace on earth. Life is War is Hell, From Here to Eternity.

While Poitier's character in The Defiant Ones
still had to inevitably take a fall for "the
white man," Curtis, he also presented a
man morally superior and more
sympathetic than his partner
in crime.

Along with the surprising sensitivity these guys allowed to manifest in their performances-- Clift's jaw dropping and soulful performance in Lonelyhearts, Wallach's vengeful complexity in Baby Doll-- bigger issues were taking place than man's internal conflict. The camera turned outward as the actors turned inward. The world became the stage and its changing geography was mirrored on the screen. There suddenly emerged the minority voice in the person of Sidney Poitier. With the black man’s definition of masculinity on film as yet undefined-- previously only viewed as the segregated, submissive dog to the true, Caucasian male authority figure-- his windy path to absolution on film was yet to come. Sidney’s intelligence, poise, and natural command made him a worthy and acceptable vessel for all audience members to follow, and this initiated their Voyage Out of the deep dark forest of bigotry.  His instant charisma made him likable; the fact that he had the air of a gentleman and spoke in sophisticated "white man's speak" made him nonthreatening. His work-- The Defiant Ones, Porgy and Bess, Raisin in the Sun, Lilies of the Field, Patch of Blue, In the Heat of the Night-- presented him not as a cliche but as a man. While his skin color played a significant part in each role, it was not viewed as an unfortunate handicap that was to be pitied nor one that deserved condescension. He was an American trying to "make it" like any other citizen-- his biology so inconsequential that it made those who tried to use it against him the sorriest of villains. 

Spencer Tracy defends Darwin in
Inherit the Wind.

As this progress was made, the old school veterans tried to keep up. Spencer Tracy, always an actor with conscience-- a quality that haunted him in his private life-- approached groundbreaking material with his token respectful humility and uncanny intuition into the altercation of man's eternal maturation. In his films, he not only kept up with but outdid the rebel boys riding his coattails in Judgment at Nuremberg, Inherit the Wind, and Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, the first of which he acted opposite Clift, the last Poitier. Meanwhile, John Wayne entered darker territory, and as his conservative politics found resistance with the changing world, his characterizations became even more multifaceted than before. He went from tough on the outside, to tough through and through. His work in True Grit and The Shootist did two things. One was to reveal his depths as an actor, which echoed the secret personal frustrations and bitterness as insecurity followed him into old age. The second was to reveal the lingering public need for icons-- the ones who had never let the world down during their Hollywood reign. Society sought that certainty, particularly the older generations, as the world around them became a thing they didn't recognize. Never was there such a clean split between age and beauty on the screen.  

Peck and Mitchum represent exaggerations of
two versions of the battling American male:
the Apple Pie man of morality vs. the
inner, untamed beast. 

As such, Clark Gable continued drawing fans to theaters to see his work in Mogambo and his wizened, vulnerable, and raw performance in The Misfits. Gary Cooper brought his usual understated pathos to High Noon, then shied away from provocative material to uphold his Mr. Deeds image. Mitchum always worked-- when he wasn't fishing, that is-- all the way into the '90s, performing in everything from The Night of the Hunter (1955) to Dead Man (1995). Gregory Peck held the badge of the eternal man of conscience, representing the soul of what America at least stood for-- or hoped to-- as Atticus Finch of To Kill a Mockingbird, and wrote his own cinematic doctrine by performing in topical or controversial pieces like On the Beach and The Boys from Brazil. He then proved his merit by pulling off a transition to horror in The Omen-- only a solid man of common sense as trusted as he could pull off the conflict of a reasonable man who comes to fear God through the acceptance of the Devil.

As these heroes died, retired, or were forgotten, the turmoil didn't cease. Men were left without giants and forced to reckon with themselves as cinema delved even deeper into the disturbances of the human psyche, his condition, and the complications of the world around him. The Kent State shootings, Patty Hearst and the SLA, Watergate, the Munich Massacre, Korea, Ted Bundy, the death of Morrison, the death of Hendrix, the death of Joplin, the death of Elvis... All these monumental crises chewed up the "glory, Hallelujah" of life and left man to reinterpret it's National Anthem as one big con. 

The Godfather opens with Vito Corleone almost immediately asking
for his son Michael. "Where's Michael?" He doesn't even share words 
with his son at his his daughter's wedding. Mistrustful of his eldest son 
Sonny,  he seeks the true family anchor to carry on his heavy burdens. 
These actors do not  have a genuine scene together until Pacino comes 
to Brando in the hospital and names him as his father,  stating, 
"I'm with you now."  Inheritance accepted. POETRY.

With the now absolutely dominant presence of television and the quickening informational capacity of the media, America was shrouded in mistrust and was Hell-bent on dismantling any still perpetuated delusions of grandeur. We are men; we are monsters. The method trend continued in two strains-- still real guys-- as activists or anarchists. Thus we witnessed the emergence of Dustin Hoffman's feminism in Tootsie and Kramer vs. Kramer and Robert De Niro's anti-christ in Taxi Driver and Raging Bull. Heroes were villains as they hadn't been since the '30s, and all were political. Who better to usher in these angst-ridden young men, seeking in vain to establish their misshapen identity than the Don himself-- he who had paved their way? Brando passed the torch to Al Pacino in The Godfather, and what followed on film was a new breed of man, violently tearing himself and his society down so he can build himself, and it, up again.

This anger began to dissipate in the hands of Ronald Reagan's 1980s optimism. America, in between battles for a time,  was determined to enjoy the economic boom and continue the progress of the '60s and '70s by turning itself into a big enough threat to keep all further mutinies, attacks, and depressions at bay. From the spring-board of the Jewish and Italian actors who populated the masculine screen in the last decade, Captain America was due to return-- our arrogance transforming itself into the muscular, one man heroes that only needed a gun to save the world (a trend started by Charles Bronson in Death Wish, and Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry, the bridge films to a new era). 

Arnold goes Commando; America is secure.

Regular guys with chips on their shoulders disappeared behind muscular Gods from Mt. Olympus. Stallone: the broken, underdog poet on a mission. Willis: the clown having "a very bad day." Gibson: the loose cannon, crazy enough to do anything. Cruise: the miniature but cocky pretty-boy whose belief in his own invincibility worked better than any firearm. And Schwarzenegger... Where did this human treasure come from? His Austrian accent only enhanced his status as a mythological creature: Conan the American. His unprecedented reign in everything from action to science fiction to comedy made him an unparalleled force in the industry. People loved him. Utterly. His gravity as a performer was never exactly earth-shattering, but his unabashed commitment to whatever battle he was fighting was. Say what you will about the guy-- he always went for it. America was safe under Arnold's watch. He had our back, and we knew we could trust him every time he uttered those eternal words, "I'll be back," and he always did come back again... Up until the new millennium we he found politics and we found iPhones.

Our heroes aged, only reappearing to mock their image or play on their past mammoth status-- mostly thanks to Stallone's still active imagination and business savvy, as evidenced in The Expendables. At the same time, the world was intruded by the world wide web. As the increasing technological forces at our fingertips became our new heroes, our fascination with human representatives diminished. Our art, our introspection, slowly lost its way while we personally downsized to smaller screens in separate universes, wherein we became our own idols. (For more on that subject, visit my past article YouTube Killed the Movie Star). 

Now we find ourselves in search of "men." As a reflection of society at large, where gender equality between men and women has become (arguably) more balanced, more negative/competitive attention is given to the "other-genders": the homosexuals, the transvestites, the transsexuals, and even living dolls. The emergence of these different strains of manhood and the slow acceptance of them has split the previously more "predictable sex" completely asunder. A Man is a Man isn't a Man anymore. Men are expected to be more emotionally mature, to be more participatory and open in relationships, and to make room for women, who have invaded and irreparably altered the work place, changing all pre-programmed existential strategy. Wife, baby, house: they no longer apply. Your girlfriend is working, she's not ready to have kids, and who the Hell can afford a house in this economy?!?!

This economic slight is perhaps the worst. The depression has made our men depressed. The inability of a man to be a provider is the greatest wound to his ego. A provider is the one thing that he historically must be and which has been consistently represented throughout his path on film. A man must earn-- legally or illegally. Now, men are either out of work or working at jobs that torture them at breakneck speeds for far too little compensation. This, in conjunction with media saturation and our current obsession with surface over substance, pressures him to be a body-conscious metro-sexual with a sweet car, (that he can't afford). 

Man is showcased as presentation-- hiding behind cool specs and wearing skinny jeans, because he doesn't know what else to do. At least, that is the way he is portrayed in advertisements or by the baby-faced, interchangeable pseudo-stars of today. "Men" are Zac Efron, Channing Tatum, singer turned "actor" Justin Timberlake, or that other guy from the inexplicable tragedy of Magic Mike... hold on, I have to look up his name... Alex Pettyfer? Whatever. He's so boring that I would rather watch two retarded hippos have sex than see anything he's in. Pretty, pretty presentations... Some of them try so hard to act, to come across with actual guts, but most of them are just nice guys who are nice looking and that's it. When they imitate the strong men they grew up with, it comes across as insincere and a little pathetic. We're far too cynical to take any of them seriously. As such, they have replaced 1940s wartime pin-ups to become our modern bimbos, a total sexism boomerang effect.

Instinctively, contemporary men reject their actors as physical embodiments of their threatened emasculation, and are consequently left without what they deem to be true representatives, which is why they reject the options placed before them. There are some standouts. Ryan Gosling gets away with what he does due to his taste for intriguing material and his tendency to keep quiet and underplay. (Is it minimalism, or is it just not acting? At least he keeps things interesting). Ryan Reynolds and Bradley Cooper have genuine chops, but they aren't taken seriously enough to be idols. DiCaprio keeps killing it due to his genuine talent and eagerness to take risks. Still, while men respect him, no one man-crushes on him like they once did Cruise. Mark Wahlberg will always be Marky Mark, with or without his funky bunch. Even Brad Pitt's Fight Club sheen has tarnished behind the public campaign he always seems to be waging to be "Look, I'm the Nicest Guy EVER!"

No.

The amped up versions of masculinity presented in the sorry excuses for action films over the last decade-- which are so nondescript and cliched that I can't really think of one right now-- aren't authentic. We rely on Willis to reappear with Die Hard sequels, or Stallone to pull another Rambo or Rocky out of his back pocket. Yet, today's men aren't bodybuilders, because they are expected to be lean-- and not fighting machines, but sex objects. They also can't relate to Dwayne "the Rock" Johnson or Vin Diesel because they are beefy doofuses. In truth, audiences can only tolerate an action hero when he's a superhero, because these are mutants and real men don't feel that they are capable of superhero-dom right now-- not after what happened to us on 9/11. Real guys walking through fire or being shot to Hell and surviving don't make sense after witnessing bodies dropping from the Twin Towers and subsequently watching the economy bleed. Such fictions insult our intelligence. As such, when good looking guys with empty heads put on the cape (Superman Returns, 2006) we don't care. When an actor with actual ability does and the material is darker, we are more apt to get on board (Man of Steel, 2013). 

In contrast to Bruce Wayne, the Joker dives into
the chaos, as this is what has made him what
he is. His indulgence in it is his antipathy for it,
a fact many could certainly relate to.

In truth, the superhero marathon we're still lazily championing has another effect. Thanks mostly to Christopher Nolan's work in the latest Batman franchise, the fantasy world of these masked crusaders has become more interesting. Christian Bale's Bruce Wayne is kind of an asshole in reality. He's self-obsessed. He loses the girl. His life is a self-inflicted curse... He has money, but what good does it do him? He consistently has to get out there and fight to defend his honor and save Gotham City, just as men put on their suits or khakis everyday and get out there and try to make a living and save the country from itself. Life sucks. Perhaps that is why people responded to Heath Ledger's joker with such passion... Being a hero isn't glamorous. It stinks. Robert Downey Jr's Iron Man could die at any moment, because of his defunct heart. The Hulk is the biggest loser ever and a bona fide freak. Thor lives on a boring planet that I wouldn't visit on my worst day. 

What is interesting about these films, aside from Captain America-- which didn't catch on because of the pretty boy problem-- is that the commendable acting when mixed with the machismo is what made all of its stars acceptable. Bale was an actor's actor before. People knew him as the guy from American Psycho. He puts on a cape, and suddenly he's the man. Downey became the comeback kid when he got clean and became Iron Man, going from public enemy number one to everyone's favorite movie star. If it weren't for Thor, there would be no Chris Hemsworth. He would have been one of the vanilla, interchangeable, revolving-door-duds on the cover of whatever constitutes today's internet "Tiger Beat." Similarly, everyone thought Matt Damon was a "pussy" until he became Jason Bourne. Men need the personifications of their complexities with a little flexing of muscle. They may not be he-men, but they're still men after all. Whatever "men" means these days...

Zach Galifianakis: modern hero lampooning
the superficiality of an industry that normally
wouldn't have him. Thank God for tough
times...

In truth, the biggest and most celebrated stars of today are the comedians-- coming full circle back to the silent comic days. Their modus operandi is different-- more vulgar and uncouth-- but losers who make us laugh are definitely on top in the industry game. Their masculine ineptitude gives men a cathartic sigh of relief from the pressures of contemporary narcissism and equally gives them permission to be a little screwed up right now. It's nice for them to see dudes just being "dudes." The appeal of the "Frat Pack" of Ben Stiller, Vince Vaughn, and the Wilson brothers may have died down, but one of the most iconic, oft-quoted, and beloved characters of the current generation is Will Ferrell's Anchorman, Ron Burgandy. Zac Galifianakis is cleaning up with his pot-bellied, pot-smoking, supporting characters-- who coincidentally look like they rarely bathe and sound like they didn't pass the second grade. The new bro-from-another-ho-team of Seth Rogan, Jonah Hill, Danny McBride, and James Franco scored box office gold last year with This is the End. 

This does feel like the end, doesn't it? Everyone feels totally screwed, and seeing actors playing losers, degenerates, selfish bastards, and social retards reflects the feelings of total disorder that mankind experiences on a daily basis. Every day is like The Hangover. "What happened last night? What happened yesterday morning? The day before? What's happening now?! Where did my life go?!?!" The picket fence, the pie in the sky, the childhood home you grew up in, are all relics of a nonexistent society. The most we can do... is laugh. 

With the return of our modernized Tramps to the forefront, the masculine onscreen presence is as cryptic as it has ever been. The absence of movie stars with the instant accessibility of Netflix streaming has also done some damage, as there is no hugely adored prototype of Americana to latch onto and label as the new "He." We have gifted actors like Daniel Day-Lewis and Joaquin Phoenix who do compelling work every once in awhile; we have Hugh Jackman trying to be Wolverine and Russell Crowe trying to hang tough, but neither pull it off, because we heard them both sing. And "sing."

Jon Hamm has won an equally adoring male and female audience through his
performance as the mysterious and conflicted Don Draper on the "Mad Men" 
television series-- TV being much more influential than cinema these days. 
Of course, his character exists in another time, which brings the fascination 
into question. What does the "business man" really look like today? 
Are our working men no better than those portrayed in 
The Wolf of Wall Street?

As man searches for his masculinity in modernity, trying to find that balance between personal, emotional security, intellectual stimulation, and faith in his government, we may be at a point where we have outgrown such distinctive representations of Manliness. We live in a world of big box-office flops and unique, unpopular independent films, which present many interesting stories about the struggle to just hang on. With so many voices trying to be heard, there may be no need for fictional, pinnacle male models to do the heavy lifting for their living brothers. As our world opens up, it too disconnects us. We are all introverts living on Instagram. Our films, therefore, present a myriad of faces and slices of life: individuals not communities. It's a strange sort of limbo. Where it will lead artistically, I don't know. But wherever humanity goes, the cinematic male archetype is certain to follow.

BITS OF COINCIDENCE: Part XIII

"Two of these girl are not like the others": This picture depicts 6 starlets

labeled as Paramount's upcoming ingenues. Four of them got

to Hollywood with a publicity lift. (Clockwise from top left:

Grace Bradley, Ann Sheridan, Katherine DeMille,

Wendy Barrie, Gertrude Michael, & Gail Patrick).

Ann Sheridan (left) had a little unexpected help getting to Hollywood-- unexpected because it was totally indirect. You see, the genesis of the "Contest to Fame" ploy goes back much further than today's "So You Think You Can Dance" and "The Voice" competitions, (give me a high-five if you think my pal Jessica Childress was totally robbed on the latter. For example, long before Clara Lou Sheridan's "Search for Beauty" win, another Paramount leading lady used a similar contest to get her ticket West: Clara Bow. Movie lover Clara won the Movie Picture Classics "Fame and Fortune Contest" of 1921, and many others would follow in her "Well, it's worth a shot" wake (see here). More importantly, it was because of the later, highly publicized contest for the casting of the "Panther Woman" in Island of Lost Souls that Paramount almost immediately instigated the next year's "Search for Beauty" contest. The amount of lovely talent that the studio was able to pick up from the "Panther Woman of America" hopefuls turned out to be a real coup!

Though only one woman could win, of course, the Lost Souls gag introduced Paramount to Grace Bradley, Gertrude Michael, and perhaps the most familiar, Gail Patrick-- known for her cleverly bitchy love-to-hate-her roles in My Man Godfrey and My Favorite Wife. All of the gals earned contracts due to their entries. Yet, the woman now forever known as the Panther Woman was Kathleen Burke (right), who would enjoy a fairly brief but memorable career-- in addition to her initial prize of a free five-week stay at the Ambassador Hotel-- because of her fortunate feline fame. Her sleek figure and large eyes definitely fit the bill for her first film role in Lost Souls. Another of her memorable works was the bizarre and iconic early horror film Murders at the Zoo. As a direct result of this pulchritudinous recruitment, Paramount stable initiatied the "Search for Beauty" contest, Ann's sister-- Kitty-- entered her photo into the mix, and Ann was chosen as a finalist and eventually became the only member of her pack of winners to obtain not only moderately successful but full-blown, movie star career. But, the joke was on Paramount, because it was Warner Brothers that would give that to her. Of course, Gail, Kathleen, and the girls had actually helped a bit too.

Discoveries are strange things. Some actors work for years or even decades before they attain a sliver of notoriety (or money) for their "cinespian" efforts. Then, there are those regular, every day people who are just minding their own business when show-business taps them on the shoulder-- see Lana Turner. Carole Lombard (left) was something in-between. She was "discovered" early, forgotten for some years, and finally able to force her way back into the industry. The almighty finger of fate that chose her future for her was attached to none other than director Allan Dwan, one of the biggest silent filmmakers in history. He just so happened to spot the 12-year-old Carole in her usual, tomboyish get-up playing pick-up baseball with her brother Stuart and some of the other neighborhood boys. It was serendipitous, because Allan was struggling to find a character just like Carole-- then called Jean Peters-- to play the role Monte Blue's kid sister in The Perfect Crime. As Allan watched Carole "knocking the Hell out of the other kids," he knew that he had found his girl. Carole was cast, much to her surprise and enjoyment, and though she only worked two days on the film, she considered the experience a blast. In fact, she decided then and there that an actress was just what she wanted to be! She had taken acting classes before, but it had only been in fun. Now, it was serious. After three years of nothin', Carole would re-enter the film biz-- first as Jane, then as Carol, then as Carole-- and after a lot of extra work and due paying, she got what she wanted: superstardom. Had Allan picked another girl that day, Carole might not have known that she was born to crack us up!

Joel McCrea (right) was one guy who got around. In addition to being William S. Hart's paper boy and good friend of fellow rodeo rider and future actor/governor Rex Bell (otherwise known as Mr. Bow), he also rubbed elbows with one of the most famous women in the history of film: Greta Garbo. It seems an unlikely pairing, if only because Garbo rarely rubbed anything with anyone, so much did she value her space and privacy. Joel's luck was catching an up-close glimpse of the Swedish Sphinx before she had become an American sensation and forever turned inward. In other words, he found her pre-jaded. At the age of fourteen, Joel was working as an extra and stunt double at MGM, and it just so happened that he was able to get a gig on the film that would be Greta's first American release-- Torrent. Interestingly enough, Joel was getting paid to be Greta's double on the film, which at the time,  he probably didn't see as too monumental, since no one really knew who Garbo was yet. If anything, it probably hurt his pride that he was playing a girl!

In any event, Jeol put his equal love of horses to work on the job, which was to "ride a horse onto the seen and pull him up so sharply that he would slide through the mud on his hind legs." This, Joel dutifully performed twice, but then, the surprisingly maternal and youthful Greta (left) insisted that she replace him. The stunt was too dangerous; he might be hurt! Joel was touched by her concern and dashing heroics, but he and the rest of the cast and crew were nonplussed with her resulting stunt work. It was Joel's performance in that sequence that made the final cut. Though Greta had tried to come to his aid, I guess you could say that it was actually Joel who helped her get her start in the American movie industry.

Myrna Loy also had some unexpected help from a Knight in Shining Armor-- or should I say, "Amour?" Myrna's dreams had not always been geared specifically toward film. In truth, she longed to be a dancer and had filled her childhood days by designing elaborate costumes and performing shows in her yard. Yet, by the time she was in her late teens, her dreams and her fate were starting to merge. She was working then as a dancer at the Egyptian Theatre when it hosted big premieres with live pre-shows and scenes. Then, in 1925, her grace and unusual features, which made the intelligent and well-bred girl from Montana look quite exotic (right), earned her a sitting with photographer Henry Waxmen, leading to her alluring figure and visage being on two-dimensional display on the Egyptian walls. 

Henry also kept these shots at his studio, of course, which is where heartthrob Rudolph Valentino (left) saw them. He knew in his heart that he had spotted a star! Myrna's misleading, vixen looks made Rudy think that she was perfect for the role of "Mary Drake" in his upcoming project, Cobra with Nita Naldi. He got her a screen test, which the untrained novice unfortunately bombed, and the role went to Gertrude Olmstead instead. Yet, Myrna had obviously made enough of an impression on both Rudy and his wife, Natacha Rambova, to earn herself a small role in the latter's pet project What Price Beauty?-- a satire on the cosmetics industry. Unfortunately, Rudy didn't turn out to be much of a Pygmalion, due to his shocking and early death the following year, but his small invitation to another world opened a door to the career Myrna was born for, and she did all right by herself-- from extra girl, to bit player, to supporting lead, to leading lady extraordinaire. (Interestingly, Myrna would remember Rudy as a happy-go-lucky, friendly guy while  she though Natacha seemed a bit of a slave-driver. Their marriage seemed more child-parent than husband-wife).

Ginger Rogers (right) was also the kind of person to help someone out, particularly family. This explains the brief cinematic career of her maternal cousin Helen Brown Nichols of Kansas City. Almost as soon as Ginger starting working steadily in feature films, she called on Helen and suggested that she try her hat at the acting biz too. Ginger offered more than entre, for she was the one who also suggested Helen's stage name, which was to be Phyllis Fraser. Phyllis didn't tarry in the biz too long, but the experience was certainly a stepping stone to other things, including her literary aspirations. However, there is another pseudo-relative of Ginger's in the famous Hollywood pool. 

You see, Ginger's aunt Jean Owens  was married to actor Vinton Hayworth. Vinton began working in films in the mid '30s and his impressive career extended to the end of his life in 1970. His most memorable work was on television, which included appearances on "Alfred Hitchcock Presents," "Green Acres," and "I Dream of Jeannie." Coincidentally, his natural niece was Rita Hayworth, his sister Volga's daughter! When Margarita Cansino made it big (see left), she took her mother's last name as part of her stage name, and Vinton, who up to this point had been performing as "Jack Arnold," made a lucrative decision and followed suit. While this doesn't make Rita and Ginger blood relatives, the matrimony of Vinton and Jean did unite these two ladies as cousins-in-law. Makes you wonder if they ever chit-chatted at family reunions...

Speaking of relations, Anne Baxter (right) sort of had art in her blood. The maternal granddaughter of Frank Lloyd Wright, the legendary architect, little Anne grew up with expectations for greatness and the notion that utilizing and sharing one's talents was a necessity. Anne saw her way to contribute to the family glory when she attended a play starring the always remarkable Helen Hayes. That was that. Acting was the thing. Of course, those acting classes with Maria Ouspenskaya also helped her along past the point of sheer willpower.  By the age of thirteen, the ambitious youth had appeared on Broadway! By the age of fifteen, she was auditioning for the role of "Becky Thatcher" in a cinematic adaptation of Tom Sawyer. Making this moment even more exciting to the wannabe ingenue was her scene partner in the screen test-- the eighteen-year-old Montgomery Clift! 

While Anne would recall that his perfect beauty was marked with a few pimples, she would admit that the blemishes did not detract from his already breath-taking handsomeness. Of course, Monty (left) was not to be outdone by Anne's resume. He had performed very successfully onstage, including his recent praised-- albeit brief-- performance in "Yr. Obedient Husband" as 'Lord Finch.' Coincidentally, the leading man in this play was Fredric March, who reflected years later that he knew right away that the hypnotic Monty was "going places." But, back to Anne... The duo got along swimmingly during the audition process, but unfortunately were not cast as Tom and Becky. Who was??? Exactly. Big mistake, casting directors. BIG. Anywho, Monty-- whom Anne recalled as being both "hyperactive" and "hypersincere"-- very courteously invited her to a show at Carnegie Hall to take the burn off the harsh slap in the face that they had both received. No matter, they would team up later with none other than Alfred Hitchcock in I Confess! Some years had passed, but both got where they were going, separately but together.

MENTAL MONTAGE: Psychotic Fanatics

Clara Bow arms herself against a dangerous threat (in Call Her Savage)!

A commonality most performers share is the need for love and attention. This desire, when misdirected, leads them to a life in front of the camera, wherein they are certain that they'll achieve the devotion and ardent admiration they so crave, thus making up for whatever vacancy they have in their lonely hearts. All too often, they get what they wish for and then some. Barraged by photographers, accosted en masse by crowds of people, and occasionally clawed and scratched by desperate, groping fans, more than one movie star had stopped to wonder what the Hell she has gotten herself into. Most people tend to simply admire and respect from afar when they find a screen persona that they somehow identify with. Others get a bit tearful and worshipful, hanging photos on their walls and perhaps even participating in a harmless bout of stalking in order to gain an in-the-flesh peep at their hero or perhaps his autograph. Still, others... Others go batty! The line between fact and fiction is completely blurred and fanaticism quickly turns to all out obsession. Here are a few hot stars that turned ice cold with fear when the love they sought on the big screen transitioned to something more sinister, or at least wildly unexpected:

At one point in time, Clara Bow (left) was the most popular movie star in the world. She and her male counterpart, Lon Chaney, were voted the two names most likely to sell tickets by theater owners across the nation. For the little, loveless girl from Brooklyn who had always wanted to "make it," life was now like a dream come true. But Clara soon saw the sour side of celebrity life, which manifested itself in multiple ways. One of the most peculiar things to grow accustomed to was the fan attention. Film celebrities were still a moderately new sensation by the 1920s. The public was familiar with the life-altering, screen presence phenomenon, but they were far from jaded, and their attention to their stars was vastly different from the more scathing and bitter focus we give our celebrities today. Thus, saying Clara was merely "famous" is an understatement. To the general public in her own time, Clara might as well have been God. 

A few people coincidentally deemed her as such, becoming so obsessed with her that life became a bit fearful. Before the days of the bodyguard, before the days when celebrity stalking was understood and more protected against, there were far more up close and personal threats that the average film celeb had to endure. For her part, Clara was once alarmed by a large, beefy blonde man from Iowa pounding on her door in the middle of the night. He had traveled a long way to tell Clara that he loved her and was not leaving until they were married. Another day, her secretary and friend Tui Lorraine was run off the road by two pursuant fans, who had been following Clara's car. They gents blazed off quickly when they realized that they had been stalking the wrong person, leaving Tui shaking in the driver's seat. Clara also received a mysterious note from "Mr. Rand" of the Secret Service, who claimed that a mental patient had escaped from Illinois State Hospital and was coming for her. The escapee believed that Clara had "the soul of a flying horse" and would soon "give birth to Jesus Christ." Ummm... The agent offered his protection. Only problem was that there was no Mr. Rand in the secret service. Paramount supplied Clara with hired guards instead.

The most notorious example of Clara's brush with celebrity obsession came via the dashing Robert Savage. Robert was a charming playboy from a prominent family in Connecticut. He was certainly the black sheep of the upper crust bunch, which he proved when he left behind the expected ivy league education to marry Ziegfeld girl Geneva Mitchell. Of course, even this coup wasn't enough for someone with his skewed ambition. He lacked the work ethic of a successful businessman but possessed the unstoppable desire for fame, money, glory, etc. As such, he wouldn't be satisfied until he had obtained the "It" girl. Through his conniving, he was able to gain an introduction through a mutual friend, and met up with Clara at her personal cabin for one of her parties. Clara was friendly, flirty, but her interest ended there. She though Robert was nice enough, but apparently she was turned off by the fact that he seemed to do nothing but talk about himself. She said "good bye," but it was far from the end. Robert publicly bragged that he and Clara had enjoyed much more than conversation, and that she had bit his lip so hard that it had bled. This only served to irritate the starlet, but things got worse. Robert started calling repeatedly, hounding Clara, and soon enough threatening that if she didn't see him, he would kill himself. Finally, after she'd had enough, Clara agreed to meet Robert for lunch, hoping she could at least calm him down. Instead, he picked her up and drove her to the marriage licence bureau. Clara's eyes bulged! Luckily, they arrived too late and were not joined in holy matrimony that day. When she begged him to leave her alone again, he staged an elaborate "prank." He wrote her a lovely poem, surrounded himself with Clara's photos, and then slit his wrists, allowing the blood to drizzle on Clara's picture. Of course, he had alerted his friends to what he was doing, so the cops showed up to find him smugly smoking a cigarette, "bleeding to death" on the couch. He was sentenced to a psych ward, but when brought before the jury, he admitted that he hadn't really wanted to kill himself, but had simply been trying to get Clara's attention. He vowed that he'd get it still! The case was thrown out of court. Luckily, Robert seemed to have sucked up enough of his fifteen minutes of fame, and after his family yanked him back in tow, he thankfully seemed to disappear from Clara's life.

Charlie Chaplin also endured a none-too-savory suicidal fan. In 1922, while in the midst of his affair with the ever dramatic Pola Negri (together right), he was confronted by Marina Varga, a Mexican spitfire of a woman, who had left her husband in Vera Cruz and crossed the border into the United States dressed as a boy in order to meet her true-true love, Chaplin. She went directly to the Chaplin Studios, where she was of course turned away, but then she showed up at his house. Somehow, she managed to sneak in, and while Charlie, Pola, and friends dined downstairs, she was found by his Japanese servant, Kono, lying comfortably in Charlie's bed dressed in his pajamas. Kono was clearly disturbed to find the strange, mentally uneven woman in his employer's room, but managed to calmly coax her back into her own clothes. He summoned Charlie from upstairs, and the comedian took on a serious tone, talking to Marina, calming her down, and eventually getting her to leave the house. As a naturally sympathetic soul, Charlie-- who was always in awe of his incomprehensible celebrity and effect on fans-- felt only pity toward the poor woman. His girlfriend, Pola, was much less entertained by the episode, which only made matters worse when Marina showed up again. This time, she staged a great death scene, decorating Charlie's porch with a smattering of roses, then sipping poison, and lying down to die on his lawn. Luckily, the poison wasn't really poison, and she had merely passed out from-- it appears-- her own hysteria. When she came to, she and Pola got into a nasty yelling match, which turned into a fight. At some point, Chaplin's concern for the whole thing seemed to turn to farce, for he later turned the water on the two women when they wouldn't cease their cat fight. The good news for Marina is that, while she didn't get Charlie, she did become front page news, and she gladly posed for a photographs for the press. She left Charlie alone afterward, which proves it was probably more the fame than ol' Chuck that she wanted in the first place.

Silent film cowboy William S. Hart (left) had another interesting altercation with a stalking female. An unlikely mark for a desirous woman, the lanky, eagle-faced actor was hardly what one would describe as a heart-throb. He still managed to make an effect, it seems. When in Chicago, Hart was in talks to contribute to what would later become known as United Artists with Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, Charlie Chaplin, and D.W. Griffith. (He later declined the offer). Joining him on his journey through the Windy City was, as always, his sister Mary and also tag-along pal Norma Talmadge. One day, the trio were sitting around the hotel suite, probably planning what to do with the rest of their day, when a strange woman unceremoniously swept in and interrupted their conversation. One can imagine the moment of silence and confusion as Bill, Mary, and Norma sat staring at the equally silent stranger, who gawked at Bill with eyes wide as saucers. Finally, after Bill addressed her, she stated: "I've come to take you home." Bill didn't know exactly where this lady thought 'home' was, but he didn't get too good of a feeling when he saw her menacingly reaching into her purse. Within a split second, Norma was ducking under a chair, Mary was reaching for a weapon-- a bottle-- and Bill quickly grabbed the woman gently on the arm and led her docile body out the door, which he promptly slammed behind her. And bolted. The scared group never learned what became of their strange visitor, nor did they discover what it was that she had had in that hand bag. 

Mary Pickford (right), as the first big movie star, knew better than anyone else the power that celebrity could hold. At its best, it was a tremendous benefit; at its worst, it was terrifying. Trying to learn why it was that so many people were interested in her and her life, why complete strangers adored her, was a difficult thing for her to wrap her mind around. She took on her role in the public eye with surprising responsibility and a bit of sadness: "I have learned that I do not belong to myself." Yet, this didn't mean that she was just going to roll over and let people do with her as they wanted. Most of her fans were harmless, including one homeless man who built a shrine to her in New York Park. His name was William Bartels, and he informed police officers that "America's Sweetheart" was truly his sweetheart. Of course, he too admitted that he and Mary were not yet on speaking terms. Then, alleged fan Edward Hemmer tried to extort money from Mary after he claimed that he had acted as a surrogate father to her during her youth. Mary didn't remember the guy, and had a court order filed to shut him up. 

Another event was much more bone-rattling. While Mary was traveling through Boston, she received letters for two weeks from a persistent man who claimed that he had information about a will. Clearly, this was fishy business, and Mary wasn't exactly hurting for money, so she chose to ignore the scam. Later, the author of the letters and his female companion were found camping outside Mary's hotel room door listening in. They were kicked out, of course, but only returned later. Mary's maid, God knows why, let the duo into her room, while Mary entertained guests in the sitting area. Perturbed, Mary left her friends and confronted the eerie duo, demanding that they leave at once! The man cowered, but the woman claimed that she had a "message" for Mary, and was there to offer "spiritual guidance." Mary clearly wasn't interested. She had them arrested. She believed that this was all part of a kidnapping scheme, and when she had to appear in court regarding their case, she had no qualms about letting them have it. The judge was surprised that he had to ask the red-faced pipsqueak to calm herself! Mary may have been small, but she was no shrinking violet. The religious duo never bothered her again.

Not all fan and star meetings were quite so threatening nor fearful. Some were just... surprising. Labeled as "The Screen's Most Perfect Lover," Wallace Reid (left) was constantly at the mercy of salivating women. To an outsider, this probably doesn't sound like an burdensome position for a person to be in, but it could be inconvenient. First of all, Wally was married to actress Dorothy Davenport, so the constant attention from the opposite sex was a bit stressful on the marriage. Thankfully, neither husband nor wife seemed to take it all too seriously. A charming, good-natured guy, Wally probably laughed off the majority of the adoring compliments sent his way. Yet, some of the "proposals" he received were more difficult to ignore than others. For example, he was ardently and persistently pursued by a high society matron who had fallen madly in love with him after seeing the handsome speedster in films like The Roaring Road. So infatuated was she that she wound up bribing his valet with $25,000 worth of jewelry for a mere peek at Wally's dressing room. She hoped to win at least one night of passion with Wally, and thus proceeded to woo him with love letters, expensive gifts, and photos of herself in the nude. She also sent him a mysterious key, which opened her boudoir. It was, needless to say, an open invitation. Wally RSVP'd, "No thanks." Other girls didn't have the same resources to get to Wally, although his employees were making a fortune off bribes that the desperate throngs offered to catch a glimpse of the star or see where he lived. He and Dorothy soon became accustomed to strange women popping out of hiding places in their home. They snuck in and hid under beds, in closets, cabinets, in the attic, the basement, and the garage. Wally and Dorothy were particularly shocked when a young girl popped out of the back seat of their car where she had been hiding under a blanket! Things were getting ridiculous, but since most of these lustful dames seemed harmless, Wally never took any major action to deter their infiltrations. It became a sort of running joke.

Carroll Baker (right) was also surprised by an unexpected guest. After giving birth to her first child, daughter Blanche Joy Garfein, (with no anesthesia, thank you very much), she was greeted by several fans within the hospital offering their congratulations. Mostly, everyone just wanted a peep at the "Baby Doll" with her new baby. Her entire delivery had been a bit of a production, being witnessed by several members of the staff including current medical students, who observed the event under the excuse of education. Afterward, while convalescing, Carroll's beautiful, personal moments was constantly interrupted with fellow patients and nurses stopping by to wish her well, despite the "Do Not Disturb" sign on her door. Since all a tired, new mother wants is peace and quiet, it was a bit irritating to say the least, but Carroll handled it well and appreciated the sentiment. Then, things took a more menacing turn. Late one night, around 10pm, Carroll was having trouble sleeping. She managed to waddle to the restroom in her open-backed gown, then re-entered her pitch black bedroom, where she was startled by a figure standing in her doorway. Leaning against the frame was a large man, grinning at her and eying her very bare legs. He also seemed to be holding something behind his back. Carroll panicked!  She dove for the intercom and screamed as loudly as she could. The man bolted, and the hospital staff and security came running to her defense! They never tracked down the intruder, who was clearly there long after visiting hours were over. Where he came from or how he got in was never discovered. BUT, they did find the stairwell where he made his escape. Also present was the bouquet of flowers he had been hiding behind his back. The card read: "To the Beautiful Baby Doll, from Your Fan." Carroll didn't mind the gift, but the giving had been a bit too much.

Monty Clift (left) was accosted by a somewhat unsettling fan, but as was his way, he found the episode much more entertaining than frightening. The predator in his story was a chubby, middle-aged German woman known only as "the Baroness." What she was the 'baroness' of remains a mystery. Apparently, she became totally fixated on Monty after witnessing his performance (and handsomeness) in films like The Search and A Place in the Sun. She had decided that she and Monty were meant to be married, and naturally she considered it her duty to find him and let him know that she was his soul mate. Thus, she traveled all the way from Europe to get to him, and wherever she stayed on her hunt, she covered her hotel room walls with his photos. She wrote the studios repeatedly asking for his address, but was strangely never answered. She finally made it to Beverly Hills, but was still unable to track Monty down, which is why she attended a press conference at the Beverly Hills Hotel where his former co-star Burt Lancaster was conversing with the press. When she brashly cried out and asked him where Monty lived, Burt raised and eyebrow and assured her that he hadn't the slightest idea. 

After eight months of stalking, the Baroness found herself in New York at Monty's brownstone. She knocked on the door, and when his assistant opened it, she caught a glimpse of her hero walking down the stairs. She was in awe and went into complete hysterics, throwing herself at his feet and weeping. Monty was floored... and confused. As he was personally undergoing his own mental and physical illnesses, he must have taken pity on the poor woman. As he had already wrapped on The Misfits, his acting career was pretty much over and, unbeknownst to him, time was winding down. He let the warped woman inside, and the two had a nice long talk, which turned into a friendship of sorts. She even let Monty read the journal that she had totally devoted to him, which he, of course, found fascinating. Monty was probably more intrigued by the woman's psychotic fixation than anything else, but she was allowed to come over for brunch from time to time, and Monty even gave her one of his silk shirts, which she religiously slept in until it was thread bare. To show her gratitude, Monty's "soul mate" even offered him the use of her brother, which implied that despite her feelings, she was aware of Monty's sexual proclivities. His reaction to this proposition must have been priceless, but he doesn't seem to have taken her up on it. In time, Monty introduced the Baroness to his mother, Sunny, whom he always enjoyed provoking. The Baroness introduced herself as her daughter-in-law. Sunny, suffice it to say, was not nearly as amused by the crazy woman as her son.

Sometimes crazy fans can come in handy, which is something both Bebe Daniels and Harry Richman discovered when they found themselves the recipients of Al Capone's steadfast loyalty. The allure of the mafia in the prohibition era is somewhat confusing today. Movie stars rubbing up against thieves and murderers??? In an "ignorance is bliss" kind of way, people abstractly admired these men of power, who were supplying them booze, while keeping themselves detached from the methods by which the Meyer Lanskys and Lucky Lucianos of the world did business. In addition, those who weren't so attracted to the power were fearful of winding up on the villain's bad side and played nice for their own safety, while maintaining a comfortable distance. Harry Richman fell into the former category, enjoying the attention and publicity that a relationship with Capone could offer. A "media whore" himself, who had for a time been engaged to Clara Bow (see right) for the fame it would offer him, this crooner was all about the angle and using any means necessary to stay in the press to become bigger and richer. For a time, he needed little help, with his own Club Richman doing hopping business for the well-to-do and his top hits like "I Can't Give You Anything But Love" and "Puttin' on the Ritz" maintaining his fan base. Capone was a fan, and he used to show up at the club at 17 West Fifty-Sixth Street often, always in his bullet-proof Rolls Royce with 32 bodyguards in toe. Capone was so appreciative of Richman's music that he offered him the greatest gift he could give: protection for life. Harry graciously accepted.

Bebe Daniels (left) on the other hand, was not too eager to hob-knob with known criminals, yet she too would reluctantly have Capone as an ally. When she was once traveling through the Midwest, she was shocked and upset to find that some of her expensive jewelry had been stolen. She, of course, reported the theft to the authorities, but the chances of ever seeing her priceless gems again were slim and she knew it. She resigned herself to their disappearance and hunkered down for the night. The next day, she received a surprise delivery. Her jewelry had been returned in toto on orders from Al Capone! How he knew they had been stolen in the first place, or how he knew where to go to obtain them, is left to history. But, for love of Bebe, an actress he clearly admired, he went the extra mile to see that justice was done. One wonders what form of intimidation he used on the original thief? It probably wasn't pretty... Then again, maybe he staged the whole thing simply to ingratiate himself to the starlet. Bebe certainly was glad to get her belongings back, but she couldn't help but feel a little uneasy with the knowledge that it was the most dastardly of fans that she had to thank for it. Not all that glitters is gold, particularly in Hollywood.