CAST AWAYS: Part XII

Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn during Charade.

If there were two stars who seemed destined to be co-stars-- celebrity soul mates-- it was Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn. No other actors or actresses were as synonymous with "style," nor was anyone a better representative of "class" for their sex. Quickly after Audrey's appearance in Hollywood, studios were already scrambling for a project that would contain the killer combo of Grant and Hepburn, yet it would take awhile before that cinematic dream would come true.

Cary was first offered the role of "Linus Larrabee" in Billy Wilder's Sabrina, but he turned the role down, perhaps because he didn't want to go toe to toe with William Holden, who would be playing the "better looking," younger brother, "David." Instead, the plum part went to Humphrey Bogart. The film probably wouldn't have been as unpredictable had Audrey wandered off into Cary's arms at the end. Everyone would have seen that one coming. Bogie's macho attitude and antipathy toward love actually created the proper amount of surprise and transformation needed to add a little depth to the role. Yet, audiences were still longing for the Cary-Audrey pairing, which is why Cary was next offered the role of "Frank Flannagan" in Love in the Afternoon, again to be directed by Billy Wilder. Nay! He turned it down again! He believed himself too old to play Audrey's romantic leading man. So, this time, Gary Cooper would fill the shoes of Audrey's befuddled, elder romancer, which of course, he did quite nicely. Still, Cary's uncanny business sense was correct. Gary, though still handsome and alluring, was a wee bit too old for the part, which resulted in Billy's strategic, shadowed lighting. Also, I don't know if Coop chose to play this role as chronically drunk, or if he really was, but to me it kind of works. He is a hoot in it, and it is unlike any other role he played. It is also nice to see the girl leading the guy in romantic circles for a change, which is why this is one of my favorite Hepburn roles. (The duo do their famous goodbye/hello at the film's end, left).

Finally, 6 years after the last offer, Cary and Audrey would come together at long last in Charade. Yet, even this gem was almost missed! Cary was still reticent about playing a creepy old man-- ironic, considering that he is the only man in the universe would could pull off that courtship and still seem so very Cary. So, while he kicked the idea around, the film was considered as a vehicle for Warren Beatty and Natalie Wood. Eek. I love both of the latter performers, but the film needed a classic vibe to work, and the fresh faces of Warren and Natalie would've been the wrong ingredients. Paul Newman was also considered for the lead, but his rate was too high. So, Cary came up with a compromise. He would take on the part, if the script were changed so that Audrey would be chasing him, and not the other way around. Agreed! Despite an unfortunate first meeting, in which a humiliated Audrey spilled wine all over Cary's perfectly tailored suit-- no worries, he sent her flowers the next day-- the two got on swimmingly. Thus, we are left with one of the funniest crime-spoof-capers in film history. (Audrey administers some TLC to Cary's Peter Joshua/Carson Dyle/Whatever his name is).

The chemistry between Audrey and Cary was just as wonderful as anyone could have dreamed. Clearly, Cary was kicking himself for not working with Audrey sooner, because as soon as production ended, and he was asked what his next goal was, he answered that he wanted to "make another movie with Audrey Hepburn!" He tried to get her for Father Goose, in fact, but Audrey was more interested in obtaining the lead in My Fair Lady. The role of "Catherine," therefore, went to Audrey's equally stunning pal, Leslie Caron (left). "Grantburn," as we'll call them, was sadly never to work together again, although there was one last chance: Cary was offered the role of "Henry Higgins" in My Fair Lady!!! However, Cary refused the role, saying that it belonged to Rex Harrison, who had brought it to life on stage. So certain was he that Rex deserved the part, that he told George Cukor that he would not even go to see the movie if he cast anyone else! Still, Rock Hudson, Peter O'Toole, and Laurence Olivier were all considered before Rex won that argument! Rock Hudson as Henry Higgins?!?!?! 

Back to Audrey: The Children's Hour remains a fascinating piece of filmmaking. Risque in its day, William Wyler explored themes of homosexuality in ways that few directors had yet been bold enough to attempt. Indeed, he had made the film before in 1936 with Merle Oberon in the role of "Karen," Miriam Hopkins in the role of "Martha," and Joel McCrea as "Joseph," (the role that would later belong to James Garner). Titled These Three, the film was unfortunately subjected to censorship restraints, meaning that all hints of lesbianism were erased from the plot, unceremoniously turning it into the typical, love triangle film. Nonetheless, perhaps hoping to give the former actresses a glorious piece of the later 1961 version, Wyler asked them to take on the roles of "Mrs. Lily Mortar" and "Mrs. Amelia Tilford." Only Miriam agreed  to sign on as Aunt Lily, performing at her usual, hysterical best. (It was perhaps fortuitous that Merle didn't sign on, since she and Audrey would, in time, share the love of their lives in Robert Wolders).

Shirley MacLaine rocks your world!

Audrey almost didn't get a chance to be in The Children's Hour, since one of the original pitches was to have Doris Day and Katharine Hepburn in the two leads. Now, I love me some Doris and Kate, but imagining the film without the deeply tortured and heartbreaking performance of Shirley MacLaine is unthinkable (see left)! Audrey too proved to be the perfect counterpoint to Shirley's highly nervous Martha, giving her own portrayal of Karen a believable blend of cool intelligence and wounded naivete. Both are lost souls in their own way whose lives are torn assunder by an outrageous lie that proves to be half true. A good movie makes you feel, a great one makes you think, a perfect one does both. As with most Audrey films, this one safely falls into the perfect category.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Audrey Hepburn

Audrey Kathleen Van Heemstra Ruston

The Audrey Hepburn effect became pretty clear to me over the past month. In preparation for all of my monthly muses, in addition to reading everything I can about the individual in so brief a time, I like to watch as many of their available films as possible. A strange phenomenon: not only did I find that I already had the majority of Audrey's major Hollywood films in my possession, but I was also privileged with enduring the most enjoyable movie marathon in my recollection. Every movie made me feel good. Every movie left me in a better mood. Most importantly, I was excited to revisit each film, whereas sometimes I have to drag my feet (due to the impending, heavy subject matter, etc). Not this time. Thus, I give you the Audrey Hepburn effect: Joy!

Audrey seems so... pristine in cinematic history-- so beautiful, so charismatic, and so notoriously generous. Her sense of style via her BFFs Givenchy and Ralph Lauren makes even Grace Kelly in retrospect look like an amateur. Her films are almost all classics, and they continue to be lauded as some of the top fan favorites in film history. Imagining movies-- nay, the world!-- without Audrey, today seems unfathomable. She is an icon: a frail, delicate, untouchable goddess. It is easy to slip her into the Heavenly attic of Hollywood's stars and forget that she came up the hard way. Today, Audrey and "Beauty" are synonymous; yet, there was no place in the ever-short-sighted L.A. for a skinny, gawky, too tall girl with no real acting experience. The fact that Audrey Hepburn triumphed and won hearts simply by being herself is a testament both to her and to us. When this diamond emerged from the rough, we saw in her a beauty that existed outside of the general standard and was superior to all preconceived notions. Audrey was both authentic and ethereal. Our trust in her was quickly earned, and in a comparatively short career in film, she never let us down.

Audrey takes the stage as "Gigi." Famed and infamous

authoress Collette handpicked Audrey when she

saw her randomly in a hotel lobby!

Yet, she had every reason to. Audrey's childhood was far from "lov-e-ly," despite the fact that she was born into nobility. Her mother, Ella van Heemstra, was a "baroness" with unfulilled dreams of the stage, and her father was the wayfaring "businessman" Joseph Hepburn-Ruston. The marriage was an affair of passion over propriety on the lady's part. Ella would pass on her daring nature to her third child. Audrey was the happy, youngest, and only daughter, born after two half-brothers, Alexander and Ian, from her mother's previous marriage to Hendrik Gustaaf Adolf Quarles van Ufford, (phew), which had ended in divorce.  War was brewing, and Audrey's father was surprisingly on the side of the Nazis, a fact that caused Audrey much later chagrin. Even her mother showed an early, ignorant support of the fascist movement, one that she later revised after her husband abandoned her and she witnessed first-hand the evil of the Axis powers. Growing up primarily in the Dutch town of Arnhem during its German occupation, Audrey was confronted with hunger, depravity, and fear. Her father's absence and her mother's detached sense of affection, which revealed itself in discipline, only exacerbated Audrey's shyness and insecurity. Yet, her answer to these threats, always, was to remain brave-- to literally keep dancing while the world tried to break her. 

Indeed, she dreamed of being a ballerina, and she would put on private shows for neighbors-- who out of fear of making noise, couldn't even applaud for her but merely smiled in reverence after she made her curtsy. Audrey also showed signs of the early rebel, daringly hiding soldiers with her mother and carrying messages for the resistance in her shoes-- a courageous act many of her young peers participated in. With her innocent face, she was the perfect secret agent, though she was almost accidentally rounded up once with a slew of other girls to work in the German military kitchen. She waited for the right moment and made a break for it. The other girls weren't as lucky, nor as bold. Finally, the end of the madness, and the liberation of Holland, came on her sixteenth birthday: May 4, 1945. Audrey celebrated by getting sick by gorging on chocolate, the first she'd tasted in some time. However, her bouts with illness during the war-- including anemia, severe edema, jaundice, and asthma-- would forever affect her metabolism, as well as her psyche. She would never forget the horrors and cruelties she saw. Her most brilliant act of defiance was in not letting the memories cripple her. Instead, she approached life with beauty, grace, and dignity, which served as her sword, helmet, and shield through all the trials she had yet to endure.

Audrey's sense of fun and youthful wonder mixed with

her emotional maturity won her an Academy Award
in Roman Holiday and a lifetime friend

in Gregory Peck.

How did this little, twirling violet find herself in Hollywood? The trek was unlikely and a bit unwanted when it came. As Audrey matured, it became unfortunately clearer and clearer to her that ballet was not her calling. She was a capable dancer, but what she possessed in poise and charisma-- two things she had in abundance-- she lacked in skill and control. Anyone who observed her dancing performances, her work in "High Button Shoes," or the cabaret show at Ciro's in London, was captivated by her-- particularly with her eyes. She had a "quality." She was "bound to be famous." Many over the years would take credit for discovering her, and perhaps it's true that many did. Audrey was the only one who seemed surprised by her public reception. Always a practical and hard-working woman, she eventually got work modeling and taking some minor roles in mostly British films. Word of mouth and just plain luck earned Audrey a chance at the leading role in Anita Loos's stage adaptation of "Gigi" and a screen test for William Wyler's Roman Holiday. She nabbed them both! Suddenly, Audrey was the toast of the entertainment world: an inexperienced actress with a practically non-existent resume was to star on Broadway and in a major motion picture!? With Gregory Peck?! It all made sense when the world caught a glimpse of her. In "Gigi," Audrey's acting was at best mildly praised and at worst dismissed, but her being was extolled. She was just... adorable! And lovable. And real. These qualities would carry over into her first screen performance, where Greg Peck even gentlemanly acquiesced to sharing top billing with her, because he was so impressed. Audrey's rule was simple: not to "act," but to "feel." She would repeatedly admit throughout her career that she had no technique; that she relied entirely on her directors and co-stars to guide her. Her humility only made her more enchanting, and the honesty with which she approached her work made her an immediate sensation.

The Hepburn quality is a mixture of innocence and maturity; girlishness and strength. Skinny as a rail, she may have been. Still, no one got the impression, with her defiant, square-line jaw, that Audrey could be pushed around. But then, with her vulnerable features and ultimate kindness, no one wanted to. The same enchantment that she used to capture the loyalty of her directors and co-stars (she had Billy Wilder and William Wyler transfixed and notorious scalawags like Peter O'Toole and William Holden eating out of her hand) was the same that endeared a universal audience to her. In Roman Holiday, Sabrina, Funny Face, and Love in the Afternoon, we witness her in her ingenue supremacy. The little girl, a bit romantic but always intelligent, falls in love with an older male. Modern feminists could argue the issues all day, but in the end, it is never Audrey who is conquered. Her wit and depth, albeit in a younger, more seemingly impressionable package, always triumph over the uber-masculine, jaded, and philandering ways of Bogart, Astaire, and Cooper. As such, she is a girl who is allowed to fall in love, because she does so, not only genuinely, but with class. She may have given up the study of "empathicalism" to become a model in Funny Face, but the point is not that she looked beautiful doing it-- that she went through the Cinderella process at the cost of her brain-- but that she used both her beauty and brains to bring Fred Astaire through his own emotional Cinderella process, so that he would be man enough to meet her.

When Audrey looked in the mirror, she always saw a Funny Face; 

the world saw the epitome of gorgeousness.

Always, Audrey was proactive in her career, choosing roles that spoke to her and that held some level of decorum that preached her belief that beauty gives birth to beauty. She had seen enough violence in her life and had endured enough trauma. In her projects, there was always the resounding mantra of "let there be light," even if her characters had to sometimes face the harder aspects of humanity to find it. Yet, as the girl became a woman, so too did she seek out more mature roles. With the help of her first husband, Mel Ferrer--whose instincts for her career were as keen as his instincts toward his own were askew-- she more often than not was able to choose projects that ended as box-office hits, but then that was, again, probably just the Audrey Hepburn effect. The studios were enthusiastically shocked when The Nun's Story was a smash success, and indeed this film was a milestone in Audrey's acting career as well. Here, not only do we watch her acting reach new heights, but we watch the little girl we knew enter into a life of servitude (with conviction and courage), and exit it as a mature, worldly woman. It was the perfect beginning to a new chapter in her film work. I personally find her later movies more compelling, although admittedly her earlier, ingenue films are the height of Hollywood romanticism. Once she outgrew the role of "the new girl," or the "hot young thing," Audrey was able to use her clout to take on more daring projects that pushed the envelope of human understanding-- such as The Children's Hour-- or our very sense of cultural comfort...

Breakfast at Tiffany's: where glamour and bohemia meet.

Oh, Breakfast at Tiffany's... Is there anyone alive who does not get misty when they hear the opening, melancholy notes of "Moon River?" (Heck, I'm tearing up right now)! Notoriously, Truman Capote would be aghast at the fact that Audrey was cast as his free-wheeling, little-girl-lost prostitute, "Holly Golightly." (He had hoped for Marilyn Monroe, see here). Many were inclined to agree with him. Audrey a call-girl??? Errr...  As a result, Blake Edwards's take on the novella was not as gritty nor as realistic, though brimming with life and humor, as Capote's charmed tale, but in retrospect, the end may just have justified the means. In a nation undergoing an incredible cultural shift-- from old school, to new school; from boundaries and glamour to "swingers," desegregation, and Vietnam-- our transformation into a new world, a more open, yet for many, peculiar world, needed a trusting face to guide us there. So, the last link of Golden Era Hollywood would wear the slim black dress of a society girl, have premarital sex, throw drunken parties, and still find a way to make it appear palatable. And also: Tiffany's? There's only one woman that could carry that banner. Audrey and style are forever intertwined. Despite some critical disapproval, Audrey's ever-running, ever-searching Holly is authentic unto herself. There was so much of that Holly in Audrey, that the performance is actually quite breath-taking and far above commendation.

Alan Arkin terrorizes Audrey in Wait Until Dark.

From this point on, Audrey would play Women and continue her position as an unexpected feminist role model. Another surprisingly controversial piece of work, My Fair Lady, was a grueling and emotionally draining experience to make, mostly because of the constant insults hurled Audrey's way for her lip-syncing. (Not her fault, by the way. She tried to sing her own songs, but Audrey's singing, much like her dancing, was never on par with her thespian abilities). Still, her "Eliza Doolittle," while funny in her cockney period, was most astonishing in her post-transformation. When her heart breaks over the uncertainty of her future, a woman in-between and without a home, the audience is with her and too cheers for her when she puts Rex Harrison's "Henry Higgins" in his place. Two for the Road introduced audiences to a more realistic, less-sugary portrait of marriage, and ironically helped to end Audrey's own, as she and co-star Albert Finney engaged in a passionate affair during filming. The entire blame was not on Audrey, mind you. Mel had been enjoying numerous, alleged dalliances prior to this for some time, and it was argued just how serviceable or controlling his interest in her career had become. He would produce Wait Until Dark-- a still undated, suspenseful masterpiece, thanks to Audrey's performance as a helpless, blind woman who uses her wits to escape disaster-- then the couple would divorce.

Audrey's career in film was all but over at this point, but then Hollywood was never truly her home. She admired the art but defied the pretension, finding solace in her home in Switzerland where she could enjoy more peace and privacy. After suffering numerous miscarriages, she would eventually have two sons, the first by Mel-- Sean Ferrer-- and the second by second husband, psychiatrist Andrea Dotti-- Luca Dotti. As she had been a career woman since her late teens, Audrey decided to devote the remainder of her life to being a wife and mother, making films only sporadically. Many hail Robin and Marian as her last, great classic, and I'm inclined to agree. (The chemistry between herself and the Scots' answer to masculinity, Sean Connery, is still mesmerizing). Sadly, while Audrey, guilty over the dissolution of her first union, was determined to make her second marriage work, she and Andrea Dotti were divorced after his very public liaisons became too much for her to endure. (You cheated on Audrey Hepburn? HONESTLY)!? Yet, she would find her soulmate after long last in the widower of Merle Oberon, the 7 years younger Robert Wolders. They would remain together for 12 years, most of which were encompassed by Audrey's dedicated work for UNICEF. Because of her own desperate struggles as a child, children in pain were always her weak-spot, and she charitably and exhaustingly gave herself to this cause, despite the emotional toll it took on her. Watching the deaths of innocents by the hundreds in places like Ethiopia, Turkey, and Somalia, was no easy feat.

Gorge on the gorgeousness.

Audrey Hepburn died at the age of 63, mere weeks after her rare and painful bout with cancer was even diagnosed-- the malignant tumor that had started in her appendix had already spread by the time Audrey had registered the discomfort, resulting in a hysterectomy and the partial removal of her colon. She opted not to undergo chemotherapy and left this earth as peaceably as she had lived within it. She was surrounded by loved ones as she took her last breath and was subsequently missed by all whose lives she had touched, many of whom knew her only from her presence on the silver screen. She would be held up over time as an angel-- an inhumanly beautiful woman inside and out. But Audrey was not an angel. She was, despite her slender figure, of hearty stock and a complicated, deeply emotional, acutely intelligent woman, whose generous contribution to society was her lightness of spirit. Have you ever laughed harder than at the dialogue she shares with Cary Grant in Charade? Have you ever watched Sabrina and not audibly sighed? War and Peace is one of her least known films-- and lesser praised as well (for good reason, I must say)-- but it eloquently ends with the words of Tolstoy: "The most difficult thing-- but an essential one-- is to love Life, even while one suffers, because Life is all." It may as well have been her epitaph. Few have come closer than she, perhaps, to living that very example.

CAST AWAYS: From Stage to Screen

Barbara Stanwyck and Robert Ryan Clash by Night and use a stage play

to take Hollywood by storm.

Some of our most iconic films were adapted from theater plays. This is but one of many pieces of evidence that it is a good story above anything else that makes a good film (are you listening Hollywood?). A lot of film actors, of course, get their start as stage thespians, and many have been discovered treading the boards of Broadway, off Broadway, or even off off Broadway. Cinema constantly goes fishing and poaching in these highly respected and esteemed waters, using the talents of the theatre mixed with the punch of Tinsel Town power to create smash screen hits. In some cases, the original theatrical cast is duplicated on the screen, with the play itself edited to fit into a two hour bracket of entertainment. In most cases, however, the cast and the script itself are heavily altered to fit into the world of movieland conditions, with a leading man and lady with more star power usurping the primary roles and the story acclimating itself to time constraints, current audience tastes, and-- of course-- censorship. Thus, theatre is looked upon more often as performance art while Hollywood is viewed as its more bastardized (albeit profitable) cousin: product-- art in a can, or should I say in the can.

In any case, it is the stories more popularly seen on the silver screen that touch the most hearts and introduce superbly written and acted productions to people the world over. It is films that we will honor and pass down to our children as a shared experience, whereas theatre is a once in a lifetime shot: never duplicated and never performed the same way twice. It makes one wonder and yearn for the chance to see some of the alternate performances that, instead of being left on the cutting room floor as in film, were left merely to history, echoing against the walls of so many great theaters. While screen actors never age and never die, theatre actors and their performances become ghosts as soon as the curtain comes down after the final act. Here are a few of the lost souls whose spirits were brought to life through other vessels on the silver screen:

Tallulah Bankhead (left) was... a character. James Cagney once said that acting was a "shy man's profession," because it allowed a more introverted or bashful person to become someone more intense, emotional, and outspoken. Tallulah must be the exception that proves this rule, for no character she played was as outrageous and gutsy as she. She bragged that she only came to Hollywood to sleep with Gary Cooper, which she proudly accomplished. She too drew gasps and chuckles from the set of Lifeboat when her soggy undergarments became too daunting and she decided to continue filming sans panties: a moment Hitch must have remembered with fondness. While she made quite a few contributions to the big screen, even being an early contender for Scarlett O'Hara, this earthy lady with southern sass remains most renowned for her contributions to the stage. She brought many characters to life for the first time that would later be embodied by different actresses when adapted for the screen. One such character was Mae Wilenski of Clash by Night, written by Clifford Odets and performed for the first time in 1941. Lee Strasberg directed the vehicle through its meager 49  performances, but despite its short run, it was still made into a film a decade later.

This time, Barbara Stanwyck (right) took on the role of Mae, with her name changed to D'Amato and the play's locale moved from Staten Island to Monterey. Fritz Lang used his genius as director to add as much gravitas as he could to what turned out to be another soapy B-film, which remains most notorious now for an appearance by a young, pre-superstar Marilyn Monroe. Since Babs and Tallulah had much in common-- both assertive, sexual women with notorious, husky drawls-- it is easy to see Tallulah standing in Babs's place at the helm. The film retains more cult than classic status, but Babs brings her usual guts to the part, invigorating the tale of a sexually undernourished wife in a cataclysmic love triangle with the dignity of truth as only she could. Tallulah wasn't an option for the screen version, most likely because her career had stalled a bit. She remained fairly busy on the stage and small screen in the '50s, but a life of hard living and hard drinking mixed with her hell-raising reputation made her a much bigger gamble than the diligent and consummately professional Stanwyck. In any case, Babs was a few years younger, so that also tipped the scales in her favor.(Interestingly, there may be more to the connection between Babs and Tallulah. When Louis B. Mayer once confronted Tallulah about her over-erotic nature, she shot back with a list of stars, including some from his own stables, that she had... made friends with. Allegedly, "Barbara Stanwyck" was one of the names. It shut the red-faced Mayer up quickly).

The same year that Tallulah was first breathing life into Mae Wilenski on stage, another one of her past roles was being brought to life on the screen, which may explain was she was unavailable to take the film role. Directed by Herman Shumlin, Tallulah had portrayed the infamous Regina Giddens of The Little Foxes at the National Theater in February of 1939 and then enjoyed an extensive run and tour. The play was so successful that Lillian Hellman adapted her own script into a screenplay in '41 with William Wyler directing. But Tallulah's busy stage schedule was not the whole reason she was overlooked for the film version. Wyler had insisted on casting Bette Davis for the role of Regina (left), as he had been impressed with her vitality in their previous collaborations of Jezebel and The Letter. Jack Warner wasn't about to loan his top star to Samuel Goldwyn for the production, but Wyler stuck to his guns and eventually got his way. However, he did admit that Tallulah was an amazing talent, and prior to production, he pressured Bette to see Tallulah's interpretation on the stage-- which was still running-- if only to ensure that Bette bring something different to the table. Bette herself would admit that Tallulah was fantastic and had performed the role the only way it could be performed, which made crafting her own, unique characterization a real headache. Still, it remains one of her most iconic roles, and ironically not the only one she stole from Tallulah-- she had performed in the role of Judith Traherne in Dark Victory in 1939, which too Tallulah had immortalized on the stage. Essentially, Tallulah kept settin' 'em up, and Bette kept knockin' 'em down.

Though clearly an actress of great reputation, Tallulah was a die-hard fan herself when it came actors. One performance that left her in awe was that of Frank Fay (the ex-Mr. Stanwyck) when he starred in the lead role of Elwood P. Dowd in "Harvey" (right). Tallulah considered his interpretation of a kind-hearted man who sees and interacts with an imaginary rabbit to be "one of the greatest performances [she'd] seen." It ran for over 1700 performances from 1945-1949 on Broadway, being a smash hit and a triumph for Fay, who was still nursing a bruised ego after his divorce from Babs and his failed film career. Despite this boost in his career, he still wasn't hailed to reclaim his role in the 1950 film version, though his co-star, Josephine Hull, thankfully was, and it earned her an Academy Award. Instead, the most lovable and likable of all film actors was cast as Elwood: only Jimmy Stewart could play a complete loon and still hold the audience's favor. Still, with Tallulah as Fay's cheerleader, it makes one wonder what exactly he brought to the table that was so astounding, and so different from Jimmy...

James Stewart goes nuts (or should I say "carrots?") in Harvey.

Barbara Stanwyck snagged another role from a hard-luck diva: Frances Farmer. Farmer (right), while in the midst of her scandalous affair with Clifford Odets (wed to Luise Rainer), was cast in the lead female role of his production of "Golden Boy" when it hit the stage in 1937. Both members of The Group Theatre-- a precursor to the Strasberg method school that churned out modern, provocative work-- their combining forces in the story of a violinist turned boxer was sure to pack a wallop. At heart, the film was personal to Odets, who wrote it about the struggle between integrity/artistry and the temptation of commercial success. Many friends would say that he lost this battle when he "went Hollywood," taking his Golden baby with him. Frances, who was much more about the craft than the dough, was not invited along for the ride, as she had walked out on the play and Cliff when the affair hit the skids. She felt her star power had been used to sell tickets to the play and was tired of being used as, what she considered to be, Cliff's whore and cash cow. Thus, in 1939, Babs stepped on board for the screen version and coached newbie William Holden in his breakthrough performance. Bill had, coincidentally, nabbed the role of Joe Bonaparte from Luther Adler but also from John Garfield, who was a member of "the Group" and had been promised the part by Odets himself. Cliffy didn't come through, and the part went to Holden-- a test of faith that made a star. (This one was a bit of review from past blogs, but with Babs as star of the month, I thought it was worth repeating).

Another star moment was made when Marlon Brando brought his interpretation of Stanley Kowalski in Tennessee Williams's A Streetcar Named Desire to the big screen in 1951. One cry of "Stella!" and a few broken dishes later, and Hollywood had its newest bad boy. Marlon was not the only gem poached from the original 1947 case-- both Karl Malden and Kim Hunter would reprise their stage roles as Mitch and Stella respectively, and Elia Kazan would too transfer his directorial efforts from the stage to screen. The only member not invited along for the ride was Jessica Tandy, who invented the now iconic role of Blanche DuBois. Initially, her ostracizing seems ignorant if not plain rude. After all, she won a Tony for her efforts, which had-- along with the rest of the original cast-- created a half-hour applause after the play's debut. So, why wasn't she brought on board? (Marlon and Jessica rehearse, left).

The decision was, as always, a calculated one. The play had received such buzz that it was essential to the studio to re-create the magic for the screen and capitalize. Yet, studio heads were insecure-- they craved star power. Thus, players were essentially traded, with Marlon being a necessity to bring his violence and danger to the big screen, and Kim and Karl allowed to reprise their roles because they were secondary characters. Jessica was deemed the expendable one. Since Vivien Leigh (right) had later portrayed the role of Blanche in London under hubby Laurence Olivier's direction, she seemed a safer bet for screen viewers. In effect, the gamble worked, for this contradiction between old-Hollywood (Scarlett O'Hara herself) and new-Hollywood (holy, shirtless Marlon!) created just the juxtaposition needed for Blanche's otherworldly quality within the gritty realism of the Kowalski household. One wishes there were a piece of evidence to give all Williams devotees a glimpse into Jessica's interpretation, but-- despite this unsavory casting coup-- Vivien still managed to earn the respect of her co-stars and her second Academy Award for Best Actress.

My Fair Lady (1964) was a film adaptation of the musical adaptation (1956) of the earlier George Bernard Shaw play "Pygmalion" (1913). Clearly, the metamorphosis of the cockney Eliza Doolitle to a refined lady was reflected in the story's own journey. The musical "My Fair Lady" premiered in '56 on Broadway with one of history's favorite songstresses, Julie Andrews, in the lead role of Eliza (left) and Rex Harrison in the role of her Svengali-- the crotchety, uppity Henry Higgins. Despite the fact that Rex couldn't sing a note-- a fact that he obviously knew full well when he panicked and locked himself in his dressing room prior to curtain-- his rhythmic talking and pitch-perfect performance coupled with Julie Andrews's consistent magnificence was enough to make the show a hit. The mockery of gender roles and classes and the superb score, with such hits as "I Could Have Danced All Night" and " On the Street Where You Live" resonated with audiences, and eight years later it was time to broaden the fan base. Hollywood intervened with its usual accuracy, and cameras started rolling.

There was but one problem, Julie was nowhere to be found! Her mettle as a film actress had not yet been tested, thus Audrey Hepburn was given the role of Eliza (right). Rex, who was a much more experienced film actor, was allowed to maintain his role of Higgins. Despite the casting snafu, the film remains a classic and a delight, with Audrey bringing her own lovable, romantic nature to the role of Eliza while simultaneously pulling off a stellar, cockney ignoramus-- "Come on Dovah! Move your bloomin' ahss!" Yet, the fact that her singing was dubbed (by Marni Nixon) worked against her, and many believe this is why her performance was not recognized by the Academy. Clearly, everyone was "Team Julie" that year at the awards, for it was she who won for her breakthrough performance in Mary Poppins. Rex, however, walked home with the trophy for Best Actor. As for Audrey, she took the snub like a pro, though she was deeply hurt. She had indeed recorded all of her own vocals and was shocked when another voice came out of her mouth upon the final screening. She was deeply hurt, as she had worked diligently on all her past singing roles, including Funny Face and the iconic "Moon River" of Breakfast at Tiffany's. Yet, it couldn't be argued that Julie indeed had a stronger voice. Neither gal harbored any hard feelings about the whole debacle, and both became good friends. In the end, they had Eliza to thank for bringing them together.

The Barrymore name still holds great meaning in Hollywood. John's granddaughter Drew has been left alone to carry the torch of this illustrious family of thespians, but their reputation remains in tact. However, as Ethel was almost totally devoted to the stage and John was-- at best-- inconsistent in his dedication, it is Lionel (left) who has the most impressive cinematic track record. He got his start in film in the late 1900s, but he too maintained his dedication to the theatre. As such, in 1923 he appeared alongside his wife Irene Fenwick in "Laugh, Clown, Laugh." It premiered at the Belasco and ran for 133 performances through March of 1924. It wasn't exactly a runaway success, but its modest audience recognition and its intriguing storyline was enough to gain Hollywood's attention... albeit not immediately.

A few years later, MGM was sifting through storylines when Laugh, Clown, Laugh was brought to its attention as a vehicle for Lon Chaney. "The Man of a Thousand Faces" had portrayed a clown before in He Who Gets Slapped. The role seemed a perfect fit for America's favorite character actor, who was known for his tragic tales of unrequited love. Since Lon did a lot of his own story scavenging, it is possible that he came across the script himself, or at the very least that he was consulted on it. Sensing another suffering heart, he jumped at the chance to portray the romantically tortured Tito and handpicked Loretta Young to star as his adopted daughter/love interest (cringe), Simonetta (together, right). As Lionel was a competent film actor but not a star of Lon's latitude, he probably was not even considered for the part. The film was a runaway success and also-- reportedly-- Lon's favorite role. Since Lionel was working steadily on his own, he probably didn't hold any grudges... but if he did, he got a little revenge when he starred opposite Lon in West of Zanzibar in 1928. His character in the film steals Lon's wife!

Jean Arthur (left) stands alone in history. Not for her acting talent, off-putting behavior, or cinematic resume, but for that voice! It is hard to purr and squeak at the same time, yet that seems to be just what she did merely by talking. As such, when Garson Kanin's "Born Yesterday" hit the stage in 1946, he had no other actress in mind than his friend Jean for the role of the abrasive yet adorable Billie Dawn. A rough around the edges gal trying to play it classy, Jean's duck-out-of-water persona certainly would have fit the bill. There was but one minor problem when it came to Jean-- her crippling inferiority complex, which consistently manifested itself in stage fright. She started numerous plays only to drop out or cause problems once they debuted. Such was the case with "Born." No sooner was she cast in the role of Billie than her usual neurotic antics began to surface. During rehearsals, she would take issue with the script, get nervous, panic, and withdraw into her dressing room, driving Garson nearly mad. Despite this, the play opened to positive reviews in New Haven and continued to fare well in Boston. Then, Jean's internal stresses asserted themselves in physical illness, and she claimed to have a sore throat. One night, in the second act, she completely blacked out and couldn't remember her lines. She finally alerted the production that she would not be continuing on-- doctor's orders-- and an unsuspecting Mary Laslo stepped in to temporarily take her place. However, Mary had been playing the small role of the manicurist and was unprepared to be a sudden lead! 

Enter Judy Holliday (right). With the Philadelphia opening postponed, the equally gifted and much less emotionally troubled actress jumped into grueling, boot camp rehearsal sessions. Had it not been for coffee, as she admitted herself, she may not have made it. By the time the show hit New York, with a new leading lady and a new third act, it was a sensation. Judy ran away with the role, making it her own. In effect, thanks to Jean's erratic behavior, Judy became a star! Hence, when a film adaptation was made in 1950, Judy was cast in the lead role-- not the original Billie prototype, Jean. Judy had worked in film before, her most noteworthy part being  in Adam's Rib opposite Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, who had both championed her, but it would be this film that would skyrocket her film career, however briefly. In this case, it was Judy alone of the main cast who duplicated her performance, for Paul Douglas lost his role of Harry Brock to Broderick Crawford and Gary Merrill passed the torch of Paul Verrall to William Holden (yet another stage nab for the Bill). In the end, no matter who it was performing beside her, Judy stole the show. It was her moment, and her take on the reinvented showgirl who finds absolution through intelligence-- and thus self-respect-- remains one of cinema's favorite comedic female characters.

Ken Kesey's book One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was so unique and powerful in its human appeal that it was immediately turned into a play. In 1963, the adaptation hit Broadway with none other than multi-faceted tough guy Kirk Douglas (left) taking on the role of feigned nutcase Randle McMurphy. Gene Wilder too was cast as the sensitive but disturbed Billy Bibbit. Joan Tetzel took on the role of the unlikely villainess, Nurse Ratched. It ran for 82 performances and definitely turned some heads! Over ten years later, the film was in the can, but the cast was different. As Kirk had no longer been considered young enough to portray the devious and rebellious Murphy, Jack Nicholson swooped in and immortalized the role. Since Jack always comes off a bit "cuckoo" himself (in the best possible way), the casting decision seemed to be kismet. Gene too did not reprise his role, instead handing it to off-kilter character man Brad Dourif. Danny Devito too contributed his uncanny screen presence in a small role. Nurse Ratched would be memorably played by Louise Fletcher, who garnered an Academy Award for her muted take on evil. Jack would too win the Oscar, as would director Milos Forman. However, best of all was the fact that the "Douglas" name would still be honored when Michael Douglas, son of Kirk, would win the award for Best Picture after serving as Producer on the film. Since his father helped bring the play to life, it was perhaps in honor of him that Michael even approached the project in the first place. Innovation seems to run in that family.

Jack makes friends (with "Chief" Will Sampson) and history in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

While one can't argue the finished products of cinema nor their hold on us, the re-workings of the casts in all of these instances is something to note. A few different ingredients, and you wind up with a vastly different product, be it masterpiece or dud. Since we shall never be able to compare results-- play versus film-- we are left only with the offerings our movie stars have left us. In the end, there probably is no better or worse, merely different takes. A film adaptation of a play is akin to the effect produced in re-making a movie: you're going to get a different experience with different players-- some will like it, others not. I suppose the good news is that we are so flooded with talent that we have all these different pools to pull from. Since it could be argued that Hollywood keeps making the same old stories anyway, there is some beauty in seeing the same old plays performed again and again by different actors. It would be nice to have all of life recorded so that there was no mystery about our creative past at all, but for now, we shall have to suffice our curiosity with our own wonder. And, of course, with the movies.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Carole Landis

Carole Landis

It is funny what celebrity death can do... both to the public and to the deceased. The masses were so distraught after Rudy Valentino's death that at least a couple of the broken hearts tried to take their own lives as well. The tragedies of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe, instead of ending their time on earth, brought them eternal life and the love of devoted fans. Yet, sometimes, despite one's fame, to die is to die. Such is the sad case of Carole Landis, who despite her bright light, her profound beauty, and the fanatic adulation she received during her lifetime, is now remembered-- if at all-- as a sad and balled-up corpse on the bathroom floor. After she took her own life in order to ease her wounded heart, the world was left in shocked silence. Slowly, she became all but forgotten outside the halls of Hollywood's macabre trivia. The time has come to unearth her and give her the respect and embrace she always wanted but was forever denied. As the anniversary of her death approaches on July Fourth, it seems befitting to dedicate our most patriotic month to the woman who, in her life, was America's favorite patriot. Carole Landis, God shed his grace on thee...

Carole was naturally photogenic... and a brunette. 

She went blonde when she went Hollywood.

Just as mysterious and saddening as her end was her beginning. Frances Lillian Ridste was the youngest of five children born to Clara Zentek and Alfred Ridste of Wisconsin in 1919. Yet, from the beginning there was controversy, including a debate as to just who her real father was. While the family was temporarily living in Montana-- due to Alfred's job with the railroad-- Clara met farmer Charles Fenner and, it is assumed, had an affair with him. Since Alfred obtained a divorce from Clara not long after Frances's birth, credence can be given to the rumor. Clara wed Charles after her first divorce, but that union would only last 17 months. Thus, Carole inherited two absent fathers and an equally absent mother, who was forced to spend most of her days working to feed and clothe herself and her 4 children (one of whom, Jerry, had tragically already died). Carole was often left to her own devices: both to entertain herself and to fend for herself. Her childhood lacked the innocence that every youth is owed, but she never belly-ached about it. In fact, her fortitude and her selflessness were well-honed qualities that she would carry with her into adulthood, where their repercussions would eventually and vengefully take hold. A naturally friendly, light-hearted, and popular child, Carole was laid-back and easy-going. After the family moved to San Bernardino, CA, she enjoyed the pleasures of going to school and socializing, excelling at both. She could easily chat with the girls, despite their jealousy over her growing beauty-- which her sweet demeanor rendered non-threatening-- but she preferred to play sports with the boys. Athleticism was always a major part of her life, and the glamorous gowns and delicate figure that she showcased in her later film roles would eclipse a tom-boy's energetic and shapely body. In her youth, the only "dangerous curves" Carole concerned herself with had to do with softball.

In a wardrobe fitting.

Feisty and independent, Carole would survive many tragedies and mature rapidly as a result. She lost another brother, Lewis, when he was accidentally shot at the kitchen table while playing with a neighbor's gun. After her mother suffered a ruptured appendix, Carole, despite being the youngest member of the household, was the only child who neither panicked nor cried. She did what she always did and "got to gettin'." Nonetheless, the scars of these early experiences increased in her a need for escape. One option for relief was through the movies, of which she very quickly became enamored. Singing was also a talent she indulged in, possessing a beautiful voice to match her gorgeous physical features. It was this latter beauty that led to another possibility of escape: men. At 14, she passed for 21, and the fellas noticed, especially after she started winning beauty competitions (for which she had to lie about her age to enter). Luckily, Carole was completely lacking in vanity, and saw this all as a fun joke. She was more focused on creating the first powder-puff football team at her school, (though the Principal didn't go for it because it was "unwomanly"). Then, at the age of 15, she met 18-year-old Irving Wheeler and fell in love. He offered her a life away from her increasingly dependent mother, and more importantly a life of their own. Carole took the bate, and the two eloped on January 14, 1934, though the marriage was soon annulled when both sets of parents found out. Defiantly, Carole wed Wheeler again, whose intentions were more physical than emotional, only to walk out on him by September of the same year. It would not be her last tumultuous relationship.

Twentieth-Century Fox definitely cashed in on Carole's sex appeal, 

which was at times devastating to her sense of self.

The self-starter herein made her first big move: to San Francisco. Still only fifteen, she left school, her family, and all of her friends behind and travelled to the city that was known for its artistry and culture. She hoped to make a name there for herself as a singer. She did. First, she changed her name, taking "Carole" from one of her favorite actresses, Carole Lombard, and "Landis" from baseball commissioner (of course) Kennesaw Mountain Landis. Many have alleged that Carole spent her early days in San Francisco as a call-girl, but these seem to be nothing more than slanderous rumors cooked up by a jealous and unforgiving world. In truth, Carole had no time to engage in this type of vocation, because almost as soon as she stepped off the train, she marched into the famous St. Francis Hotel and asked the manager for a job. When he heard her sing, he was stunned and gratified to hire her on the spot. By working the smaller St. Francis bar, Carole was soon scooped up by the "Carl Ravazza Orchestra," and after enjoying a great deal of success and adulation, she possessed enough confidence to give Hollywood a go. In 1936, now seventeen, Carole was primed to take the industry by storm, though she would have to edit her age again to do so. With the same fearless determination and zestful work ethic that she had shown in San Francisco, Carole made the rounds to different studios and obtained numerous extra jobs until being offered a contract. 

Her athleticism served her well in the physically demanding 

One Million B.C. Eat your heart out, Raquel Welch.

Her first big break came when she was cast in the special effects, B-movie triumph One Million B.C, in which she outmaneuvered dinosaurs in scant clothing alongside costar Victor Mature. It was her athleticism that won her the role. D.W. Griffith himself was brought on board to help cast the film initially, and he hand-picked Carole because, as he put it, "She's the only [girl] who knows how to run." Soon, she was using her natural talent and knack for both comedy and drama to climb the popularity polls in films like Turnabout, in which she plays a man in the body of a woman, I Wake Up Screaming, in which she plays Betty Grable's morally questionable, murdered sister, and A Scandal in Paris, in which she plays such a sexy and devious villainess that she literally sets the screen on fire. Her beauty made her a prime candidate for some of the most popular pin-up photos of the day, though some of hers didn't make it to print due to censorship-- not because they were naughty, but because she was too well endowed. In fact, she became the first "sweater girl," before contemporary Lana Turner took the title. She was so innocently provocative that at least one particular photographer warned her before a shoot, "For God's sakes, don't inhale!" to try to diminish the appearance of her... gifts. Though Carole thought all of this objectification was a lark, she went along with it, simply because she was easy-going; not because she put stock in her sexual appeal. It wasn't until they tried to label her as the "ping" girl that she completely rebelled. She wanted to be a great actress and studied Bette Davis's performances with an eager ferocity, hoping to lend the same depth to her own roles. Sadly, because of her beauty, she was rarely afforded the privilege. Yet, she remained popular, especially among her contemporaries who constantly became smitten by her kindness and conviviality. She counted Patsy Kelly, Cesar Romero, "Mousie" Lewis, and Burgess Meredith as close friends. Even the most temperamental actors found safety in Carole's presence; she just had one of those auras that put people at ease. 

In Turnabout with John Hubbard.

All was not rosy, however. Carole's private life, if not her career, was always a failure. After finally obtaining a divorce from first husband Irving Wheeler, she then married and was divorced from Willis Hunt. She too was in a damaging relationship with Busby Berkeley and an abusive one with Pat DiCicco. Her many gentlemen friends led to rumors that Carole was just another of the many young women sleeping her way to the top. Yet, there is hardly any woman in Hollywood untainted by such a rumor, nor many who are completely innocent of it. Los Angeles doesn't breed angels. Though Carole was free-spirited and far from prudish, the assumption that she was, for lack of a better phrasing, a "studio whore," is unfounded and unfair. This is evidenced by that fact that she was able to make a legitimate career for herself, whereas so many women were simply used and discarded. It is, however, reasonable to assume that she did use the Hollywood game to her advantage, as many did, at least until she achieved enough power to extricate herself from the misogynistic system. It is generally accepted that she was one of the many ingenues Darryl F. Zanuck used for his own pleasure, but she eventually either grew tired of or outgrew this accepted station, and uttered the unfathomable word, "No." Consequently, this led to her casting in silly supporting roles beneath her talent, a tactic for Zanuck's vengeance. Ironically, the thing that saved her was WWII. Just as Carole's desire to please and bring joy to others had pulled her into a life in the entertainment business, so too did her big heart drive her to become the war effort's number one hero-- at the time above and beyond even Bob Hope or Jack Benny. Her tireless efforts in entertaining the troops at home and abroad made her America's Sweetheart and favorite patriot. Due to this, her popularity boomed, particularly after she penned a novel of her war experiences, Four Jills and a Jeep. Zanuck was begrudgingly forced to produce a film version-- albeit a Hollywoodized one-- starring herself and her three female compatriots, who were also worthy of much praise, Kay Francis, Mitzi Mayfair, and Martha Raye.

Entertaining the troops with Jack Benny.

The war changed Carole. Seeing brave men fight and die, befriending them and then losing them, and witnessing first hand the terrors of war, awakened in her a deeper knowledge of herself. No more did the glitz and glamour of stardom matter to her, not that it ever did much anyway. Now she wanted something more meaningful and fulfilling in her life. Most particularly, she yearned for a love that would lend her life gravity and comfort. She sought to attain this goal by wedding a soldier whom she met in England, Thomas Wallace. However, after their whirlwind, mid-battle courtship and wedding, the two returned to American soil and realized that they had little in common. Tommy had married her to fulfill a dream-- to wed a movie star-- only to realize that a determined woman with a career was far too belittling to his own masculinity. Carole's pipe dreams again went up in flames. After Tommy broke her heart, she moved on quickly and wed businessman Horace Schmidlapp, though that marriage too was not to last. The construction of her happy home was thus based on rocky soil. Love is found, not manufactured. The fighter in her believed a little elbow grease and work would create the life she wanted, but in reality she could never really build with anyone the love that she was looking for. 

Carole lies dead, beneath Det. Emmett Jones.

Then, she met Rex Harrison. Handsome, educated, talented, (and married), he wooed her quickly and efficiently. The only trouble was that, besides the Missus, Rex had a dark side. His feelings for Carole were superficial and sexual where hers were deep and emotional. Finding herself lost and unhappy in her career after the war, which left her feeling undernourished and useless, Rex became her all. Making movies, and bad movies at that, was a far cry from the deeply fulfilling humanitarian efforts she had offered up in Europe and Africa. She trucked along, never revealing her inner pains, remaining the devoted and beloved friend every one knew and loved, but inside she was crumbling. There is speculation that Carole tried to end her life more than once but had always been stopped before the mortal damage was done. These attempts, if true, were cries for help from a woman who was unable to articulate her own weaknesses; who knew only how to serve others and not take selfishly from them. The ability she had to push past her pain, slowly but surely crept up on her and reached a climax with hurricane Rex. Finally, tired of being used, of always being the other woman, Carole confronted Rex after a Fourth of July party that she had hosted. It is assumed that the two quarreled and the relationship was abruptly ended. That night, Carole packed all of Rex's belongings, photos, and memorabilia into a bag and left them by the mailbox at Ronald Culver's house, where Rex was staying. Then, she drove home, swallowed 30-50 Seconal tablets, and was not found until the next morning when a stunned Rex appeared before her maid and said, "I think she's dead." He, coincidentally, ran from the scene after the discovery. The eternal image of Carole now is that of a girl in a pretty summer outfit, lying on the floor in a ball, her arms frozen in an awkward, bent position. This posture suggests that she was trying to raise herself back up. She would not make it. Carole Landis: dead at 29 years of age on July 4, 1948. 

In one of her girl-next-door in one-helluva-sweater poses.

This sad, tragic tale is like so many in Hollywood, but is perhaps the most tragic because of the girl it involves. Of all the tormented souls wandering La La Land, or those who are immersed in their own demons, Carole seemed on the outside to be the least likely of its victims. Strong, vibrant, endearing, sensitive, giving, sweet... She was beloved by everyone in the community, save for those salacious studio wives who enjoyed spreading slanderous rumors about her. For her corpse and not her film work to be more remembered, for treacherous lies to be recalled and passed on and not her good deeds and selflessness, is the height of shamefulness. In every role she played, Carole brightened even the dullest of duds. She stole every show, not through effort, but from pure, unadulterated charisma and charm. She was the girl-next-door every service man in America fell in love with, and the compassionate lady every soul-sister wanted to give a big ol' hug. Yet, she forever remained apart. In her youth, she was the "other" child, and later, she became the pretty girl in Hollywood who, no matter how surrounded she was by people, was always alone. You cannot invent love, you can either give it or receive it. Too much of Carole's nature was in the giving and not the receiving, until she gave all that she had and was left with nothing. Her offerings to us, her remaining films, are cold comfort to a world who at one time idolized her and now only sits in ignorance. But, for the precious few who do recognize the true jewel that she was, her entertaining films and performances shall have to suffice.