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.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Montgomery Clift

Montgomery Clift

There are certain actors and filmmakers I turn to when I want reassurance that cinema is indeed an art. Unfortunately, most of the gems I treasure most seem to belong to the films of yesteryear. One such muse is Montgomery Clift. Yet, the reason that his talent holds up is not because he stood out so well in his own time, nor that in comparison with the modern product of Hollywood that he has a nostalgic pull. Monty stands out because he is timeless. He stands out because he gave a damn and gave his all to his performances, which is an astounding fact that propels him up and above the majority of his past, present, and future peers into the level of genius. What Monty had that so many lack is integrity. His work mattered.

The 'integrity' of his work came first, over everything. He could easily have been tucked into the confining corner of "pretty boy," or starred as a romantic heart-throb in two-dimensional roles to inherit a hefty paycheck, but he refused. He could have acquiesced and played the Hollywood game for recognition and career security, but he would not. This is not an easy battle to fight, nor one that is often won. With Monty's poetic defiance there too was the heavy burden of his personal demons comingled with his personal sexual confusion, which handicapped but still could not fully sabotage his artistic intentions. Feeling an outsider in a world that demanded easy answers when he could offer only an honest mess of human complexity, Monty suffered under the weight of what he had to offer. Van Gogh cut off his ear to quiet the violent voices that conflicted public consensus. Monty's self-destruction was a similar, albeit slower, process of disintegration. His blade: drugs and alcohol. When comparing Monty in The Search to Monty in The Defector, one has to wonder, "Where did Monty go?" The easy answer is that, like James Dean, he died in a fatal car crash-- yet his corpse bravely carried on from the wreckage. The more difficult truth is that Monty was dying almost as soon as he was brought into the world. As with all of us, it was living that killed him.

Monty cuts his teeth with the famous Lunts in "There Shall Be No Night."

Montgomery Clift suffered from a raging case of the Smother Mothers. To her credit, Ethel "Sunny" Clift loved her children. Brooks was the first born, followed by twins "Sister" and Monty, and she adored them all. Due to the fact that Sunny was abandoned by her own parents, whom she later learned were Northern aristocrats torn asunder by conflicting families, she developed a bit of a superiority complex. Being adopted, she always felt displaced and was treated like an underdog. Her salvation was her determination, a quality she passed onto her younger son. She excelled in school, was passionate, and after she learned of her secret parentage, she became a bit of an elitist. She was determine to claim her rightful lineage and be acknowledged by her true family. As such, after she wed Bill Clift-- banker and later insurance man-- and bore his children, she lived in the mindset that she and her offspring were special. Even when the Nebraska-born brood experienced moments of poverty, she never let the illusion drop. Her token word of identification was "thoroughbred." She insisting on educating her children, home-schooling them so that they became fluent in German and French, and taking them abroad on lavish trips that instructed them on art and culture. Unarguably, Monty was her favorite. Her precocious, sensitive child, equally blessed with a handsome face, was treated like a prince... to a fault. He was isolated from children his own age, doted upon, and never allowed to seek out his independence or do anything for himself. His impulses were ignored, yet his actions were faultless. He was taught not to serve, but to be served. He never learned to stand on his own two feet. He was a prisoner in the ivory tower of his mother's own imagining.

The key to his escape was acting. A trip to Paris and a visit to the "Comedie Francais" lit his curiosity, and his eager and avaricious mind became ravenous for the ability to try on different lives, to live them out honestly and intensely, and to finally suck out all the marrow from this human experience that he had so been missing. This over-eager appetite would later cause him much trouble. Sunny was skeptical. Nice, refined boys didn't twiddle around in show-business. (She had hoped Monty would be a diplomat). Yet, after she saw him on stage, she acquiesced. He had something special. Brother Brooks too was never jealous of his younger brother's talent but was in awe of it. Many would remark on Monty's regal manner juxtaposed with his earthy realism. After a stint doing modeling, which he found achingly boring, Monty started making the rounds at casting offices as a young teen. He landed gigs in "Fly Away Home" and "Jubilee," always making a great impression on his audiences. His on stage presence was electric, and the attention to detail he put into his performances excited his peers as much as his viewers. Acting with such famed talents as Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne, he further cultivated his skill, determined to give his characters a natural and honest quality that made him a "Method" cultivator before the Method was even established. After his success in "There Shall Be No Night," Hollywood was frothing for the handsome, gifted actor, but Monty always demurred. The roles he was offered didn't compel him to make the move from the New York City stage, and the occasional trips he made to Hollywood always left him... un-enthused: "I don't want to be a slave."

The bookends of an era: Duke and Monty in Red River.

In time, however, he was wooed by none other than Howard Hawks, who was looking for a young, vital force to go mono e mone with John "Duke" Wayne in Red River. The opportunity to work with such a legendary director, as well as the challenge of working with such a well-established star, definitely peaked Monty's interest. He remained a difficult sell, but after he was able to swindle a sole, one-picture deal contract, he agreed to make the film. Duke was skeptical too, especially concerning their big fight sequence, until he saw Monty at work: "He can hold his own." The two were polar opposites on the definition of acting, and never got along off camera, but the tension and distinction between their two styles created just the juxtaposition between young and old that Hawks had been looking for. Thus, Monty Clift the "star" was born in a Western! Yet, he would actually debut in The Search, which was filmed second but released first. In this film, he brought great humor and heart to the role of a young American soldier who suddenly finds a 9-year-old Auschwitz refugee in his charge. He lived in an army engineer's unit outside Zurich to prepare for the role, and worked steadily at perfecting his soldier's gait. His efforts earned him an Academy Award nomination. With his smash successes in both films, the offers were pouring in. Stacks of scripts arrived to him, both for the stage and screen, but Monty remained particular. He dreamed of doing Chekhov and Shakespeare, of performing roles of real meat and substance,  none of that la-di-dah empty-headed stuff people were throwing at him. His resume slowly grew with The Heiress and The Big Lift , but it was A Place in the Sun-- a film Charlie Chaplin referred to as the "greatest film ever made about America"-- that sky-rocketed him into the stratosphere. It also introduced him to a little actress named Elizabeth Taylor.

Monty and Elizabeth "Bessie Mae" Taylor-- as he called her-- fool around on the back lot.

The relationship between Monty and Liz remains a fascination that warms the heart. As a real twin himself, Monty found an identical showbiz twin in Elizabeth. The two not only looked alike, but they shared the same brand of the childhood experience-- one bereft of independence. Liz had been the family breadwinner from a young age and had issues with her own parents that Monty fully understood. Expecting Liz to be an uptight, empty-headed movie diva, Monty was not enthused about working with her, but that all changed the first time they met. On a studio mandated publicity date, Monty escorted Liz to the premiere of The Heiress. She hopped in his limo, let out a string of obscenities, and melted Monty's heart. Here, clearly, was a beautiful woman trapped within the same game as he. Working together on A Place in the Sun, Elizabeth became grateful for Monty's encouragement, and labeled him as the first person to treat her like an actual human being capable of depth and thought. As her first mature role, the film changed her life. It was little secret that she fell desperately in love with Monty, and he in turn with she... in a way. The unity and loyalty they had for each other lasted the length of Monty's short life. But, it could never be consummated in the romantic sense. Monty, who yearned for a family and children, also knew that he was incapable of obtaining such things due to his confusing sexual preferences. He couldn't curse Liz to the kind of life he would provide her with, nor any other woman for that matter.

Monty was known for tearing his scripts apart with notes and analyses. 

He often cut much of his own dialogue in order to make his characters' 

words and responses more authentic.

A major instigator in Monty's doom was the fact that he never fully accepted his homosexuality. His conflict wasn't that he was forced to hide his true identity from the masses, but that he seemed to be secretly hiding it from himself. He nonchalantly engaged in affairs with both sexes, admitting that he preferred the company of women-- who always flocked around him as mother figures, friends, and hopeful lovers-- but that he was sexually attracted to men. But then, he had been raised an upstanding "thoroughbred," hadn't he? "Queers" were detestable, sub-human, or mentally unstable. He could never admit that he had this thing "wrong" with him. So, he led a double life. He put on the handsome, leading man persona for the general public, and then discreetly "cruised" for male companionship for more carnal pleasures. Many of his friends maintained after his death that they had no idea that he was gay, though they did recollect that he did seem to have random male companions in his company from time to time... In truth, Monty was a bit of a little-boy-lost. The friendships he made were very integral to his being for he feared the isolation of his youth. In the same vein, he too had to maintain a certain amount of authority and detachment. His friends were at his beck and call, but-- for the most part-- he could not be depended upon to deliver the same duty. He refused to be ensnared. He always seemed to attach himself to wedded couples, creating for himself a strange sort of asexual threesome-- mother-father-son-- including Kevin McCarthy and Augusta Dabney, Fred and Jean Green, the Karl Maldens, and the Lunts. In addition, he sought out women as mothers, to deliver the warmth and compassion that he had always craved from his own mother, yet this time delivered without a stifling, possessive quality. This he found in acting coach Mira Rostova, scandalous lover/mother Libby Holman, and later co-star Myrna Loy. He did have male friends, but he kept his true self at a distance for fear of the effect. He enjoyed palling around with Jack Larson, Thornton Wilder, and Frank Sinatra. Frank adored Monty during their stint in From Here to Eternity, but when he learned of Monty's sexual proclivities, he quickly distanced himself. It was just this brand of hurt that Monty sought to avoid.

In the midst of all the emotional and mental demons twisting around his insides, Monty hurled everything he had into his acting. For example, in From Here to Eternity, he learned to play the trumpet so that his throat and mouth movements matched the "Taps" soundtrack in the film. It was another triumph, and the equal beauty and ugliness he injected into each performance only further cemented his stellar reputation at the box-office. Unfortunately, the quiet moments disturbed him, and he often found himself disappearing in booze and an assortment of pills-- uppers or downers depending on his current need-- to quell his existential dementia. It was a far cry from the young man who used to refuse liquor because he drank "only milk" and wasn't allowed to eat candy, because it was "bad for [him]." The co-dependent relationship he forged with his therapist was also questionable. It seemed to many on the outside that Monty was being strung along by Dr. William Silverberg to feed the physician's own fantasies, a fact made blatantly clear when he urged Monty NOT to enter drug rehabilitation. Ironically, on the night of May 12, 1956, Monty hadn't been drinking when he suffered the greatest catastrophe of his life. After a night with Liz Taylor-- with whom he was shooting Rainree County-- Kevin McCarthy led the way down the steep hill from her home while Monty followed in his own car. Kevin watched in horror as Monty lost control of his vehicle, or perhaps even blacked out, and crashed into a telephone pole. Monty suffered a broken nose and jaw, a concussion, two of his teeth had been knocked out, and he too had severe cuts all over his face. However, he never underwent plastic surgery. His face was repaired as best as possible by the attending surgeon the night of his accident. While the swelling in his face went down,  his nose remained hooked and his mouth twisted.

Monty's brief, unpaid role in Judgment at Nuremberg earned him yet another Academy 

nomination and proved the depths of his talent. Still a perfectionist in characterization, 

he purposely got a bad haircut for the role. It remains one of the most brilliant 

pieces of acting ever caught on film.

Despite the devastating physical and emotional effects of the crash, Monty vowed to fight through the intense pain to finish his role in Raintree. He wasn't ready, and the stress he put on himself was painful for anyone to watch. Still, he made it through, but the film was not the sensation anyone had hoped it would be. Monty feared it would be his last piece as an actor-- who would want him anymore with this face? People were more intrigued by the picture to see how that face had changed and to see how their idol had fallen than to witness his usual talents. As he grew healthier, Monty saw that he was still wanted. He performed at Liz's bequest in Suddenly Last Summer and at Marlon Brando's in The Young Lions. He interpreted the depths of human heart break in Lonelyhearts. It became clear to everyone that his talent was still there, still palpable, and only improved since his personal tragedy. But the tragedy of his life finally started to claim him. His unresolved issues with his mother-- whom he loved and hated with seeming equal fervor-- his destroyed vanity, and his sexual confusion, all propelled his drug use. In fact, he was known as a bit of a pharmacist, who carried his own personal collection of pills in a secret bag. Everyone was in awe-- and shock-- at his medicinal knowledge: how he could name every pill under the sun, its uses, and its side effects like a walking encyclopedia. By the time he was called in to make The Misfits, the adoring Marilyn Monroe was forced to admit: "He's the only person I know who's in worse shape than I am."

Monty's health took a steep decline in the last ten years of his life. Severe pain in his back and jaw was soon joined by cataracts, hypothyroidism, and increasing paranoia. He had the body of a man twice his age. He seemed to stop caring-- his behavior becoming increasingly erratic and even despicable. He stopped hiding his sexuality, making it increasingly difficult for the publicity department to keep his actions from the press. Friends with whom he had once been so close now started pulling away from him, chased away by his antics and disruptive behavior. Mostly, they were tired of watching him kill himself. When Lorenzo James was hired as his secretary, he became determined to whip the disturbed actor into shape. He made progress, slowly cleaning him up, getting out of his hermetic cocoon, and weaning him off drugs, but it turned out to be too little too late. Monty was found dead in his bed on July 23, 1966 having died of occlusive coronary artery disease. The Prince was dead.

Clearly displaying the Jekyll and Hyde to his nature. Monty's beauty acted as a shield

from his internal issues. Once it was gone, his soul was quick to follow.

Where did Monty go? Friends must have asked themselves this question multiple times and must have blamed themselves for not doing more to help him. But Monty was so darn stubborn! He was as passionate in his personal convictions as his was in his professional. He built up high walls and refused to let anyone in. Yet, it was the conundrum in Montgomery Clift that made him so fascinating. He was incredibly evasive about himself, yet deeply invested and curious about others. He was secretive, yet probing; still, yet violent. He was a magnetic presence who kept the world at arm's length. He was a forceful and seductive personality, often ruffling the feathers of his directors with his own ideas and determinations, yet he was an incredibly sensitive soul, deeply mortified when reprimanded, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The dissenting voice in Monty's ear that questioned his sense of self always wore the face of his mother, whose protection indirectly deprived him of the sense of security and strength that could have made him not only a master of his craft but a master of his own life. The inner turmoil, the palpitations of his aching human heart, are felt in every performance he delivered, where he shamelessly martyred himself for whatever cause that he found worth fighting for. Each script released from him another chapter in the hefty tome that seemed to be weighing him down. He had so many stories left to tell when his book was abruptly closed. Yet, he managed to kick open a door to acting that had been slowly creaked ajar by his predecessors, and he changed the public expectation of film acting as art. Because he gave a damn, so did we, and so do we still, every time we seem him at work in the legacy he left behind.

MENTAL MONTAGE: The "Goodies"

Bette would wield her riding crop mightily in

Jezebel.

James Cagney believed that any actor worth his salt knows how to pepper his performances with "goodies"-- little bits of physical business that add flavors and layers to his characterizations. Subtle movements, ticks, or off-beat choices can take a flat featured role and turn it into a scene stealer. In any case, the difference between an actor who uses 'goodies' and one who doesn't is the same as the difference between an actor who fills out a role and one who simply walks through it. Some of the greatest movie stars of all time possessed commanding presences and pretty faces, but the best of the best were the ones who added a little seasoning to their already palatable onscreen dispositions. Here are a few acting dishes served up hot, which in less adept hands could have left some of cinema's most classic scenes as bland as lima beans.

Bette Davis is recalled as a first rate character actress who, by the way, was one of the only women in history to maintain this station while becoming a movie star. Her attractive but generally imperfect features set her apart from her contemporaries from the get-go, but her talent was able to surpass industry expectations by making her a box-office queen. In other words, for once, substance won out over superficiality-- no easy feat in Hollywood. In addition to her natural command and hypnotic presence, Bette had dance experience working in her favor. While watching her films, one is particularly aware of the way she uses her hands. She often relied upon finicky, twitched movements in the fingers to communicate her characters' inner turmoil while maintaining an outward, stone-cold countenance. In time, her use of various techniques would become less focused, but particularly under the guise of William Wyler, she put her gift for physical communication to great effect. When working on Jezebel, for example, William wanted Bette to create a signature move to indicate who "Julie" was to the audience. This was a puzzle. How was Bette to impart Julie's willfulness, sensuality, and brazenness in one stroke? It turns out, in one stroke was just how she did it. So, the first time the viewer is introduced to Julie, she hops off a horse, grabs the train of her habit with her riding crop, and seamlessly lifts it up over her shoulder. Now we know that Julie is a force to be reckoned with: a lady with the grace of a southern belle and the cocky impudence more readily acceptable in men. After this swift move, Julie carries on with her obstinacy, walking right into a social gathering still in her riding breeches. Bette took an inconsequential moment and made it a monument. From her first appearance, her character is solidified, which makes her undoing throughout the remaining course of the film even more fascinating to witness. (Bette and William enjoy lunch between takes, left).

Another director Bette enjoyed working with was Joseph L. Mankiewicz, who was known for getting supreme performances out of his leading ladies... and then some. In Bette's case, it was all business, and there was indeed one particular bit of business in their collaboration All About Eve that quickly and effectively cut through the armor of her theater diva "Margot Channing" and got to the woman beneath. This is where Joe's genius into the female psyche came into play: the only thing more important to a woman than love... is chocolate. He put this knowledge to good use. During the pre-party scene, Margot is already feeling threatened by sickening sycophant Eve Harrington (Anne Baxter), who seems to be wheedling her way into Margot's love life and stealing the attentions of her lover, Bill Simpson (Gary Merrill). When Margot descends the stairs, she interrupts the laughing Eve and Bill, and her insecurity as a woman is even further enhanced (see right). Eve departs, and Margot and Bill bicker. Bette was concerned about this-- her first real confrontational scene in the film-- and asked Joe: "What can we do so that it's not just a talky scene?" Solution: during the ensuing argument, Margot keeps pacing past a jar of chocolates, eying them, reaching for them, and denying herself every time. Finally, as the fight reaches a crescendo, and Margot is left unfulfilled and without reassurance from her distracted lover, she gives in and pops a chocolate into her mouth: ahhh, comfort. Since Margot is also an actress, Bette's contribution of the chocolate dance is doubly effective. An actress's body and appearance is particularly important. Since Margot's fading youth and good looks play a large part in Eve's usurpation of her theatrical throne, this moment of chocolatey bittersweetness is all the sweeter in that it indicates Margot's almost accepted decline. If everything is going to Hell anyway, she might as well take a cue from Marie Antoinette: "Let them eat cake!" Or in this case, cocoa.

Spencer Tracy was the king of characterization. Another performer who maintained his stardom while giving his all as an actor, Spence gave his roles many touches that elevated them beyond robotic line-readings. So effective and underhanded were his character choices, that he often stole the scene right out from under his fellow co-stars, including Claudette Colbert, who recalled acting her heart out in Boom Town only to find herself overlapped by Spence's adept subtly. While her ego was certainly bruised, her respect for Spence only grew. Myrna Loy and Clark Gable would also recall another act of celluloid robbery on the set of Test Pilot (left). It should be said that Spence's acting intuitions were also working hand in hand with the welcomed spirit of hijinks and one-up-manship he and Clark enjoyed throughout their working relationship. Spence was well aware of the fact that he was playing second fiddle to Gable's obviously handsome leading man. BUT, that didn't mean that he had to let Clark steal his thunder. Thus, he devised a plot to draw more attention to himself. During a scene in which Clark and Myrna had a back and forth going, Spence ran an approved idea past director Victor Fleming. Instead of just sitting there like a bump on a log during the scene, he would crack nuts. So, Myrna would say a line-- "crack"-- and Clark would say a line-- "crack." This way, while Spence's BFF character would normally be overlooked, he managed to continually draw the camera's attention to himself. This act of acting genius was also star strategy... and it worked. There Spence was, doing nothing but cracking nuts-- and simultaneously busting Clark's balls-- and he managed to steal the scene. Thus, tawdry pages of dialogue became much more interesting and comical.  The only character anyone pays attention to in the scene is Spence. Nutty, huh?

Spence's lady love Katherine Hepburn would also enjoy a superb cinematic moment, though the thanks for this "goody" goes to her director, George Stevens. Kate wasn't known for being a sex-kitten. Her previous roles and her demeanor may have insinuated a certain amount of girlishness, but sensuality certainly wasn't listed as a top priority in her acting. This is all part of what established her unlikely "type" in the business, but when it came to Woman of the Year, it was sex in particular that Stevens needed to sell. In order to get the audience to believe the affection and attraction between Spence and Kate in their first film together, which had to sustain the entire plot of the film, Kate was going to need to loosen up a little. The chemistry of the soon-to-be real life lovers was already present, but just because Spence was falling in love with Kate, didn't mean the rest of America would. George got an idea! Because Kate's character, "Tess Harding," was supposed to be a brainy take-charge female-- like herself-- the casting was perfect. Yet, the crux of the plot is that underneath all of her smarts and her controlled exterior, there is still a warm-blooded woman. Thus, George decided that the first time Spence's "Sam Craig" sees Tess, he wants there to be a palpable turn-on moment to humanize the otherwise cold, scholarly lady. He asked Kate, therefore, to show a little leg (right). Kate was reticent, but when Spence opens the door to an eye-full of Kate's gam, the look on his face says enough to express what no screenwriter could put into words. From the get-go, Sam wants Tess, and now the audience knows why. With their relationship immediately sexualized, due to Tess's accidental burlesque, the audience can empathize and understand the couple's continuing erotic pull toward each other.

Humphrey Bogart was not known to be a "ham-bone." The closest he ever came to comedy was his turn as the curmudgeonly "Charlie Allnut" in The African Queen. However, cinema's favorite tough guy did allow his sense of humor to guide him in the right direction from time to time.  When shooting The Big Sleep, Bogie was set to do a scene in which his detective, "Philip Marlowe," goes to a used book store to hopefully loot information on his current case. Suspecting that the store is actually a front for less savory business practices, he decides to barge in and test the saleswoman's knowledge about literature. She, in turn, fails to impress, and Marlowe emerges just a little bit closer to solving the mystery. Yet, when rehearsing, director Howard Hawks wasn't satisfied. He wanted the scene to go differently, but he was finding it difficult to articulate just what was wrong with it. It was too "stale." Bogie suggested mixing it up a little. With that, he decided to do a little character acting. He flipped up his hat, put on some glasses, and trudged into the store, not as the hardened Marlowe, but as slightly nasal, totally prissy book snob. As he pulls his glasses down and interrogates the saleswoman on their stock-- of a third edition of Ben-Hur 1860 most particularly-- his mannerisms deliver just enough humor to lighten the heavy tone of the film for a moment and indirectly show us a softer, more affable side of the hard-boiled detective: "You do sell books, hmmm?" (see left). Two birds; one stone. The moment still stands out superbly and humorously from the rest of the film as a result-- you kinda want to see the pompous book-monger again.

Howard Hawks was always looking for creative contributions like these to add more life to his films. One of his favorite actors to work with was Cary Grant. Cary was an adaptable actor, always eager to try pretty much any suggestion in order to improve a scene. During the filming of His Girl Friday, Howard and Cary were looking for a way to relay the exasperation that Cary's character, "Walter Burns," is feeling in reaction to his stressful work at the newspaper in addition to the absolution of his marriage to Rosalind Russell's "Hildy Johnson" (right). Cary would go through the scene and repeatedly deliver his lines and bits of comedy without a mistake, but Howard wasn't satisfied. It was, in his words, "pretty dull." Again, there was something missing. He and Cary conferred, and Howard suggested a vocal goody. Howard had a friend who used to "winnie" like a horse in moments of perturbation. He wondered if Cary would find the same exclamation palatable for his character? He did. And so, when in the world of fast-talking newspapermen (and women) words were not enough, Cary would burst out with a high-pitched "neigh" of irritation. It became one of his trademarks, and he used it on other films when he needed to convey the same overwhelmed demeanor.

If any actor new how to round off a character, it was Lon Chaney. Most recalled today for his macabre and horrifying performances, earlier in his career he had a great deal of success portraying the underhanded "heavy." Due to his textured performances, his con-artists, bruisers, and deviants, were totally believable on the screen, making him an intimidating cinematic presence. As he was always committed to telling a story honestly, he had no qualms about portraying a villain through and through. In doing so, he lived out the dark sides of his audiences, which made them respond to him all the more heartily-- ironic considering how sinister he could be. One example comes in Outside the Law. At the beginning, Lon's "Black Mike Sylva" (left) is plotting with his accomplices, including Wheeler Oakman's "Dapper Bill Ballard," about his latest caper. At a local dive bar, they smoke, sip drinks, and plan away. When the game is set, the trio of thugs rise from the table, throwing down some dough for the swill. As they depart, Black Mike exits last and very stealthily swipes the tip from the tabletop and pockets it! In one swift movement, Lon has told the audience just how dishonest, selfish, and underhanded Mike is going to be. He spends the rest of the film living up to the reputation.

The Strange Love of Martha Ivers is a strange movie in cinematic history. A B-movie potboiler, it is more remembered today for being Kirk Douglas's first film as well as one of Lizabeth Scott's first performances. However, the majority of the plot revolves around Barbara Stanwyck's conniving "Martha" and her prodigal childhood sweetheart "Sam Masterson," played by Van Heflin (both right). Van must have realized from the beginning that this film was not of stellar caliber. A quickly made noir, the film was built to sell tickets not alter the shape of the universe. As such, the only way to amp up the quality was in the acting. Van layered his character with his usual dose of charm and masculinity, but to denote Sam's playful and restless side, he also contributed another gag. He would, throughout the picture, roll a coin between his fingers. It became his character's nervous, boyish habit, and at the very least added a little visual stimuli to a movie that turned out to be a bit of a snooze-fest. Van would recall that Barbara was delighted the first time she saw the trick. A seasoned pro herself, she appreciated Van's extra effort. However, after complimenting his digital dexterity, Babs looked him in the eye and said, "Any time you start twirling that coin, I'll be fixing my garter. So be sure you don't do that when I have important lines to speak." No, Babs wasn't going to fall for that gag-- no one was stealing the scene from her! Thus, Van kept his coin out of Babs's scenes, and she kept the audience's attention!

And so, these Hollywood hotshots took the acting road less traveled by... and that has made all the difference.

NOW, THAT'S FUNNY: Part VIII

Edmund Gwenn and Clark Gable on the set of Parnell. Is it just me, or does

Clark seem underwhelmed by this experience???

 

Despite the fact that he won his only Oscar for a screwball comedy (It Happened One Night), Clark Gable hardly seems like the King of hee-haw. Yet, while his tough guy roles typically produced the ultimate identity of cocky male cynicism, he did have a good sense of humor in his private life, even when he was the butt of the joke. His dominating onscreen presence hid a sensitive and humble soul that had come up the hard way, and while he appreciated the benefits that came with his stature and movie star paycheck, he too was grateful when a kidding friend brought him back down to the earth he was much more comfortable in. Spencer Tracy was one of these guys. The two bonded almost immediately when they started filming on San Francisco, despite the fact that they had both just survived scandalous affairs with Loretta Young. Surprisingly, there was no competitive, macho energy about their former shared paramour. In fact, Spence once took a swat at a guy who had cracked about Loretta's "adopted" daughter's (Judy Lewis) "big ears," a jab at Gable, whom all Hollywood knew to be the true father. Over the course of a few movies, the duo got close. In fact, they once went off to lunch together and disappeared for two days. Even sober, neither could remember where they'd been. After Spence started the good fight to maintain his sobriety, his relationship with the still hard-drinking Gable grew less intense, but their sturdy respect and friendship remained. Clark admired Spence's talent, and Spence was envious of Clark's leading man power at the box office... which is why he so enjoyed bringing up Parnell.

Clark was no fool about his talent. He could do "intense." He could do "smoldering." But all of his characterizations were mere exaggerations of himself. He shied away from character roles or true life figures for fear that he wouldn't be able to carry them. When handed the role of Irish politician Charles Stuart Parnell in 1937, he was not surprisingly a nervous wreck. He had hoped that friend and lover Joan Crawford would too jump on board as a co-star in order to help him through it, but when she turned the role down, Clark read it as a betrayal. Joan would insist that this was the official end of their romance (though they would allegedly remain friends with benefits over the years). Joan wasn't wrong to back out. The film was a flop, Clark was panned, and his death scene was so thoroughly mocked that he would refuse to play dead again until 1958's Run Silent, Run Deep. But, while Clark was humiliated, Spence was thrilled! Spence had originally been offered the role of Parnell, but had turned it down, which made Clark's misery even funnier to him. While filming on Test Pilot in 1937 after Parnell's release, Spence continued to kid his friend about his failed venture in acting. When Clark and co-star Myrna Loy arrived to set one day, they were abruptly greeted with a coronation ceremony for the press regarding their recent status as the "King and Queen of Hollywood." Spence howled with laughter as publicity photos of Clark in a crown were taken. He then addressed his embarrassed friend as "Your Majesty." Clark got red in the face and retaliated by calling Spence a "Wisconsin ham." Spence stuck in the final pin with "What about Parnell?" End game. So it would continue over the years. Whenever Clark got a little boyishly cocky, Spence would shoot out a Parnell jab. In 1939, when Gone with the Wind went on to break box-office records, further cementing Clark's unbreakable reputation, Spence still wouldn't let it lie. He sent Clark the following telegram: "Gone with the Wind may be this year's greatest picture, but I still remember Parnell." Clark, as always, laughed. (The chums perform in their undergarments in Boom Town left).

Clark's lady love Carole Lombard (right) too had a hand in the Parnell gags. As with Spence, Clark latched onto Carole's down to earth demeanor and humor, finding her better company than the majority of the pretentious hangers-on in Hollywood. The multiple ways that this romantic pair kidded each other over the years is, in itself, legendary. Carole too had no qualms about taking Clark down a peg or two when he started getting a little high on his pedestal or ornery, but her gags were mostly just an effect of her kooky sense of humor and meant to cheer people up, not poke fun. Carole understood Clark, and beneath his front-- where he was able to freeze people out and shut off internal emotions-- she knew that he was deeply upset by the Parnell blunder. Insecure about his acting in general, to have his performance universally panned was a hard thing for him to endure, especially after being crowned the "King." The King of what? With apparently no talent, it made him feel like a phony. So, one day, Carole decided to earn back a few points for Clark's self esteem. Thus followed what became known as Carole's "Rain" of Terror: Carole paid a pilot to fly over MGM and drop thousands of fliers over the studio with the following text: "Fifty Million Chinamen Can't Be Wrong!" You see, regardless of America's reception of Clark's Irish hero, his performance as Parnell was hailed as genius in China. When Clark-- and everyone in Culver City-- got the message, he flashed his old grin. The boy was back!

Moving backward a few years to that business between Spencer Tracy and Loretta Young (left)... The two met on the set of 1934's Man's Castle and quite quickly thereafter began a romance. It would be the first major relationship to threaten Spence's marriage to wife Louise. Loretta had a habit of falling in love with her co-stars, a result of growing up in front of the camera and never being able to separate fantasy from reality. Spence was taken by Loretta's great beauty and confused innocence. Ironically, the two also had faith in common and even attended mass together. For a time, it was discussed between them that Spence really would end his marriage and wed Loretta. The drama of the impossible love made it all the more enticing to Loretta, who was just turning 21. However, the tide turned when the teetotaling actress became acquainted with her suitor's bad side aka his alcoholism. The dating duo often went out on the town with John and Josie Wayne, with whom Loretta had been good friends since John's football days at USC. They celebrated Loretta's birthday together, took a vacation in Palm Springs, went dancing, the usual. As with Clark Gable, Spence kidded John: "It's a good thing you're good looking, because you can't act your way out of a paper bag." Duke would respond: "That's right, fats. I'll catch on, then you watch out!" Good times... But, as Spence's guilt-ridden conscience got the better of him for his latest dalliance, so too did his drinking increase. Duke could keep up pretty well with the bottle, but the ladies did not imbibe and thus were left staring in horror at their drunken, sloppy men making asses of themselves. Of the two, Spence was always much worse than Duke. Duke was a fun drunk, whereas Spence could become hostile. On one particular evening, the foursome was dining at the Beverly Wilshire's Gold Room, the usual chaos ensued, and Spence became so belligerent in his drunkenness that Duke had to escort him from the premises, against much protest. Luckily, Spence was blotto or he would have been quite embarrassed at the ruckus he was making before the likes of fellow diners George and Gracie Burns. Duke finally got Spence to his room, but even there Spence made trouble and tried to get back to Loretta. He was causing such a disturbance that Duke was left with few options, so... he decked him. After that powerful "Whop!" Spence was down for the count and spent the night draped over his bed snoozing like a baby. The relationship with Loretta ended soon thereafter, but Spence would still get a wistful look in his eyes whenever he saw her in public.

When one thinks of Hollywood horror, images of Frankenstein's monster, Bela Lugosi's Dracula, or the countless terrors of Vincent Price flicker in the brain. These anti-heroes were all born in the days of sound, however. In the silent days, there was but one film villain that could turn the blood cold: Theda Bara. Theda Bara's career is a flash-in-the-pan phenomenon that is both indicative of the power films have to both make a star and break one. Over the course of a career that spanned just a little over a decade, this actress from Cincinnati, OH was built up publicly as the pinnacle "Vamp": a man-eating seductress with dangerous sexual powers, at once threatening and alluring (see right). Films like The Tiger Woman, The She Devil, Salome, and-- of course-- Cleopatra, solidified her forever as cinema's favorite temptress. But, this version of Theda Bara, (an anagram for "Arab Death") was a far cry from the true Theodosia, who was an accomplished actress renowned among friends like King Vidor and Ethel Barrymore for her delectable potluck dinners. Theda gratefully played the part Hollywood, and Fox in particular, assigned her, but in time, both she and the public grew tired of the gimmick. Before she knew it, her career was over, and the caricature that she had created was left to the history of film. But, her identity remains a fascinating topic, if only to illustrate how powerful a cinematic persona can be. Particularly in the early days of film, when Hollywood was so mythic and its stars so revered, the line between fantasy and reality was not so easily tread by viewers. Thus, what Theda was onscreen was what people believed she was in life. Shop keepers actually had to ask Theda not to come to their stores for fear of the stampede of women that would follow-- grabbing at any piece of clothing Theda had touched in the hopes of collecting some of her magic aura. Not all in the public were fans. Adela Rogers St. Johns would recall a very telling story regarding this subject. A mother and child were wandering the streets of New York City. At one point, the child ambled off, and the mother noticed her son talking to a darkly garbed woman with a pale, ghostly face. As she drew nearer, she realized that the woman was... Theda Bara! The mother suddenly became hysterical. "Save him! Save him! The vampire has my child!" Certain that Theda was hypnotizing her babe and intent on sucking his blood, the terrified mother even went so far as to call the police for assistance! One imagines that, at this moment, Theda got a hefty reality check: "What have I gotten myself into?"

Ginger Rogers loved to throw a good party. As she wasn't a drinker, she knew that she had to create a certain over-the-top environment to make her get-togethers enticing to those chronically parched individuals who only considered a party a party if there was plenty of swill. One of her outrageous shenanigans was contrived with the help of her boyfriend at the time-- some guy named Alfred Vanderbilt. I hear he was "loaded" in another way. After filming the superb roller-skating dance sequence with Fred Astaire in Swing Time, Ginger enlisted Alfred's help in staging a roller-skating party of their own. So, on March 6, 1937, they rented the Culver City Rollerdome and invited a few pals along-- you know, every day folk like Joan Crawford, Kay Francis, Franchot Tone, Chester Morris, Harold Lloyd, Simone Simon, Cary Grant, Cesar Romero, and the "battling Bogarts," Humphrey and Mayo Methot. Everyone was having a swell time, cavorting like children and sucking down hot dogs, hamburgers, and Coca-Cola. It was nice to see people dressed down, away from studio mayhem, and having pure unadulterated fun (emphasis on the un-adult). Ginger was pleased with her party's success, but at one point, in the midst of the laughs, she noticed some commotion going on in the center of the rink. She approached Joan Crawford to ask "What's the haps," and Joan indicated Bogie lining up a row of chairs. He was about to perform a dare-devil feat of jumping over one chair after the other. Ginger and Joan exchanged the "uh-oh" look, but before anyone could stop him, Bogie was up and rolling. Against George Murphy's warning, "Ah no, not again," Bogie cleared one chair... Two... He prepped to somersault over chair number three... Oof! Ow! He landed right on his keister and kept sliding. Half the audience howled, and the other half slapped their foreheads in "Oy vey" fashion. The movie tough guy didn't seem embarrassed, however. He simply dusted off his rump and defended his faux pas: "I used to travel with a circus... I just haven't done it in awhile." Even Sam Spade needs to play the little boy every now and again.

Franchot, Ginger, Alfred, Joan, and Chester suit up to skate down.