MENTAL MONTAGE: Play It Again, Sam II

Garbo suffers as Anna Karenina. Again.

You may recall some months back when I wrote an article referencing certain duplications a specific actor or actress has made in his or her career. My recent research into the work of Ms. Greta Garbo has unearthed another example of this double-take phenomenon, and so I present it amidst my latest batch to you now. It seems fitting, since last week's topic referenced "The Way We Never Were," that this week we delve into "The Way We Were... Twice." Enjoy!

After the tremendous success of the Gilbert-Garbo teaming in Flesh and the Devil-- an erotically charged vehicle that instigated a public fascination with the on and off screen love affair of the two hot stars-- MGM did what all studios do: capitalize. Hence, another pairing with "Jack" Gilbert and Greta in an adaptation of the Leo Tolstoy classic Anna Karenina. Forbidden romance? A foreign, chilly terrain that features Garbo's remote persona? The effect of Jack's passion melting her heart? Sold. To sensationalize things further, the film was given a new title and the studio advertised it thus: "John Gilbert and Greta Garbo in Love" (see left). The film was a huge success, further cementing Greta's rapidly growing reputation as the (reluctant) femme fatale of the film business. Brandon Hurst portrayed her cuckolded husband Karenin in the film, and Philippe De Lacy  assumed the role of her son, which gave her the rare opportunity to play a mother. It was a role that surprisingly fit her naturally and provided perhaps the greatest relationship in the entire film. Lots of things had changed a mere 8 years later in 1935. "Garbo talked," and her relationship with Jack Gilbert was over romantically. Greta's characters on film, while maintaining their complexities, had become somewhat less venomous. Prodded by Salka Viertel, Greta agreed to do a re-make of her former success in sound: Anna Karenina. Thus, she stepped back into the tragic heroine's elegant shoes once more, but this time her love interest, Vronsky, would be played by Fredric March, her spurned husband by Basil Rathbone, and her child by Freddie Bartholomew. While still a fascinating, well-performed picture, it failed to live up to either the passion or emotion of the original. It is hard to find the drama beneath the stale, screeching plot points, and while each individual part performs beautifully on its own, the chemistry between all of the main characters is lacking. Thus, while Love remains a tragic opus to love, Anna Karenina exists as more of a fraternal twin, which represents love as a villain that disturbs, dismantles, and clumsily destroys lives. One film is about blind bravery; the other about mere blindness. Because both are Garbo, both are classic.

In 1929, Jeanne Eagles was hot property. One of the most talked about female talents in the theater, she had been poached by Hollywood in an attempt to use her reverberating dramatic gifts to bring another dimension to their two-dimensional heroines-- one of whom was murderess Leslie Crosbie in The Letter. Unfortunately, this little spark plug was about to burn out. After her invigorating performance in but one more film, she was to succumb to her own demons and perish-- in part-- due to her heroin addiction. Her legacy is left behind almost entirely in this film, which is one of the few scraps that remain of her acting work, so legendary in her own time. When Jeanne passed away in 1929, many of her fans probably assumed that the world would stop turning. However, it did not-- the show must go on. That it did, and to bigger and better results. In 1940, William Wyler directed another interpretation of The Letter, but this time with Bette Davis. There was one member of the cast, however, who had performed in both the '29 and the '40 versions: Herbert Marshall. In the earlier film, he had played the role of the soon-murdered lover, Geoffrey Hammand (right with Jeanne). In the latter film, he played Leslie's devoted, oblivious husband, Robert. Certainly, the compare/contrast of the experience must have been entertaining for him. In one film, he got to stare into Jeanne's blazing eyes as she maliciously shot him. Repeatedly. In the other, he got his heart metaphorically staked by Bette's conniving philanderer. In one, he is young, arrogant, and invincible-- until it's too late. In the other, he is warm, enamored, and trusting-- until it's too late. So many of Wyler's stylistic choices make the more polished 1940 version a clear victor over Jean de Limur's take, but the trophy for bad Marshall vs. good Marshall is still up for grabs. How can one outdo oneself? The audience's decision will totally depend on whether you like your Herbert naughty or nice. It is safe to say that both of his performances contributed to the excellence of both films.

Irving Thalberg remains a visionary in the film business. This is doubly surprising, not just because of the "boy wonder's" young age at the beginning of his career, but because he was a studio big-wig. As one of the pillars of MGM, Thalberg was unlike the overly greedy LB Mayer who rarely saw beyond box-office receipts. Thalberg was both the entrepreneur and the artist. His sixth sense about story and talent led to some of the best made films and collaborations of the studio era. A forward-thinker, he saw his job as a responsibility to push forward films with meaning-- to make a point while making a buck. Many actors of the time considered him a friend and protector-- and buffer against LB-- because while LB had the muscle, Irving had the brains. The pen is always mightier than the sword. He almost single-handedly kept Jack Gilbert from Mayer's wrath, because Jack was a friend and too a major talent. He too pushed for the homo-erotic undertones in Queen Christina, because he knew that it would add layer and intrigue to the story. Another example of his fine brain came earlier when he caught wind about a little film called The Unholy Three, which he produced in late 1924 with Tod Browning as director and the uncanny Lon Chaney as the lead. The creepy, unlikely thriller was a bonanza at the box-office, despite the fact that some scenes were rendered so shocking and violent that they had to be cut-- including a murder sequence performed by Harry Earles as Tweedledee (above with Granny Lon and Victor McLaglen). The success of the film helped the newly formed MGM thrive. Of course, it was because of Irving that Tod and Lon had made the switch to MGM in the first place, and their combining talents continued to keep MGM running at full throttle for the rest of the decade. Lon Chaney always respected Irving and vice versa, and it was fairly poetic when Lon's first talkie and last film was chosen as a remake of their prior collaboration: The Unholy Three (1930). The cast, minus Lon and Harry Earles, had changed, the ending was altered, but all in all it was a direct re-hash. While the silent version remains a bit superior, this latter film became a sign-post of the beginning and ending of a tremendous era of film.

Quick Little Two-Steps:

Lon also made a re-appearance in the film Kongo, which was a remake of his earlier triumph West of Zanzibar. Since Kongo was made in 1932, two years after his death, one may find this a bit... odd. But hey, when an actor's good, he's good! Actually, only a brief clip of Lon from Zanzibar made it into the later Walter Huston and Lupe Velez film (both right). Chaney's multi-facial arts are unfortunately covered with a tribal mask. In the footage, he is seen briefly crawling to a burial ceremony.

There are no two ways about it: Sophie Loren was and is gorgeous. She once said that she owed everything she had to spaghetti, but I think the mythic Gods of Rome may have had something to do with it as well. In addition to her great beauty, she had the acting chops to back it up, a fact she made well known when she won the first Academy Award for Best Actress by performing in a foreign language film-- the gut-wrenching Two Women. (Pause for applause). However, her sexuality often came into play for both her and our benefit. For example, she performed a very memorable strip tease for Marcello Mastroianni in Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow in 1963 (left). She performed the same memorable striptease for Marcello Mastroianni 31 years later in Ready to Wear. She had lost none of her allure.

Spencer Tracy dreaded shooting Stanley and Livingstone. Why? Because he was in agony over delivering the infamous line/punchline, "Dr. Livingstone, I presume?" How to do it seriously? How to say it and not get the expected guffaws? It. Was. Torture! However, as only Spence could do, he did it perfectly... after a few takes, of course-- he couldn't help giggling a little himself. He clearly must have gotten over his anxiety about the experience by the time he made Woman of the Year in 1942. Perhaps to have a little fun at his expense, George Stevens had him use the line at an uncomfortable, international party in the film, where his character, Sam Craig, knows no one... and rarely speaks their language. To show him bashfully trying to edge his way into one particular conversation, Spence boyishly rolls out, "Dr. Livingstone, I presume?" His cocky smile is met with stony glances and foreign gibberish. Guess they didn't get it...

The 1990 film Pretty Woman was a surprising success. A romcom about a hooker? Mmmmkay... Somehow, with the arrogant charisma of Richard Gere and the girl-next-door charm of Julia Roberts, the audience bought it, and then some. One of the best remembered moments comes at a business dinner when Julia's Vivian tries to act the lady while eating snails. They turn out to be "slippery little suckers." After one morsel shoots across the room from her utensil, she is comforted by the kindly James Morse, who few recognize as Goldern Era studio actor and Irish Mafia alum Ralph Bellamy (left). One wonders if Garry Marshall put this episode in the film specifically because of Ralph. See, Ralph had had his own experience with snails in a prior film: Fools for Scandal. He too had had problems eating the slimy slugs, one of which he dropped under the table. His dining partner that time was equal, cooky beauty Carole Lombard. He admits to her, as he desperately tries to propose marriage, that snails give him an "inferiority complex."

King Kong was the brain child of renegade writer, producer, director Merian C. Cooper. The unbelievable story of a tropical romance between girl and gigantic ape became positive proof of the possibilities of the movies. Not only were the innovative special effects noteworthy, but the landscape of what creative minds could do with cinema significantly broadened with this film. It too became a piece of work that actress Fay Wray (right) would be forever thankful for. Her name, her face, and her scream, made the perfect combination and foil to moviedom's most surprising leading man, or rather, primate. When acclaimed and equally imaginative director Peter Jackson approached the classic with modern technology and a new actress, Naomi Watts, in 2005, he decided to keep a couple of things from the original: 1) compassion for the beast, and 2) Fay Wray. At the end of the original film, Carl Denham (Robert Armstrong) utters the iconic words: "It was beauty killed the beast." Jackson got the idea that it would be great for Fay to say that immortal line herself in his version. Sadly, right before filming, Fay passed away, and the pressure was put on Jack Black to fulfill the duty again as character Carl Denham. Thus, this double take was not to be. Perhaps Fay, as a lady, was simply bowing out and graciously making way for the next generation.

Until next next time...

STAR OF THE MONTH: James Cagney

James Francis Cagney

To his fans, he is the eternal gangster; to his friends he was "the faraway fella'." His reputation on film is that of a man toting guns and intimidating enemies, yet he won an Oscar for his portrayal of song and dance man George M. Cohan in Yankee Doodle Dandy. Passionate and intense in his craft, he was warm, well-read, and private in his personal life. There is little, if anything, negative that someone could say about James Cagney the man, and while one could certainly make incriminating statements about the characters he played, even this would be done with a knowing and respectful intonation: even Jim's crooks were somehow likable. James Cagney-- who preferred 'Jim' to 'Jimmy'-- was a successful actor because he knew where to draw the line between fact and fiction, between right and wrong, between business and nobody's business. Along with his troupe of pals, jokingly called the "Irish Mafia"-- Spencer Tracy, Pat O'Brien, Frank McHugh, Ralph Bellamy, and Robert Montgomery-- Jim would help to define not only what it meant to be a man in depression-era America, but what it meant to be an American full stop. Whatever road he led us down, we would follow; we trusted him even when his characters were mistrustful, because beneath it all, we knew that Jim was being honest. It would be easy to merely reiterate the stories of Jim the film heavy, Jim the original hood, and, of course, Jim and that grapefruit... But there was much more to the man than that. So much, in fact, that his conflicting screen image and the salt of the earth guy he truly was are nearly irreconcilable and very, very hard to articulate. Here goes nothin'!

Jim in one of his personal triumphs: Yankee Doodle Dandy.

Beverly Hills was a long way from James's impoverished youth in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. His alcoholic but warm-hearted father's premature death would have a devastating effect on him-- the second born of what was to become the 5 child brood of James and Carrie Cagney. Jim's memories mixed the bitter and the sweet: his father's jokes, pitchy singing, and friendly rough-housing were too co-mingled with the patriarch's painful migraines and intense physical spells that sent him wailing like a banshee. The breadwinner of the family was lovable but undependable, and a great deal of the financial hardships fell on the determined Carrie and her children. Luckily, where James Sr. was weak, Carrie was strong. The family rock, she coached all of her children to be fighters, to use their heads, and to live right and honestly in the land that had afforded them so many privileges-- even when those privileges were difficult to see. An unspoken truth among the siblings was that the shy but sturdy Jim was her favorite. When he showed talent in drawing, she hoped that he would go on to become an artist. He didn't shrink from the idea, but he had trouble deciding upon his life path. He always seemed to be off on his own, moving through the world without really being a part of it, which was fortunate, since most of his friends got sucked into a life of crime. In his youth, he witnessed pals being arrested and men dying in the streets. While not immune to these tragedies, Jim's familial love and natural optimism pulled him through. Quiet but resilient, he could be counted on in neighborhood fights when there was a wrong to be righted or a smaller kid that had to be defended, but he never started brawls. He finished them. He preferred reading or daydreaming about living on his own farm, splendoring in the earth, and riding horses. The city boy was a country bumpkin at heart.

James put his childhood bouts to use as a boxer in City for Conquest.

Early in life, Jim considered becoming a boxer. With his mobile dexterity and fancy footwork, despite his short stature, he packed quite a wallop. However, Carrie put the kibosh on that rather quickly by challenging him to a duel of fists with her-- she wanted her son tough not dead. Jim instead transferred his physical prowess to a more graceful outlet: dance. His introduction to stage performance was a bit serendipitous. He wound up taking on a role in a play for his brother Harry when he became ill. His natural ability, straightforward delivery, and knack for actually listening to the other actors, made him stand out-- even if he did talk a little too fast. Later, that would become one of his trademarks. Jim graduated from a theater doorman (a job through which he absorbed a true appreciation for the art of performance) to a vaudeville performer uneasily. He loved life on the stage, but he was mostly concerned with finding work that paid. After he met and fell in love with Frances Vernon-- who had a crush on the "cute, quiet, red-headed boy"-- he realized that he could have both. The second strong woman fighting in his corner, Frances, whom Jim called "Willie," pushed him to hone his abilities and embrace his potential. Her belief in him would keep the two of them going when Jim was ready to give it all up to become a doctor, like two of his three brothers. After he and Willie were wed, they started performing in a vaudeville song and dance act together, performed separately when money was needed, and even temporarily opened a dance school to stay afloat. While their professional union ended, the marital one lasted until Jim's death.

Jim and Jean Harlow in a The Public Enemy, a big break for 

both of them.

Hollywood entered Jim's life, or vice versa, when he had some success starring opposite lifelong friend Joan Blondell in the play "Penny Arcade," which was made into the film Sinners' Holiday at Warner Brothers. Jim wasn't sure about Tinsel Town and figured he would make one picture and return to the stage, but he was offered a contract and took it. He and Warners would endure a hot and cold relationship for their remaining years together, not because of Jim's vanity or temperament, but because he quite simply didn't need the fame or the BS that went along with it. He only wanted to work. When Warners started giving him lousy roles, or when he saw the sharp contrast between his hefty box-office revenue and his minuscule paycheck, he would simply revolt. With his crafty and business-savvy brother Bill acting as his manager, Jim was able to play the Hollywood game his own way. By sticking to his guns, he would usually get what he wanted, while maintaining his artistic, personal, and professional integrity in the process. This did not always make Jack Warner happy, but he couldn't argue with receipts. This sense of genuineness and innate goodness is what drew audiences to Jim. While Sinners' Holiday was his introduction, he would really burst on the scene in The Public Enemy, using the mannerisms and character traits he had witnessed on the streets of New York to pepper his performance with a startling authenticity that had critics raving. Nasty, selfish, and unapologetic, Jim still managed to be somehow adorable. His approach to his characterizations gave audiences room to breathe and enjoy the fantasy without becoming too emotionally entangled. There was always a glint in his eye, as if to say: "I'm serious about this, but don't take me seriously." With his charm, good looks, and comedic edge, he was quickly tagged as a fan favorite and would hold the title of one of Hollywood's top leading men for the majority of his career.

Jim returned to his gangster roots for White Heat, because he found the 

character so compelling. This sequence is one of the most famous 

in film history.

Jim is best remembered for these early hoodlum roles, but he portrayed a wide-array of faces over his career. Often cast as a low-class, wise guy with an eye for the ladies, his role in 'G' Men would help to expand his horizons. Playing the role of a guy from the slums who made right and devoted his life to fighting crime, audiences caught their first glimpse of a character much closer to Jim himself. While he slowly edged away from his bad boy roles in films like Angels with Dirty Faces, he would return with a vengeance in the demented, Oedipal role of Cody Jarrett in White Heat. In between, he delivered performances with great humanity, humor, and color in City for Conquest, West Point Story, and The Oklahoma Kid. He was deeply honored to be able to portray one of his childhood heroes, Lon Chaney, in his biopic The Man of a Thousand Faces-- a title that also described Jim himself. But who was he off screen? His costars would remember him as a giving, devoted, and easy-going guy who wasn't afraid to stand up to a dictatorial director and was equally nurturing of new talents. The friends he had, he kept for life, and new ones knew that they were safe under his wing. He did his part in the war effort, doing radio broadcasts and making tours to support the troops, and as he aged he became more and more devoted to land conservation. His love for the outdoors and nature made it important to him to save the pure patches of green as yet untouched. Politically, he was open-minded, starting out left-wing (and at one point even being accused of membership in the Communist party) only to end up a seasoned conservative along side pal Bob Montgomery. Fluent in Yiddish, he enjoyed tossing in a line here or there in his favorite language, whether among friends or in his films. He too would add little mannerisms into his acting roles that had belonged to his father, which would induce his mother to nostalgic tears. Above all, family came first, and he remained close to his siblings and mother for all his years, even helping sister Jeanne when she began pursuing acting. In his work, he played as long as he could, and when he grew old and tired, it was Willie who pushed him to get back into the ring, where she knew he was happiest. 

As dastardly as some of his characters, Jim too possessed a certain poise and an 

elegance that not only made him attractive to the opposite sex but 

enabled him to pursue more varied roles.

James Cagney... What is there to say? As I sit here, writing and deleting what is certain to be a disjointed memorial, I find it difficult to describe who Jim really was, what he represented, and the legacy he left behind. A cinematic icon, he has been an influential force in the careers of film Gods like Eastwood and Scorsese and has left an indelible imprint on the history of film. Throughout his life, he presented vastly different portraits of what it meant to be an American, and as a man who considered himself a true patriot, this is perhaps the best compliment anyone could pay him. From the gritty realism of his gangster portrayals to his embodiment of the ultimate portrait of liberty in Yankee Doodle Dandy, Jim was both sides of the coin and 100% American tender. In later life, as his health failed, he enjoyed time on his farm (the one he had always dreamed of) and painting. Always a positive person, while he shirked the ballyhoo and public attention, he always remained grateful to his peers for their respect, and befriended many young fans who were curious about the aging icon and his unparalleled career. Jim passed away peacefully and with a wink (literally) on March 30, 1986. Having seen many of his friends go before him and seeing the world of Hollywood change around him, the straight shooter-- who could make no sense of the new "method" style of acting-- felt it was the proper time to take his final bow. He would remember his youthful vaudeville days with Willie as the happiest of his life and the enduring hardships of his youth as the most impactful, but it was his Hollywood years that remain with fans. In those years, he lent us his strength, passion, charisma, and swagger, and showed us that there is no moment in life so brutal that you can't handle it with equal parts guts and grace.