STAR OF THE MONTH: Charlie Chaplin

Charles Spencer Chaplin

The spectrum of artists who built Hollywood is so wide and vividly populated that it is hard to generalize or define its true founders. The different talents and innovators who crafted the grandest level of artistic achievement-- a consummation of all artistry-- are incalculable. They wear many faces and many hats, some of which the audience never saw. However, when you whittle it all down, it isn't too extreme a statement to make that in the beginning, there were three. If Griffith gave the movies art, and Pickford gave it a face, then it was Chaplinwho gave it it's most useful and universal ingredient: heart. Marilyn Monroe once said, "If you can make a girl laugh, you can make her do anything." And so it was that Cinema's chief clown was able to endear himself to a worldwide audience and win their loyalty by giving them that oft sought and too little found human emotion: joy. But there was more to Charlie than his familiar "little tramp" schtick, for he too had art, and he too had a face-- one which has outlasted Mary's in its relevance. His comedy outdid Fatty Arbuckle's  because, while he portrayed down-and-out and sometimes manic characters, he was yet a buffoon with an edge of class. He was conscious while innocent, as calculating in his movements as he was in his story structure. His films too thematically outdo Buster Keaton's, making him the unexpected silent voice of reason, compassion, and human understanding. Buster awed his audience with surprising gags and awe-inspiring stunts; but Chaplin used his creativity just as concentratedly to make people feel as to astound them. And this, he did accidentally. He didn't set out to take the world by storm, nor to become the greatest fighter the underdog ever had. That's just how life played out. Then, just as quickly, the world that he had brought to its feet in applause turned its back on him. Life is funny...

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Charlie Chaplin started out as many folks do who learn to use laughter to overcome their personal pains. He entered the world on April 16, 1889 in London to parents Charles Chaplin, Sr. and Hannah Hill.  He had an elder brother, Sydney-- a "bastard" from one of Hannah's earlier trysts-- and after his parents' marriage hit the rocks, he would be gifted another illegitimate brother, Wheeler, from whom he was parted and would not see for many years. He was, thus, his mother's only "legitimate" child. This made life no easier for him, and he never saw any difference between himself and the elder brother he adored. The family was impoverished, with Hannah earning money intermittently as an entertainer and a seamstress and Charles Sr. rarely pitching in while he enjoyed a measure of success as a singer. Charlie found himself growing up quickly, sharing the responsibilities of running the household with his equally responsible elder brother Sydney. Hannah, in Charlie's memory, was a wonderful woman: loving, tender, and talented. An uncanny mimic who put on shows for her two boys, telling them stories of the different townspeople she saw passing below their window, Hannah would give Charlie an early education in characterization. Sadly, she too was losing her mind, which was a part of her family's unfortunate legacy. Luckily, none of her sons seemed to inherit the gene that mentally crippled her. When times got rough, Charlie and Sydney found themselves shipped off to a workhouse and the London District Poor Law School of Hanwell, where Charlie received little more than a bout of ringworm and the pain of isolation from his loved ones. After Sydney decided to go to sea as a steward and bandsman (he played the bugle), dutifully sending money home to his family, Charlie became his mother's official caretaker. He took odd jobs selling flowers or working as a barber's boy to help supplement income. One night, he came home to the news that his mother had "gone insane." At the age of 13, he was forced to walk her himself to the infirmary where she was to remain for some time. The moment of goodbye was one he would not soon forget.

A young Charlie as Billy the Pageboy in "Sherlock Holmes."

The odds seemed stacked against him, but Charlie had a few things going for him. One was his drive; the other was his natural talent. He and Sydney both shared a love of performing. Charlie once said that his love of music, and thusly his love of entertainment, was born when he heard the song, "The Honeysuckle and the Bee" when he was a child. His first venture on stage occurred when he had to save his mother from disgrace when she was unable to finish what was to be her final professional performance before a rowdy, unforgiving crowd. Charlie stepped in, sang her song for her, and the coins started flying. He stopped singing mid-song to collect them all, telling the audience he would not continue until he had them all rounded up! Herein we see the mixture of Charlie the ragamuffin entertainer and Chaplin the businessman. Somewhere in his little boy's mind, he had discovered something very important: he had learned how to make money. Later, at the age of nine, he would travel with William Jackson and "The Eight Lancashire Lads." He continued intermittently, while still caring for his mother, to obtain various roles, including one as Billy in "Sherlock Holmes." By 1908, at the age of 19, he was making waves in the infamous "Inebriate" act in "Mumming Birds" with Fred Karno's troupe. His part was a "play within a play." He portrayed an intoxicated man watching the performance and making quite a scene himself. Naturally, his physicality and buffoonery stole the show and got him quite a bit of notice. His traveling companions would all remark at the strange juxtaposition in his nature. He was so alive, so unabashed, so warm on the stage. Afterward, he would quickly turn inward. He spent his time reading, trying to tutor the mind that had received no formal education, plucking on his violin, or staring solemnly into space, ever lost in thought. He was a loner. He kept to himself. He was distant... Hardly the bawdy comedian prototype.

With Mabel Normand and Marie Dressler in Tillie's Punctured Romance- 
the film that proved that humor could last for an entire feature.

By 1912, he found himself in America still touring with Karno. A year later, he was offered a contract with Mack Sennett, who had seen or caught wind of "the inebriate swell" gig. Mack had been expecting an elder gentleman, as befitting Charlie's make-up on the stage, and tried to renege on the offer. Charlie assured him that his age would not hamper his ability to contribute to Keystone. The rest, as they say, is history. In his second film, Mabel's Strange Predicament (released third), Charlie's beloved "Tramp" stepped before the camera. The legend of his birth is heavily contested, with everyone wanting a part of the glory. In some tales, his pants were borrowed from Fatty, his shoes from Ford Sterling, etc; in others, Charlie haphazardly assembled the costume and serendipitously created a phenomenon. The truth is perhaps somewhere in between. The eternal calculator, Charlie certainly put thought into the look and the character he was fashioning that fateful day. All that is known for certain is that he based his signature walk on an unconsciously hilarious neighbor from his boyhood: "Rummy" Binks. Looking back, it seemed as if the hand of God guided the formation of the Tramp: his dirty, ill-fitting clothes, silly mustache, jerky movements, yet prim disposition, created a character of both dignity and irreverence. The Tramp was a sweet soul deep down, but he too did whatever he he had to do to get by. Thus, humor and grace were enveloped under a dusty derby, and America was enthralled. Through films like The Immigrant, Easy Street, and Shoulder Arms, Charlie's career started soaring. A shrewd businessman, who was not so much in it for the wealth as for the security, he and his brother Sydney negotiated more and more creative and financial freedom into his contracts. He bounced from Essanay, to Mutual, to First National. His films became his own personal vehicles under his own direction, and the stories he chose to tell always sold well.

Charlie and Jackie Coogan developed an incredibly close

relationship during The Kid, Charlie's first feature-

length directorial effort. It was a smash success.

Feature films would take his visual narrations to a whole other level, and the work he did at his own Charlie Chaplin Studios would change cinema storytelling forever. His craft as an artist was dedicated, focused, and perfectionistic. A kernel of an idea would give birth to scenes, which led to plot-points, and soon he had built-up an entire story. He would work his stories out on the spot most of the time, trying out an idea, fashioning it in a new way, reworking it, implementing some lucky bit of business that happened on the spot, etc. His efforts were painstaking. Yet, as exacting as he was in his ambitions, he still made room for input, listening to others' advice or accepting ideas from everyone on the set. At the end of the day, what Charlie said went, but he never made a final take without weighing every possible alternative. He wanted to give his audiences the best product possible. All too often, he would awaken weeks after a scene had been filmed and decide that he had done it wrong or that it could have been done better. He was never satisfied. When these (imagined) errors could be corrected, he would drive his more penny-pinching brother Sydney mad with the expenses, retakes, and wasted film incurred. When too late, Charlie would have to live with the disappointment. And he was always disappointed. He always chased the perfect compromise between idea and execution and was interminably hard on himself when the result wasn't so. The effect was a very tired man. He worked all day, directing, acting, building scenarios, editing, composing music-- work work work. He worked to eliminate the painful thoughts and memories, the loneliness that haunted his private life. All too often, he would return home and have to be nearly carried inside by his chauffeur because he had exhausted himself to the point of muscle failure.

Charlies' private life is something to note. It is also something that remains a scandalous stain on his otherwise impeccable creative life. The opposition to Mr. Chaplin over time would be a combination of his romantic life and his political leanings. The source of the former is the story of his unconsummated love for Hetty Kelly, the young woman with whom he fell in love during his initial Karno stint in 1908. She was a "Yankee Doodle Girl," who by some curious method has was able to charm the emotionally evasive Charlie out of his shell and into a fog of incurable adoration. The stony exterior he had been building up after a harsh life was finally being penetrated. Hetty was initially receptive to his bashful, romantic overtures. Unfortunately for Charlie, it appears that Hetty's mother had other aspirations for her daughter, and didn't want her to wind up with an impoverished actor. Hetty, after an assumed reprimand from the senior lady, turned suddenly cold. She refused to see Charlie anymore. He was heartbroken. After he went to America, perhaps subconsciously driven by the hope that he'd make good and be able to win Hetty back, he received word that she had gotten married to Lt. Alan Horne. The courtship of Charlie and Hetty had been brief-- but eleven days-- and Charlie once calculated that they never spent more than 20 minutes together. Still, he never forgot her. Hetty would pass away prematurely after catching a nasty bout of pneumonia following the influenza epidemic.

Charlie and soon-to-be second wife Lita Grey during The Gold Rush. She would become

pregnant during early filming, which gained her a husband but clearly took her out of 

the running for the lead role, which was awarded to Georgia Hale. The

marriage would not be a pleasant one.

Perhaps it was in the desperate hope of recreating his dream girl that Charlie seemed drawn to the same brand of young women. But, there is more beneath his disastrous marriages to the 15-year-old Mildred Harris (instigated by a fake pregnancy) or the 15-year-old Lita Grey (real pregnancy) than misguided devotion. His tendency toward young, unworldly girls insinuates more his need for a measure of control.  He chose beautiful, assumedly uncomplicated vessels that would not make demands on him or his work. Unfortunately, this resulted in the opposite effect. Immaturity requires constant attention and consequently results in frequent fights. Charlie thus fell prey to his own romantic ignorance, becoming attracted to a princess only to be confronted by a monster of his own creation. Yet, he was not a cold-hearted, selfish person, and treated his wives well, giving them a good home, and providing for his sons (Charles Jr. and Sydney, both by Lita). What he couldn't give was himself. After Hetty broke his heart, he could only put his most ardent passion into his work. Thus, his young brides were left in a cold, empty home with a ghost of a husband. Of course, the ladies weren't innocent either, having latched onto Charlie for more fiscal than emotional purposes. Charlie seemed to forgive the Mildred fiasco over time, even after her lawyers tried to seize The Kid as monetary property, but hurricane Lita became a matter that Charlie would never discuss. His strongest relationship was with glowing third wife Paulette Goddard, a feisty, mature equal whose compassion and light-heartedness earned her Charlie's respect and two of the largest female roles in any of his films (Modern Times and The Great Dictator), but even this match was not to last. His friendship with Douglas Fairbanks always had a way of bucking him up, but Charlie had little outside his work. He wasn't a social butterfly, and despite his constant performer antics, he was quite bashful around people he didn't know, particularly people he considered far more posh than himself. He wasn't extravagant with his money, and it was years before he ever bought himself a tailored suit. He was sitting in the lap of luxury, but didn't know how to enjoy it. The quiet moments of his life were unendurable and lonely. In private, he remained an isolated little boy. At the studios, he was in total control of his genius. All the more reason to work.

Charlie's initial concept for The Circus sprouted from the gag of him

ungracefully trying to tight-rope while unruly monkeys climbed

all over him.

The body of work that Charlie compiled is beyond description or praise. City Lights, The Gold Rush, The Circus... Whatever issues he had in private, the public would never have known. Charlie was a man on a mission, whatever that mission was from project to project. He seemed to have an almost psychic ability when it came to the social stratosphere. In honor of his mother, he lambasted the hypocrisy shown against women in general, and particularly against unwed mothers in A Woman of Paris and The Kid, (the latter film in which he also expressed his own deep sorrow over the death of his first born son by Mildred). He lambasted the replacement of technology and profit over mankind in Modern Times. He confronted the ugliness of facism in The Great Dictator before most others had registered the dangerous tyranny surfacing in Germany. (Charlie later said he could never have made the movie had he known about the level of devastation in the concentration camps). Wherever he was in his life, whatever he was feeling, whatever direction he saw the world moving in, he allowed himself to make a commentary on it. This is what got him into trouble politically. Time and again Charlie was labeled as a communist. Why? Mostly because he gave a damn about humanity and didn't apologize for it. He would  more appropriately label himself as a "non-comformist." Primarily, he was just a simple humanist. His work and its depiction of the mistreatment of the lower classes, the ambivalence of the wealthy, and the hypocrisy of society in general had always inadvertently ruffled feathers. Certainly, on some level, Charlie believed in what he preached, but his message was primarily subliminal. The point was always comedy.

However, his early advocation that we send troops to the German front during WWII caused a stir. For a society in turmoil and trying to escape war, the appeal to bear arms from the most popular man in the world made people nervous. After the war, when fear turned to the paranoia during the Cold War, Charlie's open-mindedness and curiosity about various people and politics too began to chafe certain government officials. Charlie was never a communist, but he respected a man's right to believe as he wished. Just as he brushed off accusations that he was Jewish, ("I do not have that honor") due to his loyalty to his half-Jewish brother Syd, he would be honest but evasive with reporters when they pressed him for information regarding his alleged "red ties," mostly because he didn't consider it any of their damn business. Changing tides and attitudes caused the once loving public to turn against Charlie. Suddenly, he was being harangued for not ever obtaining American citizenship-- a choice that he had made not of disloyalty to the Western country he truly loved but out of nostalgia to his boyhood home. He failed to cooperate with any government officials that badgered him, and he publicly stated his disagreement with the quickly growing HUAC madness. Most of his contemporaries remained silent during the tumult, whereas Charlie spoke up. He had faith that the mania would blow over, but it was not so. It is hard to imagine a world so irrationally misdirected that it would seek out and invent criminals to feel more secure, but history has led us down this road more than once. Charlie became one of the many bewildered victims of the movement. In a nation so anxious that it sought out cries of Unity from every corner, Charlie's continuing films-- which proceeded to ask society probing questions about its very soul-- was a boil on the butt of Joseph McCarthy's lack of "decency." 

The maniacal gibberish that Charlie concocted for his German villain, "Dictator

Hynkel," was ad-libbed on the spot and totally captured and satirized 

the vainglory and maniacal oblivion of men with God complexes.

The truth was that no evidence could be found to truly support that Charlie was in any way, shape, or form a communist, and his every effort (including his contribution to the war bond tour) clearly implied his loyalty to the United States and his desire to protect and serve its freedoms. Despite all this, certain far-far-right factions pegged Charlie as a threat. It is rumored that Hedda Hopper herself (Hollywood's number one anti-communist spokeswoman) urged his former lover Joan Barry to take him to court over his alleged illegitimate child (proven beyond a reasonable doubt not to be his, but no matter) in order to besmirch his otherwise spotless character. The man who had made America laugh for nearly forty years was, thus, suddenly the butt of the joke. He would continue on after the malicious scandal, film Limelight-- his poetic opus to the aging entertainer-- then set sail for Europe for its London premiere on Sept. 17, 1952. Once abroad, he was alerted that he was barred from returning to the land where he had built his life. Attorney General James McGranery had rescinded his re-entry permit with a little help from a US Code of Laws on Aliens, which "permits the barring of aliens on grounds of morals, health, or insanity, or for advocating communism." Later McGranery admitted that he had taken this abrupt action "without consulting any other government departments."

Charlie's heart was broken. America had given him a life beyond his imaginings, but it too is safe to say that he had given the nation just as much in return. Now, he and his young bride and love of his life Oona O'Neill were sent adrift with a brood of children that would grow to reach nine (11 counting his two sons with Lita). They eventually settled in Switzerland. During these tough years, Oona became a perfect counterpart to Charlie. Though thirty-six years his junior, she possessed a maturity, devotion, and independence that was infatuated with his genius, considerate of his needs, and tolerant of his flaws. The duo would raise eyebrows, but their marriage lasted until Charlie's death. While getting up in years, Charlie's most provocative and enchanting work was done, but he was still consumed by the creative process, making A King in New York to directly confront the witch hunt that had ostracized him from America soil, and finally directing Marlon Brando and Sophia Loren in A Countess from Hong Kong. The Tramp character was long since gone, having essentially been put to rest by the talkies, and the "art of pantomime," which Charlie had preached was the breath of life in cinema, died with him. The world of film had changed and the big shoes Charlie had left to fill no longer even fit himself. He continued writing and planning new epics, but his best work had become a memory of the land of long long ago. Eventually, he would be honored for his life's work in film with various recognitions and awards (including an Academy Award for Lifetime Achievement), and he was welcomed back to America with  guilty, open arms. He too forgave, was touched that he was still remembered, and was reassured that the good in man will triumph eventually-- a notion he had preached in all his films.

Charlie's infamous skating routine in Modern Times was accomplished with the help of 

mirrors-- but his blindfolded abilities remain impressive nonetheless.

Charlie Chaplin died on Christmas day in 1977. That sentence alone required pause-- a moment of silence. It is hard to fathom that such an individual existed, let alone come to terms with the fact that a presence so strong is with us no more. For all of the controversy and mudslinging he suffered in his life, Charlie's true fans never forgot him. Generation after generation, when viewers are introduced to him, they are introduced to a man of great principle, honesty, and hope. One with a dark heart could not inspire a world to laugh as he did, nor share their joys together for those brief moments when their threadbare, floppy-footed hero convinced them that we are indeed not in this mess of life alone but together. As he himself said, "It is paradoxical that tragedy stimulates the sport of ridicule... Ridicule, I suppose, is an attitude of defiance; we must laugh in the face of our helplessness against the forces of nature-- or go insane." And so, a little boy from Great Britain who had endured madness, heartbreak, poverty, and intolerable loneliness, fought his demons off with laughter and let us join in with him. The world continues to laugh at him, with him, and to idolize him, because even in silence, his Tramp speaks the truth. He may walk off into the sunset alone time and again-- without a plan, without a hope in the world-- but he always disappears with a swinging cane and a skip in his step. His fight is never over, and his audience is left to believe that a better day will dawn and that, even better, they will see their delightful friend again somewhere down this windy road.

CAST AWAYS: Part IX

Is it true that "the song remains the same" if played to a different tune? You decide whether The Way We Were can still outdo What Might Have Been:

Marlene and John Gilbert take on the town.

Marlene Dietrich is remembered in cinematic history as being a stone cold... fox. Yet, off screen, her character was much softer and more maternal than any of her performances could have relayed. She would only play a mother once, in Blonde Venus, despite the fact that "mom" was her favorite role in her personal life. Her natural inclination to nurture soon enough drew her to none other than fallen angel John Gilbert. When Lewis Milestone alerted her over dinner that his neighbor, the handsome Jack, was out of work, melancholy, and just doors away, Marlene-- who strongly adhered to the "no man left behind" mentality-- marched up to his house and announced, "John Gilbert, I have come to save you." The stunned heartthrob made no dispute. In addition to enjoying a romantic affair, Marlene also vowed to kick-start Jack's stalled career by insisting that he be cast opposite her in Knight without Armour. It would have been something to see these two lovers together on screen. Sadly, Jack passed away on Jan. 9, 1936 before production was started, so Greta Garbo maintains the reputation of his greatest screen lover (both on and off). Marlene was devastated at Jack's passing and lit votive candles beneath his picture in memory for several months afterward. Yet, she did not hold it against the debonair Robert Donat when he later took on the role of A.J. Fothergill in Knight. In fact, Marlene turned her mother instincts on him as well. When he became ill, production threatened to have him replaced. Again, Marlene stepped in and insisted that the film be postponed until its leading man was better, or else she too would walk. The brass took the bait, and after the grateful Robert recuperated, Marlene toasted his return.

Robert Donat plays Marlene's Knight without Armour,

 though in life she was the hero.

Despite her brazen, business savvy ways, Marlene too hit some rough patches. In these times, she was resilient enough to take care of herself, but it was always nice when a helping hand was extended in her direction. Such was the case when it came time to cast Destry Rides Again (left). At this time, Marlene was suffering a dip in popularity, having just been labeled as box-office poison alongside soul sisters Katharine Hepburn, Bette Davis, and Joan Crawford. While she still remained adored by fans, love wasn't money, and she needed a great role to re-establish her box-office clout and fill her always dwindling bank account. Luckily, Joe Pasternak had had his eye on her since her silent film and stage days in Germany. He lobbied for her in Destry, despite the fact that the studio wanted Paulette Goddard. Fortune was on Marlene's side, because Paulette turned out to be "unavailable." Marlene got the role, and her "come back" resulted in a box-office sensation-- one of the many films to make 1939 the eternal year of movies. Befittingly, Marlene and Paulette never really got along, especially after Paulette married Marlene's good friend, writer Erich Maria Remarque. Marlene saw him little after the nuptials, but while Paulette may have gotten her pal, Marlene got her career back.

Paulette Goddard could definitely pull off the femme fatale,

but she was no match for Marlene.

George Burns had been acting in movies for over 45 years by the time he was cast in The Sunshine Boys. Co-starring Walter Matthau (together right), this film was a precursor to the aging frenemy films that Walter and Jack Lemmon would make later, such as Grumpy Old Men. In Sunshine, the two heroes are old-- and I do mean old-- show business partners, whose days in vaudeville made them stars in their own time but leave them forgotten in present day. However, an opportunity to earn some bookoo bucks and regain former glory comes when they are offered a performance on a television special. The reunion is an unwelcome one, as the two curmudgeons can't stand each other. Chaos ensues.  The brilliant comic sparring of George and Walter made the film a surprising hit for a world continually described as youth-centric. George with his dry, crotchety delivery, even won an Academy Award for his performance-- a first for a man of 80. This was a very moving moment in his life, particularly since he was not even slated to star in the film originally. In the beginning, his good friend, the much beloved Jack Benny, was to play Al Lewis, but sadly Benny was in poor health and could not accept the project. After making some initial screen tests with Walter, Benny backed out to rest and hopefully recuperate. Always a gentleman, he recommended his friend George for his abandoned role, which George of course accepted. Not long after, Benny passed away. Thus, when George accepted his long-awaited Oscar, he accepted it not only for himself, but on behalf of his dear, departed friend, without whom he never would have embraced the long-awaited statuette.

George Burns and Jack Benny make beautiful music together.

The Thin Man is a perfect example of the little movie that could. Based upon the mystery novel by Dashiell Hammett, it was given a modest budget by MGM and was ranked during production as a simple B-feature. Always up to the challenge, director W.S. Van Dyke was able to churn out the comedy classic in the allotted two weeks, but even more impressive than his economy was his casting palette. The dynamite combo of William Powell and Myrna Loy as the playfully bickering Nick and Nora Charles (left) remains one for the ages. Though the two had performed together before, in Manhattan Melodrama, their chemistry reached true perfection once they started pulling punches amidst the hilarity of murder and marital discord. Their onscreen relationship was amplified by their offscreen friendship, and a mutual trust and affection would bring theaters-goers their first glimpse of a modern marriage: oozing sarcasm, often drunken, and forever in love. The pairing too became a triple threat when dog Skippy was added to the mix as Asta, who would become yet another beloved dog performer in the ranks of Rin Tin Tin and Lassie. But this hysterical family was almost broken up when William became ill with cancer, which took him off the screen for a year and put a wrench in Thin Man sequels. Because MGM didn't want to lose money on wasted time, they considered replacing William in the continuing series with another actor. Both Melvyn Douglas and Reginald Gardner were considered. Luckily, the studio didn't follow through. The magic of Nick and Nora couldn't be duplicated by anyone other than Bill and Myrn'. After William recuperated, he returned to his favorite cinematic wife with their reign through six Thin Man films never interrupted.

Keep your paws off: this trio's built to last.

Some Like It Hot has been hailed by many as the greatest comedy of all time, which is ironic considering that behind the scenes there was nothing but drama. Most of this centered around the forever conflicted and perpetually late Marilyn Monroe (right), but even Billy Wilder admitted that all the pain was worth it when he saw the rushes. The great comic teaming of handsome cad Tony Curtis and the devilishly absurd Jack Lemmon perfected the onscreen chemistry, and smaller character roles were filled out synchronously by George Raft and Joe E. Brown. It turned out to be a motley match made in Heaven. Who could imagine a better outcome? It is fortunate for continuing audience members that Billy Wilder did not go with his original casting idea for Joe/Josephine and Jerry/Daphne: Danny Kaye and Bob Hope. Some like it not. While definitely superb in the funny department, this duo would not have delivered the same edge nor the necessary sexuality that made the film such a hit. The more youthful albeit worldly interpretations of Tony and Jack definitely turned up the heat in the script. Billy soon latched onto Jack Lemmon after seeing some of the upcoming actor's work, and after Tony campaigned for the role of Joe and proved his acting ability in Sweet Smell of Success, he too was put in heels. Yet, even then, the pairing was in jeopardy. Billy knew he needed a star to bring in an audience, so when Frank Sinatra considered edging in on the role of Jerry/Daphne, the production was put on hold. Thankfully, the macho Sinatra decided that his image wouldn't survive a picture in which he dressed in drag, and the role was gladly handed back to Jack. As for the role of Sugar Kane, originally Mitzi Gaynor was slated to be the one "runnin' wild" with her ukulele, but having "Marilyn Monroe" on the marquee was a better guarantee for revenue. Marilyn had her reservations about playing another dumb blonde, but despite their experience together on The Seven Year Itch, Billy talked her into it. One of Hollywood's finest directors, he was able to maintain control of his haywire film, even with the infamous Black Bart (Paula Strasberg) lurking around set, though handling Marilyn the woman was a chore no one could accomplish. Nonetheless, the film was a sensation, and Marilyn won the Golden Globe for her endearing performance. Thank movie Heaven!

As fate would have it: apparently Sinatra had the pipes,

but lacked the stems. Tony and Jack rocked stilettos

 and made it work.

HISTORY LESSON: Follies Girls to Leading Ladies

Paulette Goddard in a very elaborate get-up when she was
part of the Follies.

Hollywood and Beauty are nearly synonymous terms; Hollywood and sex are perhaps even more interchangeable. Aside from invigorating storylines and their emotional relevance, the movies have always offered us perhaps even more profoundly another source of satiation for our very ravenous eyes. Hitchcock wasn't barking up the wrong tree when he made Rear Window, starting a discussion on the obsessive and at times creepy voyeuristic tendencies of mankind. Watching gorgeous bodies in motion, observing creative and aesthetically appealing mise en scene compositions and camera angles, has made us all rabid devotees of theaters, televisions, and now iPads. But we didn't always have the movies. Before that, there was theater, vaudeville, travelling acting troupes... But nothing would produce the glorious collaboration of beauty and sex appeal, nor unleash it upon a grateful public on such a grand scale, as the brainchild of Florenz Ziegfeld: The Ziegfeld Follies. Using the knowledge that men enjoy few things more than looking at beautiful things, and enlisting the aid of a myriad of women who enjoyed the power of being the objects of male desire and adoration, Ziegfeld started the Paris-inspired Follies in New York in 1907, renaming it the Ziegfeld Follies in 1911. By 1913, The New Amsterdam Theater had become its home, with 1800 seats and shows going all the way up to the rooftop, where The Danse de Follies took place. While some regarded these extravaganzas as rude, offensive, and exploitative, you couldn't argue with box-office revenue. The public had spoken; they liked what they saw.

Chorus girls light up the stage.

The shows weren't as simple as strip-teases: there was elegance, detailed costuming, fantastical imagery, and romanticized story-telling. Sure, every once in awhile girls showed up buck naked, but in these cases, they were always forced to remain stationary so that the show did not become graphic or "lewd." It was only the glamorously bedecked females that were able to move and shake. And these women weren't frowned upon; they were adored. Wealthy businessmen, most of them older, near to retirement and enjoying their years of hard work, spent the late night hours paying it off on the numerous lovelies who danced and sang for them on stage. Of course, performances by comedians like Eddie Cantor were also intermittently featured, but that's not what the public came for. Tickets to get in were expensive, so only the elite could afford them, which also added to the acceptance of the shows as "classy." Because of the glamour and fashion, women came too, and the shows became hailed as legitimate and invigorating entertainment... with a side of naughty. The same reception would not have resulted in poorer districts that lacked the cash for flash. Working girls fought their way into the Follies, both to have a job that often paid more than their fathers were making, but also to hopefully land a "sugar-daddy." For some, a little gold-digging went a long way. For others, their brief moments on the stage only served as a stepping stone to higher aspirations. Many Hollywood leading ladies got their start spanking the planks at the scandalous Follies. It proved to be a wealthy source of education in terms of how to use sex appeal and feminine charm to demand attention. While some may have been embarrassed at their humble, fleshy beginnings, they often had to admit that the experience helped them establish their later film careers. In this respect, the days with Zeigfeld were not merely moments of youthful folly.


Olive Thomas:

Olive arrived at the Follies in 1915. A great beauty, it wasn't long before she became a main attraction, of course her ongoing affair with Florenz also helped her rise in the ranks. She was assigned to more and more scenes, got to wear the most elaborate and elegant costumes, sang solos, and accrued scores of admirers-- including a German ambassador who once gave her a $10,000 string of pearls, (that's $100 grand today). The era when Ollie was a part of the Follies is often remembered as the best, due to the epic stage designs by Joseph Urban, but the shows would continue into the early thirties. In the 1910s, girls would sometimes stroll through the crowds of appreciative spectators wearing negligees covered by several helium balloons (see Olive left). The men in the crowd would use their cigars to pop the balloons, slowly revealing more girl and less latex. The girls also played games to entertain themselves while onstage, such as competing to see who could hit the most bald heads with their tossed garters. While performing in the Midnight Frolic, which was slightly more risque, Olive was also one of the many girls who danced on the infamous glass walkway, which Florenz had built so the men could sit beneath the high-kicking ladies with a... better view. Like most of the girls working at the Follies during these early, rebellious years, Olive didn't take the whole thing too seriously. She felt no guilt or embarrassment with regard to her employment; she was laughing all the way to the bank, and in an era when women still had little authority-- indeed, not even the right to vote-- a position in the Follies was one of the most powerful positions a girl could hold. Olive tarried at the Follies for 2 years, and then left the stage for the screen. But, during her time with Ziegfled, she was numero uno. As the "Most Beautiful Girl in the World," she was featured in a routine that showcased various women of different nationalities walking down into a large cauldron of sorts. Then, emerging from the melting pot came the sum whole of their parts: God's perfect creation, Olive Thomas. She was the ultimate, male dream.


Barbara Stanwyck:

Back when Barbara was still known as Ruby Stevens, she was a feisty and ambitious youth determined to overcome her impoverished lifestyle. Toughened up after her mother's death and her father's abandonment, Ruby spent most of her tender years escaping from foster families until she completely dropped out of school and started looking for work on her own. By the age of 14, she was already pounding the pavement, and having been inspired by her elder showgirl sister Mildred and the acting of silent film star Pearl White, she decided to become a performer on her own. Driven by an unrockable focus, there was little that was going to get in her way, which, despite her unconventional looks, allowed her to force her way into the mainstream. Allegedly, an audition landed her a gig in the chorus of the Follies for both 1922 and 1923, when she about 15 or 16-years-old. She also participated in various other chorus girl acts after leaving the Follies, but the hardened youngster wasn't satisfied with merely smiling and looking pretty, and her great strength and passion for honest and deeply felt work would soon take her from the stage to the screen, where even after her death she maintains a reputation as one of cinema's greatest, most professional actresses.


Louise Brooks:

Louise started out her performance career as a dancer with absolutely no ambitions to go into acting. As such, she was much more comfortable performing on stage under the tutelage of the illustrious dance instructors Ted Shawn and Ruth St. Denis than she would ever be before the camera. After learning from the masters, she performed with Ted and Martha Graham in the Denishawn company, but was later fired by Ruth for her inability to "co-operate." Louise then found herself a part of George White's Scandals, a contemporary of the Follies, but quit to follow her friend Barbara Bennett to Europe. When she returned, Florenz Ziegfeld scooped her up, and she began dancing at the Follies of 1925. Florenz was impressed with Louise, and soon she was climbing the ranks (literally) and was placed at the top of those notorious Follies girl-pyramids. During her time there, she also befriended fellow performer W.C. Fields, though his routines in the show were far different from her own. Will Rogers was also a member of the company at that time, as was Paulette Goddard. Louise was finally wooed by Walter Wanger to Astoria's Paramount Studios, where she begrudgingly started taking on film work. She considered it a mere experiment when she made her debut in Streets of Forgotten Men, however, she would soon become one of Hollywood's brightest stars. The city girl was about to move West.


Marion Davies:

Marion Douras too came to the Follies in her youth, but she may have had a little help securing a spot in the chorus. She was already working as a chorus girl in various shows, along with her sisters, by the time she met William Randolph Hearst in 1915. She was appearing in the Irving Berlin musical Stop! Look! Listen! at the time, in which she appeared in the number "The Girl on the Magazine Cover." Hearst definitely noticed her, despite the fact that she was an awkward beauty with a stammer. Her light personality and large eyes won him over, and he started flattering her with flowers and gifts. She wasn't the only lovely he was courting, indeed he had a reputation with show girls (he had even married one, Millicent Wilson), but soon Marion would become the only real woman of interest in his life. He arranged to have some special photos done of Marion at Campbell's Studio to test her star power and promote her. Marion was fairly clueless as to what was going on, and was uncomfortable when she spotted Hearst sitting by the camera watching her. Noticing her discomfort, he in turn got embarrassed and left. He would begin courting her in earnest and started heavily publicizing her career in his many papers, which eventually helped to land her a spot in the Follies in 1916. Marion, who had by now changed her name to Davies, didn't shy away from the attention; it was a way to support herself and her family. She later admitted that she had started out a gold-digger only to surprisingly find herself in love. She didn't tarry long in the Follies, for Hearst was determined to make her a star in the movies. As was Marion's character, she just kinda went with it, and it paid off in full.

 

Many other girls paid their way to fame in the Follies, including Joan Blondell, Mae Murray, Josephine Baker, Gyspy Rose Lee, Dolores Costello, Eve Arden, Irene Dunne, Mary Nolan, and Billie Dove (left). However, there too were a few who were turned down as being "not pretty enough," including Norma Shearer and Alice Faye-- of course, those ladies certainly proved their worth when the world fell in love with them on the silver screen. While the Follies shows at first appear to be nothing more than early strip-joints-- and perhaps when it all comes down to it, that's what they were-- somehow they remain something better. Before the great depression, they were an example of the grandeur, the wealth, and the glory of the almighty American dollar. Florenz Ziegfeld spared no expense when it came to his sexual extravaganzas, a flaw that would later send him into bankruptcy, but his big dreams echoed those of his thriving country. As America continued to play with the very thin line between artistry and deviance, between innocent sexuality and flat-out sin, the Follies reflected the most we could get away with. While some of the participating women may be mocked or criticized for their bartering of flesh for cash, the times they lived in did not promote the same sense of "wrongness" that today's feminists cringe at in retrospect. The female had not yet escaped her place in life as an object/wife/mother. The Follies were thus surprisingly a step in the right direction; a step toward female independence. For the first time, and on a grand scale on that large, vibrant stage, women were finally able to feel powerful. With men wrapped around their fingers and drooling at their feet, the Follies stage must have been one of the only places on earth that these ladies felt completely safe, completely in control, completely in command... even while scantily clad. After all, they couldn't very well have sold seats to a crude show if there weren't people willing to buy tickets.

An example of the mixture of sex and sophistication that

Ziegfeld brought to his shows.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Veronica Lake

 Peek-a-boo!

Veronica Lake could be the epitome of "Hollywood": its beauties and its repercussions. Possessing one of the most photogenic faces ever captured on film, Veronica was ironically catapulted to stardom because half of her gorgeous visage was hidden behind a curtain of luscious golden hair. One eye, her left, was forever peeking out at viewers as they sat entranced, gazing back at her in worship. Several times over voted the #1 box office star, everyone's favorite actress, and Paramount's biggest moneymaker, Ronni seemed to have it all. Her diminutive but curvaceous body made her a popular pin-up during wartime, and her vulnerable yet cocky demeanor inspired women everywhere, who copied her hairstyle as well as her sensual bravado. Teamed successfully with Alan Ladd four times over in classics such as This Gun for Hire and The Blue Dahlia, Ronni also cut her teeth in comedy, making huge successes out of Preston Sturges's Sullivan's Travels and Rene Clair's I Married a Witch. During the early '40s, she reigned supreme as one of cinema's favorite sex-kittens. Then, inexplicably, she disappeared.

 Veronica and Alan Ladd in their first teaming,

This Gun for Hire.

Veronica Lake is often recalled as being temperamental or haughty. Even easy-going leading man Joel McCrea refused to work with her after Sullivan's Travels in I Married a Witch, stating "Life's too short for two films with Veronica Lake." Joel would change his mind and work with Ronni again in Ramrod, but Fredric March, ironically Joel's replacement in I Married a Witch, too refused to ever work with her again after their infamous behind the scenes battles. She is recalled as a drunk, a party animal, a promiscuous tramp, and a bad mother. When she died in near anonymity at the age of fifty, a forgotten shell of the woman she used to be, people chose to believe this slanderous portrait of a once great star. But with Veronica, there was much more going on than meets "the eye."

 Veronica enjoyed hiding her trademark hair in

Sullivan's Travels, here alongside Joel McCrea.

What few know is that Veronica was diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic when she was a child. For years, she battled inner demons, delusions, and negative thoughts that sought to destroy her. Added to this biological nightmare was her tumultuous relationship with her mother, Constance, who tried to create-- in the grand tradition of stage mothers run amok-- a daughter who could live out her own dreams and desires for her. Overwhelmed by her mother's pressures, Veronica built up a thick skin, not only to hold herself together against Constance's persistent attacks, but also to keep the outside world from knowing about her disease. She remained distant, quiet, self-contained, and ever cool. Onscreen, this mystery would become a part of her allure, but off-screen, people would misinterpret this as aloofness. It was really armor. When her behavior, which she fought so diligently to control did get out of hand, or her idiosyncrasies got the better of her, co-stars and crew members would interpret her actions as that of a selfish diva, never comprehending the battle waging underneath. 

 Despite her alleged diva demeanor, it was Paulette Goddard and 

Claudette Colbert who had the cat-fights during 

So Proudly We Hail.

Veronica's fragile mental state did indeed affect her personal and professional relationships. She floundered through four unsuccessful marriages, had three children from whom in later life she remained estranged, and when the movies had sucked all the life out of her, she disappeared into obscurity in New York, Florida, and later England. At various times, when unable to find suitable employment, Ronni worked as a cocktail waitress or more infamously in a factory gluing flowers onto lingerie hangers. But this was not the real Veronica. This was the result of a lifelong battle with mental illness. Ronni was a fighter. And despite all of the bad luck that seemed to consistently come her way, she never drowned in self-pity nor painted herself as a victim. She didn't apologize for her later life or her inability to live up to everyone's standards. After all, she had done one hell of a job holding it all together up until the end, and as far as she was concerned, everyone could just shove it! She had paid her dues and was done apologizing. The world could consider her a failure if they wanted, but she never would.

 Veronica in her older years, clearly aged, but the hints

of her former beauty remain.

Veronica Lake, originally Constance Ockleman, was and is a fascinating creature. More generous than most expect, more talented than given credit for, and stronger than most could hope to be, she fought a good fight up until the end. The sad truth is that no world is as glamorous and perfect as Hollywood paints it to be. Veronica Lake stands as the personification of this reality. She left Hollywood, as she herself would say, to save her life, and left behind a legacy of film and performance that lives on in untouchable flawlessness. Her outside life was indeed flawed, but she herself was not flawed in embracing it and doing the best she could. The true Ronni is the one who pushed her way through any obstacles that tried to keep her down, who resisted the misogynistic system of the Hollywood patriarchy in a way that would make Gloria Steinem damn proud, who dreamed of a simple life in a safe home that she could call her own and mostly a love that would protect her from the enemies who kept clawing at her. Beneath the tragedy, there lives the funny, smart-ass, good-natured girl who could both hypnotize you and knock you on your ass in one breath. That was Veronica Lake.

Showing off her mischievous side...

As the Christmas season approaches, it is wise to recall that good things come in small packages. Ronni, at 5'1" represents this fact well. Her contribution to celluloid history is gift enough for the salivating movie lover, and it is her mysterious allure that keeps her legendary face popping up in our  modern culture-- from Jessica Rabbit to L.A. Confidential. Say what you will about Ronni, she gave good face, even if only half of it. The other half, with the rest of her secrets, she kept hidden and took with her to the grave. Her true identity, one that was fractured and dangerous, was too the one thing in her life that was not manufactured; that was her own. She rightfully chose to keep it for herself, and so we are left forever wondering and forever missing her.