BITS OF COINCIDENCE: Part XIII

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

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

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

Grace Bradley, Ann Sheridan, Katherine DeMille,

Wendy Barrie, Gertrude Michael, & Gail Patrick).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

STAR OF THE MONTH: Robert Mitchum

Robert Mitchum: Don't be deceived just because it's April 1st.

He's nobody's fool.

True story: when Charles Laughton began preparing for his first and last onscreen directorial effort-- the dark, fairy tale nightmare Night of the Hunter-- he became convinced that no one else on earth would be better for the role of the murderous "Preacher Harry Powell" than the snake eyed Robert Mitchum. He feared Robert's rejection, because Powell was an outlandish, bombastic character unlike anything the underplaying actor had ever performed. Still, he made his pitch:

Laughton: Bob, we have a story here we are hoping to turn into a little film, and I would very much like to talk to you about the leading role. The character is a bit different. He's a terrible, evil... sh*t of a man.

Mitchum: Present.

There you have it: Bob in a nutshell. Robert Mitchum kept it real. Never catering to expectations nor indulging in diva tantrums, he eschewed all forms of pretension or formality and openly indulged in his inner bad-ass. But Robert, despite being the King of Cool, was a bit of a pretender himself. His act of the cynical drifter who didn't give a damn was an exaggeration of his true self. His mask of devious detachment and impassion was a front to deter those around him from his secret vulnerabilities, his artistic drive, and his surprising intelligence. Still, girls went ga-ga for him, because he was "a little bit evil" and they dug it, and his same disenchanted, searching soul was the one that gave him incredible depth as both an actor and human being. 

Bob and wife Dorothy.

Robert Charles Durman Mitchum was born on August 6, 1917 to a Scots-Irish and American Indian mutt, the charismatic and combative Jimmy Mitchum of South Carolina, and the more easy-going and artistic Norwegian, Ann Harriet Gunderson of Connecticut. He would be equally endowed with components of both parents, inheriting the willful, fighting, liquor-loving penchants of his father and the more poetic and intellectual sensibilities of his mother. The middle child was sandwiched between elder sister Annette (who later changed her name to Julie) and younger brother John. At a mere 1 1/2 years of age, Bob's father was killed while working in Charleston's navy yard, crushed between two box-cars-- a common occurrence in those days. A deeply mournful Ann moved her family back to New England for a time, then back to South Carolina, and later to Delaware, where Bob spent the majority of his formative, youthful years. Already, the spirit of the gypsy was in him. His family would only ever know the warm, sensitive, romantic side of Bob's nature, and would be surprised when they learned that he had gotten into fights with local boys or had yet again been kicked out of school. The irony was that Bob was the smartest kid in his class. Adept with what can only be called a photographic memory and a highly intuitive, comprehending mind, he was often the one to point out the teachers' mistakes. School friends never saw him take a book home to study, because he already had his entire lesson memorized and figured. Yet, Bob was also the student to get in trouble for playing pranks on teachers, cutting class, or causing a general ruckus. As a poor kid, he had a well-ingrained distaste, not only for spoiled, oblivious people, but also any kind of authority figure. He would always carry a chip on his shoulder, yet as he matured, he at least learned how to pick his battles, probably knowing that he was smarter than any of the supposedly learned elite who were barking orders at him or making fun of his impoverished family.

Checking out the gorgeous merchandise of lifelong pal Jane Russell in

the comic thriller His Kind of Woman.

After he was expelled from his high school at the age of fourteen, Bob hopped to a train to... anywhere. There was no plan. There was no ending point. He just wanted to move around, see the country, and let it ride. He would hop trains with the rest of the hobos, often jumping off for his dear life when the cops on board discovered them and starting shooting! He would end up stranded in various places, work for a little food and money, roam a bit, then hop back on. Various poems and letters to home kept him mentally busy on quiet nights passing through the country, in addition to alcohol and a little something called Marijuana, or as he called it, "the poor man's whiskey." Eventually, he was forced to return home to his mother's care, (she was now remarried to Major Hugh Morris), after he was bitten by a poisonous snake, and his leg became infected. The doctor wanted to amputate his leg, but Ann, with her bohemian wherewithal, concocted her own natural potion of herbs and roots to save her son's life and limb. It was upon his return to Delaware, where he was limping around on crutches, that he met his brother's latest love interest, Dorothy Spence. Only thirteen-years-old, Dorothy didn't move as fast as the other girls. She was modest, unassuming, and thoughtful. Bob took one look at her and said, "She was it... And that was that." John didn't take it too hard when Bob started working his way into Dorothy's heart, but Dorothy thought Bob was a bit of a pompous nut when she first met him. Then, he started laying on the Shakespeare. And the lyrical quotations. And those thin, penetrating eyes... Soon, they were in love. 

Bob and Burgess Meredith in the groundbreaking Story of G.I. Joe.

Bob built his scrawny, slender frame into a muscular powerhouse when working with the Civilian Conservation Corp. at the age of sixteen. Then, he packed up with his family to try things out in California, where his entertainer sister was already making a go of it. He swore he would return for "Dottie," then headed for a new life as a beach bum. He had been earning a little dough here and there to support the family, including a brief stint as a boxer, when sister Annette literally pushed him on stage to audition at a local theater. Bob wasn't openly interested-- acting was for "sissies" after all-- but secretly he had a natural penchant for performance that had lain dormant for far too long. His family had also noticed his hamming, impressions, and general theatrics, and because of their influence, he accidentally earned himself a role in the play "Rebound." He would take on odd jobs and various roles after his debut, but he continued to avoid commitment to the craft. He was also making money on the side by penning songs, lyrics, and "patter" for local variety and musical acts. He was mostly focused on earning a solid living, so he could start building a life with Dottie. Yet, the signs were clear from the get go. Critics and cast members were blown away by his incredible stage presence and subtle acting style, not to mention his easy use of slang and incredibly verbose vocabulary. For now, he was getting by, so he and Dorothy got hitched, she relocated to California, and they moved into the former chicken shack in the family's back yard. (Dorothy probably had second thoughts).

It wouldn't be small potatoes for long. After his first son, James, was born, Bob nearly went blind working for Lockheed. His mother suggested he look into the picture business, and soon he had nonchalantly gotten himself an agent and a string of roles in B-Westerns, including the Hopalong Cassidy series. The laid-back, man's man world of this brand of cinema was a good place for the skeptical Bob to start. Had he been introduced to the more materialistic and inflated world of slick Hollywood filmmaking, he probably would have run for the hills. As it was, he easily grew comfortable in front of the camera. He would arrive on set, take a look at the script, memorize it in one reading, then hit his mark. Of course, more work went into it than he would ever admit, and many a director would confront him about his feigned indifference. Not only was his bold, distant, yet inviting onscreen persona getting notice and praise, but those he worked with knew that he was actually the hardest working man in show-business. He put great thought into his characterizations, making them somehow more authentic and real, whereas most studio actors gave essentially superficial, "get my good side" performances. After three years, Bob had his big break in Story of G.I. Joe, in which his human and heart-breaking portrayal of "Lt. Walker" earned him his first and only Best Actor nomination at the Academy Awards. He bounced from Westerns, to Noir, to Drama, and back again, proving his versatility and earning countless numbers of fans.

Bob and buddy Jane Greer in noir classic Out of the Past.

When he was signed with RKO, his "type" would be forever solidified. In complex thrillers and noirs, he would become the disenchanted outsider with questionable morals-- complete with cigarette and trench coat. His career would include a long list of impressive credits, including Out of the Past, His Kind of Woman, Angel Face, Night of the Hunter, and The Sundowners. These were his trophy pictures. Bob was always willing to "go there," to investigate a character with more cracks and fractures than the typical pretty boy role. He had no concern for his star power, his name above the title,  nor the size of his role. He was more interested in doing a job and doing it well. The surprisingly innocent blend of masculinity and slight ignorance he molded for Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison and the intensely sexual and sinister creature he created in Cape Fear are testaments to his profound capabilities as an actor. What enhanced his edge was his mystery. You can never quite figure Robert Mitchum out. Even his family would draw a blank when asked to sum him up or explain his behaviors. A traveling gypsy to the end, he was his own island, and this quality intensified his onscreen roles. That's not to say he didn't partake in his share of stinkers, he made quite a few of them with his career enduring its ups and downs, but in the end, he always improved whatever project he worked on just by being in it. He didn't care if a movie wasn't a hit; he didn't go to see them anyway. He was more concerned with the paycheck and putting food on the table to feed his brood of eventually 3 children: Jim, Chris, and Petrine.

Showing his true colors as the murderous "Preacher Powell" in 

Night of the Hunter.

In his personal life, Bob was also a conundrum. He could drink like a fish, and he occasionally turned violent or unexpectedly and confusedly enraged when under the influence, yet he would walk on the sound stage the next day, no worse for the wear, as if he had gotten 12 hours of beauty sleep. He was a brilliant conversationalist and orator, but he had few friends and even fewer in the entertainment business. He was able to strike up camaraderies with guys like John Wayne or Frank Sinatra, but his most enduring friendships were with women of class, substance, and smarts like Jane Russell and Deborah Kerr. He was very protective of women who were fragile, such as Marilyn Monroe or Rita Hayworth, whom he never approached in a romantic fashion but watched over like a brother. Some of his co-stars simply bored him, because they were self-absorbed "bimbos," but he worked well with and respected hard-working, down-to-earth girls who enjoyed his naughty, uncouth sense of humor-- like Janet Leigh and Jane Greer, who both adored working with him. That's not to say Bob always kept things platonic. Inheriting his father's demons and probably suffering from the lack of a real father figure, Bob would engage in many an irresponsible affair, including one with Ava Gardner and a more infamous relationship with Shirley MacLaine, with whom he fell deeply in love during Two for the Seesaw. Dorothy overlooked the indiscretions time and again, because she knew he would always come back to her with the same old excuse. Bob didn't seek out these infidelities necessarily; mostly, he just found himself unable to resist when a temptation was so energetically placed before him. Shirley was the only woman who ever accidentally threatened Dorothy's place as the only real woman in his life. Yet, as always, Bob came back. He and Dorothy remained married until his death in 1997. (He was just shy of 80-years-old).

A haunted, rare look at the cinematic tough guy in Where Danger Lives.

Bob's essential problem was his pair of itchy feet. He was a born adventurer with a fear of monotony, traps, or snares, (and he'd had his share of them with multiple arrests in his life, including the Marijuana scandal, which was coincidentally later expunged from his record after a set-up was uncovered). He would never stay anywhere for long. He was a loving father but an unemotional one. He was there when someone needed him, but he was mostly distant and lost in his own thoughts. One of the reasons he liked acting was the ability it gave him to travel-- to get going before things went stale. Back and forth, here and back, home and far and away, the native blood in him couldn't stand still. The philosopher in him couldn't sit idly nor ignorantly. His cross to bear was his need for more and his own secret fear of rejection-- his unfortunate theology that opening up fully or being truly emotional was wrong. What he felt, what he carried within him, he carried alone, wandering, seeking, and solving all of life's mysteries before his own life was over. The little snippets of his personal discoveries can be gleaned from the identities he created in Dan Milner, Max Cody, Preacher Harry Powell, Jeff McCloud, Lucas Doolin, and Charles Shaugnessey. Moviedom's master poker player, Robert Mitchum never showed his hand. But then, when you're holding aces, you don't need to.

PERSONAL NOTE: I Heart L.A.

Crowds gather at a Cinespia screening of The Shining at Hollywood 

Forever Cemetery, where films are projected onto the mausoleum

wall behind the Fairbanks tomb. Like nowhere else...

There tends to be a harsh divide between West coasters and East coasters, and for that matter the Midwest, Central U.S, South, etc. As they say, home is where your heart is, so that piece of land that maybe didn't raise you but somehow fits you like a glove seems to be the only place on earth that makes sense. The outside world views Los Angeles and thusly Hollywood as being artificial, narcissistic, immoral, and oblivious. Smoothie shots of rutabaga and bi-annual botox visits rightfully appear absurd to the "normal" inhabitants of such bread and butter places as Oklahoma, Mississippi, or Ohio (can I get a what-what for the Buckeyes?!). Likewise, the jaded urban hustle of New York and the liberated and more earthy metropolis of San Francisco find Los Angelenos to be pretty much full of... shitake mushrooms, (or perhaps just "on" them, if you know what I mean). I admit, I can whole-heartedly relate to these outsider perspectives or escapee conclusions regarding my new home state.

Indeed, to live here and survive, you must have a BA in BS; there are no two ways about it. L.A. is gross in so many ways. Living here, you are overloaded with overly aggressive billboards, film land flim flam, and giant tools who are ironically lacking in... ball bearings. Everyone seems to look and act the same. The glamour soon disappears within and sometimes before a year of living here: "Isn't that that guy from that show?" / "Who cares? One large snifter of oxygen please!" Despite this, because of this, there are many who migrate here and many more who immediately migrate back to a place that feels less offensive. Strangely, for all the macabre mimicry of human beings, for all the traffic, for all the smog and walking Barbie Dolls (on crack), this place-- this devious, despicable, delicious place-- still feels more like home for this Midwestern girl than her youthful world of Cincinnati (which basically encapsulates the entire tri-state area as far as anyone there is concerned). I have shared this thought, analogy, what-have-you, before... but Hollywood is the only place on earth that openly lies and tells the truth at once. That's why I love it. That's why I remain shackled to it. It is the only place I have ever been that isn't tight-lipped about its own monstrosity. It is a liar who doesn't lie.

"Hollywoodland" wasn't the only Los Angeles community marked with a hillside sign. There 

were several growing neighborhoods that used this propaganda tactic, including 

the "Outpost" development, which blasted its neon red lights from the area

now known as Runyon Canyon. It's remains can still be found there.

Unarguably, my attraction to the Golden State was instigated by my obsession with Golden Era Hollywood. From a young age, I wanted to be where that magic was; I wanted to be where insane levels of absolutely anything were possible. I'm constantly teased for my movie collection, and I take it like the woman I am, but a movie has never been just a movie to me. They are art-- even the bad ones. There is always something new to notice, to appreciate, to learn, be it studying the performance of a particular actor, the style of the fashion and settings, the technological/psychological innovations, or the dissection of human history right before your very eyes. As a lover of history and a perpetual, self-taught student, there are few things more perfect to me than discovering a new film to love, a new actor to appreciate, or a new piece of a former beloved flicker coming together and making more sense to a mind that thought it already had it all figured out. My love for film is the same as a young artist's devotion to Van Gogh or Magritte; a writer's love for Proust or Hemingway. An athlete's love for Babe Ruth or Karl Malone. I understand and love the world of cinema in a way that those who do not cannot understand, just as I can't understand people who waste hours watching football. But, I respect that. There is beauty there too. There is passion. Everyone has her niche; mine is here. I fit here, because I just do.

Dennis Hopper works the camera... sort of.

Hollywood itself is a fascination if only because it is the most recognized geographical place in America, and perhaps the world, where good and evil so gracefully converge-- on screen and off. Everyone has an opinion, everyone's a critic. You may have hated the last Adam Sandler movie (can't blame you), but you're talking about it, aren't you? You love that damn beautiful and talented Leonardo DiCaprio, but you liked his performance in this so much better than in that. You're talking about it. And that latest, controversial war movie? You thought it was totally misdirected, while every other schmo accepted it as the God's honest truth. You're talking about it. You're all thinking about it. You can feast on the occasional thoughtless movie when you need a break from the tired cranking of your mental wheels, but more than we realize, the movies don't entertain us, they prompt us to think. That is their beauty, even when they're ugly.

The other Jekyll and Hyde in this scenario is the artistic, impassioned face of the finished product contrasted with the beastly bitch of hard work, seemingly unimaginative studio big wigs who rehash for cash, and the spiritual and physical casualties that go into and result from show business. As someone who has witnessed this first hand, there is no more astounding conundrum than trying to be an "artiste" in a system that runs on numbers and figures. It is incongruous, yet one hand must always wash the other. For those that make it, a little of themselves must be sold, because the reality of this situation is that show business is just business. It is just another job. The erotic pose on the silver screen isn't felt on the soundstage when the boom guy is hovering over your carefully covered extremeties so he can record your synthesized moans appropriately. The smiling faces in interviews are literally gritting their teeth, because they are so tired of going through the grind and being marched before the commercial camera to promote promote promote their latest film or show, which it turns out, is just a product, as are they.

When the sometimes critical but mostly white-washed gossip of Hedda

Hopper and Louella Parsons was interrupted by scandalous rag mags

like Confidential... the pillars of Mt. Olympus started shaking.

But we know this, because we see the self destruction. We "ooh" and "aah" at how beautiful Julianne Moore looks this year at the Oscars, but we do this while flipping through the article regarding Lindsay Lohan's latest arrest. The former is a train wreck, but my God, she didn't get there in one breath. A child star pushed before the camera too young, used by her two inept parents, and far too easily introduced to the ever available valley of drugs practically sold here by street vendors, she didn't stand a chance. So few do. This town is a heart eater. As Marilyn Monroe, the undisputed authority on the subject, said: "Hollywood is a place where they'll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul." It's true. People are used for profit and discarded the minute their box-office loses value. It is a place where one is constantly judged, where your job is always on the line no matter how famous you are at the moment, and where the timeline of your career is not something you ride until your retirement but a rapidly spilling hourglass. Will it be turned over for another cycle? The temptations of easy sex, comforting highs, and erratic, violent lows are much more understandable and easier to empathize with when viewed from this angle. Yet from the outside looking in, the vantage point is always low, looking down, judging, and never comprehending how easy it is for an actor, director, writer's spirit to be broken. The industry professionals aren't champions or Gods; they are hamsters on a wheel running for their lives. Anyone who emerges from the end of this rabid, Wonderland rabbit hole in tact deserves an honorary Oscar just for surviving.

For all these contradictions, I remain mystefied and enthralled with Hollywood. It has a texture like nowhere else. Every street, every alley, every vacant lot, is brimming with tales of both life and death. I find solace at a cemetery walking among the stones and paying respect to the people who contributed to making cinema what it is. They are dead and gone, but the marked graves that confirm their previous existence somehow make them more vividly alive and seemingly still here. It draws the curtain back and reveals the flesh and bone behind the silver screen image. In every neighborhood, you will find remembrances of celebrities past (and present). I can drive past Lupe Velez's former home in Beverly Hills, and just by knowing that she once inhabited those walls, I am touched, and moved, and saddened, and invigorated. The Roosevelt, The Beverly Hills Hotel, Grauman's Chinese Theatre, The Million Dollar Theatre downtown... They are all standing tombs of history filled with the energies of ghosts, film fans, and the secret histories of so many people in so many eras-- all sandwiched together and somehow entwining and creating the collective soul that makes this town truly great. All of these inhuman artifacts are fossils of humanity, there to be laid bare and investigated, to tell us truths and teach us lessons about ourselves, just as the films this city produces.

Former Abode of Lupe Velez at 732 North Rodeo Drive. The home has been little changed

since her occupancy, but the more protective gate was added.

Of course, no other city pays such tribute to the art it forms. Only in Hollywood can you go to a screening at the Egyptian Theater and see living legend Kirk Douglas in the flesh. Only in Hollywood can you attend a Q&A session with Eva Marie-Saint. Only in Hollywood are there such dedicated and bold stage productions about Judy Garland or Marilyn Monroe by actors that are so good, you believe that you and a room of people are the in the presence of a ghost. Only in Hollywood can you attend plays starring modern celebrated performers carrying on a devotion to the craft laid down before us at the turn of the 20th Century and now taken for granted due to its availability. Ed Harris, Richard Attenborough, and John Goodman rarely make appearances in small town theaters, but here, actors who love acting continue to seek out their creativity despite the fame and fortune they've already accrued. They tread the boards where expression began before there was a camera to capture it; a place that gave birth to their initial thirst for storytelling.

Here, just as much as the industry feeds itself, the public celebrates its product. Screenings of new films, old films, silent films, forgotten films, B-films, cult classics, and film students' final projects are attended by lovers of celluloid. Hollywood may have gone commercial, it may cater to tourists in a way that is not as grandly hospitable and self-respecting as the gallant South, but at its core there is still the beating heart of is pure phenomenon. Directly on the pavement upon which you tread, there are etched reminders: Griffith was here, Garbo was here, DeMille was here, Hayworth was here. The same engine of pure drive, desire, and passion to create that brought legions of auteurs to these once barely inhabited hills still chug beneath the skin of cracked sidewalks, graffiti covered slums, and oceans of people who have forgotten the sources of magnificence at which they still marvel.

Orson Welles directs Citizen Kane and makes history.

I guess you could say that I came to Hollywood for its beauty and stayed for its soul. You know how they say, "You are attracted to a person's perfections, and you fall in love with his flaws?" That is the love I have for La La Land, which is coincidentally the same love we all have for it. Our fascination may have been instigated by the initial excitement of technological gimmickry and the glossy finish of pretty people in motion, but our loyalty has remained because of the vulnerable and dangerous underbelly and profound honesty we slowly discovered both on the screen and behind the camera. Once the initial sheen faded, which it did, we would have stopped believing in Hollywood and its tall tales had they not become true. We continue our mutually co-dependent relationship with show-business like shameless addicts. We are at the mercy of what it feeds us, but it is at the mercy of our ticket purchases. Los Angeles, Hollywood, or "Tinsel Town," is the sad dog in the pound that you choose to adopt, because it is adorable in its pitiful sadness. It nurtures us, we nurture it. Thus, despite the constant, holier-than-thou critiques of outsiders or under-appreciators, I remain convinced of and fascinated with the integrity and debauchery of this town. To know it, to truly know it, is to love it. And to me, at peace in the present chaos and the painful memories surging through the veins of this naughty metropolis and powering electric lights, I can say with utter certainty that Dorothy was right: "There's no place like home."

MENTAL MONTAGE: Epic Lovers' Brawls!

A young and sultry Lupe Velez: every man's fantasy. 

(Be careful what you wish for)!

Oh, love... Ain't it awful? More than a few celebrity couples would agree, considering the number of divorces and infidelities that are more the rule than the exception in a town of pretty (messed up) people. Maintaining a relationship in the fast-paced, ego-centric world of film and television isn't easy, and many lovers have let their affections for each other pay the forfeit. After the split, most of them put on a brave face for the cameras and say that they're "still friends," all while harboring still simmering jealousies and a plethora of pain. Some break-ups break our hearts even more than the wounded couples'. Yet there is a select club of bedfellows who are well recalled for their knock-down, drag-out fights. Their love affairs remain fascinating, not for the romance, but for the gossip-worthy, quite public feuds that they had with each other. Press releases about their brawls were often more hoped for than their next movies. Pristine social lives don't tend sell papers. As such, the following members of the "I Love You to Death" club continue to draw fascination and open mouthed shock, or laughter, at the heinous brutality of their not-so-eternal devotion.

It should have been clear to everyone when Lupe Velez started attending the fights at Hollywood Legion Stadium, during which she ravenously screamed "Keel him! Keel him!" that the lady had a taste for violence. For some, violence is a rare, cathartic release. For the pint-sized Lupe, it was a lifestyle. Take her notorious love affair with Gary Cooper. "Loop and Coop" (left) had a mutual fascination and passion for each other, which was great. What was not so great was their totally polar temperaments. Lupe was a high-strung, night owl who was constantly moving-- even when standing still she seemed to vibrate with energy-- while Coop was a more passive, quiet nights at home,  early-to-bed, early-to-rise kind of guy. Their intense passion not withstanding, the relationship quickly went from butterflies to vampire bats. Coop was so smitten, he would generally just follow Lupe's lead-- against his will-- which meant he got very little sleep, lost about 50 pounds, and-- due to the expensive gifts he bought her-- nearly went broke. Jealousies also erupted, given that Lupe was a very sexually forward woman, and Coop was never short of willing lovers.

Add to this Lupe's confusion over his mother Alice's intrusion into their relationship, and her battle with what many believe was bi-polar disorder, and... you've got a problem. Out of nowhere, Coop would be sitting quietly or cooking dinner, and Lupe would come at him out of nowhere with a knife and slice him! Often, these outbursts came from her frustration with his uncommunicative nature and the fact that he would not stand up to her onslaughts. It was like trying to have an argument with a brick wall, albeit a pretty one. Coop would show up at the studio with scratches all over his face, bruises, bite marks, etc. One time, he even had to allegedly fight back-- not his style-- when Lupe flew (too far) off the handle. Their altercations became so public that when the studio saw the toll that Lupe was taking on Coop's health, they sent him abroad for five months. It was the official end of their relationship. Well, almost. When Coop tried to take off in the train for his trip, Lupe surprised him by firing a gun at his head! Luckily for us, she missed. Though they separated, the duo would never forget each other and are rumored to have carried on an intermittent affair through the rest of Lupe's life. In the end, they both laughed and bragged about their past quarrels and war wounds. Coop proved to be rather proud of his scars, in the end, and the fact that he had survived "The Mexican Spitfire." (The distance the duo should have kept from each other, right).

You would think this information would make any man steer clear of Lupe's volatile temper, but Lupe at her best and most charming was a woman difficult to refuse. Enter Johnny Weissmuller, the only man she ever married (left). An Olympic gold medalist, Johnny had conquered the world of film just as easily as aquatic sports when he became a movie star and the eternal "Tarzan." Yet, in his case, the story went: lucky at life, unlucky in love. He wed five times, but second wife Lupe became the most memorable notch on his belt. Things progressed in much the same fashion as they had with Coop, except that Johnny was able to give Lupe what she wanted: commitment. Unfortunately, marital bliss soon turned to marital discord almost immediately after their 1933 wedding. The passion that brought them together soon drove them apart. It all seemed hilarious in retrospect, and Johnny would laughingly recall the porcelain throwing tournaments that they had, each tossing plates, vases, etc, at each other in moments of heated dispute. After awhile, Johnny taught himself to always go for the inexpensive decor. However, the most hilarious bit of arguing occurred in London when the couple was staying at the famous Claridge's Hotel. Lupe was feeling ignored by Johnny, who had been publicized as being "out on the town" with other women. He professed that it was perfectly innocent. Apparently, Lupe didn't believe him. So, she did what any sane woman would do and hit him on the head with a shoe while he was sleeping. Commence craziness.

Lupe continued tossing random objects at Johnny as he tried to approach her and calm her down, then she ran from their room. Johnny followed, trying to retrieve his hysterical bride, which led to the two of them doing laps around their floor. Oh, did I mention that Johnny was pantless??? Seems he had a habit of sleeping in the buff. At one point, an elderly damsel opened her door and peeked to see the naked madness ensuing, yet she surprisingly cheered Johnny on: "Go a little faster, Johnny!" Indeed he did, and he eventually caught his wife. The heat of the chase turned immediately sexual, and the duo returned to their room to... make up. The next day, they were nearly thrown out of the hotel for their hijinks, but were saved at the command of no less than the Queen of Denmark, who just so happened to be their cheerleader from the night before! Divorce came by 1939 when the hostilities overcame the romance, but Johnny apparently held no grudges. Later, after the separation, he was at a party when a drunken, clearly disturbed girl started telling him how much she "hated him and his face." Johnny grinningly said: "You're lucky I'm not married to Lupe Velez now, or she'd kick the stuffing out of you." (A little calmer, right).

Another knock-about couple was Errol Flynn and his first wife, Lili Damita (left). The two met while Errol was en route to America for the first time and Lili was aboard the same ship. The attraction wasn't instant. Lili, who was five years Errol's senior, was a beautiful, strong-willed, and already successful movie star when the smitten Tasmanian set his sights on her. She ignored him at first, but Errol was, of course, Errol: a boyish rake with dashing good looks and the charisma to match. Needless to say, he won her over. At the beginning of their relationship, Lili acted as both lover and mother in a way, guiding the totally movie-biz ignorant Errol into the world of Hollywood and its machinery. It is rumored that she even was the reason that he got his first big break in Captain Blood when she suggested him to her ex-husband, director Michael Curtiz. All was not bliss, however. The couple's yelling matches were notorious, as was the flying furniture. It was all pretty much fore-play in the beginning, as their love-making was rumored to wake the dead! 

However, Errol was a free spirit who didn't want to be tied down, and Lili was possessive and jealous-- this despite the fact that both had numerous affairs during their union. Further evidence of her controlling behavior can be noted by the fact that she wept after seeing Errol's premiere in Captain Blood. He was phenomenal! He was going to be a big star! Instead of being supportive, Lili felt her relationship's death knell, which is both sad and a little bit catty. Instead of sticking by her rising star husband, she combatted her insecurity by picking vicious fights with him instead, in which Errol-- whose intense mistrust of women had already been well implanted by his abusive and neglectful mother-- agitatedly and angrily participated. Lili once broke a champagne bottle over his head, which gave him a concussion! Their physical and verbal fights, which were oozing with obscenities, became expected side shows at every party they attended. In time, their love turned to hate, and they divorced. Lili wasn't done however, and her monetary demands haunted Errol for the rest of his life (see right). Her last fatal blow was in gaining possession of his beloved home on Mulholland Drive, which she had never even lived in. Errol was forced to take refuge at sea with third wife Patrice Wymore. Love became a mystery that he would never solve, so it seemed appropriate that he spent a large portion of his later life literally adrift.

Next on the list is the only man Mr. Flynn ever met who could drink him under a table: this one's a double Bogie! The Mr. and Mrs, otherwise known as Humphrey and Mayo (Methot), were more popularly known as "The Batting Bogarts" (left). Mayo's own personal nickname would fittingly be "Sluggy." Sluggy and Bogie; Bogie and Sluggy. Sounds almost like a nursery rhyme. It wasn't. Not by a long shot. This duo couldn't even make it through their wedding without quarreling. In fact, Bogie stormed out of the reception without his bride and spent the night carousing with friends after their first of many husband-wife spats. Both members of this party had tempers, but Mayo's has become legendary. Bogie would definitely fight back, but he was often at the sore end of Mayo's woman-handling. As with the aforementioned coupled, the violence was a bit of a sexual turn-on, but sometimes it was just downright brutal. The pair's home was quickly dubbed "Sluggy Hollow," and it was Humphrey who took most of the beatings. Anything could happen. Mayo liked to toss any object within reach at her partner-- with great ferocity and velocity-- be it decor, dinnerware, or the food itself. She aimed for the head always, including the time she sat on Bogie's back and repeatedly slammed his face into the pavement. She wasn't above pushing him overboard when they went yachting or setting the house on fire either. She also had a gun, which made life a bit more complicated for the entire neighborhood, as her bullets were known to go blasting through the front door, which had to be constantly replaced. She also had a knack for knives apparently, for she once stabbed Bogie right in the back, which left him with several stitches.  

Initially, the male member of this duo found his wife's temper alluring and even sort of comical. But while he was proud of Mayo's venom, their friends and guests were often terrified of the couple's interactions. Gloria Stuart witnessed one horrific evening of flying bullets, and David Niven was present when a violent fight broke out in a restaurant. On this occasion, when a pushy drunkard accosted her man, Mayo let him have it! David and his wife dove under their table, and later Bogie appeared beside them and said, "Don't worry, Mayo's handling it." Their spats, wars, and maniacal wrestling matches became some of the most anticipated and feared shows in town. They seemed like a turbulent pair for the ages, yet soon enough they seemed to wear each other out. Bogie especially was growing weather worn and exhausted. He decided to keep friendlier company with the equally defiant, yet much more submissive, Lauren Bacall, creating a union as blissfully mythic as his previous one had been toxic. "Bogie and Bacall" reigned in Hollywood until his death in 1957. Mayo had oppositely spent all she had on Humphrey, her third and final spouse. She outlived their divorce by a little over five years, dying as a result of her alcoholism-- a passion she and her former husband had once so enthusiastically shared. (They substitute tea for liquor, right).

However, not all Hollywood abuse involves battered husbands. The case of Bette Davis and Gary Merrill was just as notorious for his battery of her-- and much less comical beings that the slaps and threats were administered by a man much stronger than his feisty but smaller wife. The two were wed not long after their astounding chemistry brought them together in All About Eve. A clear social ladder climber, Gary had actually tried to hit on the younger, unresponsive Anne Baxter first, but was a bit honored when Bette honed in on him. After their wedding, they spent a lot of time on their property in Maine, appropriately named "Witch Way," which was probably meant to be a play on words but earned much more evil connotations as rumors began to spread through the town that all was not well with the new, famous neighbors. Gary had a fierce temper and a total lack of control when he lost it. He also had an absence of decorum, often walking around the house in the nude in front of the servants. It was hard for the family-- which included Bette's daughter B.D. and the couple's adopted children Michael and Margot (left)-- to keep anyone employed, so quickly did the hired staff run screaming for the hills. It didn't take long for Gary to start taking his anger out on Bette, who was constantly suffering from his brutal hits. 

Yet, being the brazen woman that she was, Bette often instigated these attacks, pushing Gary's buttons to purposely get a reaction and draw forth his rage. As B.D. herself said: "She liked being brutalized. It was the only way she could understand a male-female relationship." A strong woman who for so long had elbowed her way around every man, woman, and child that came across her path, it was almost as if Bette were seeking some sort of punishment. Or, perhaps having a man dominate her at last was a sexual fantasy realized. This 'fantasy' was ugly. B.D. often put herself in the middle of the fights to protect her mother, which only enraged Gary more. Soon, he started hitting B.D. as well, perhaps due to his own sexual frustration and attraction to her. He even attacked one of her young friends when she visited the house! Slumber parties were never a good idea. It wasn't unusual for him to kick down his step-daughter's door and threaten her out of the blue. Adding more fuel to the fire was Margot, who was unfortunately born brain-damaged, was violent herself, and equally difficult to handle. As if in competition with Bette's relationship with B.D, Gary favored Margot and refused to send her away to a school where she would be better attended. Son Michael was all but ignored. Bette eventually paid her servants for silence. She would leave Gary and return to him ad nauseum until, finally, she left him for good and sought refuge at a friend's house. Though Gary howled at the windows for her, the damage was done. Ding-dong, the "Witch" couple was dead. Gary began dating the equally emotionally frail and sexually confused Rita Hayworth and did not even appear at the divorce proceedings. After four failed unions, Bette understandably never married again. (The couple right in All About Eve).

'Tis a thin line between love and hate, as they say. Were the blood-thirsty passions these couples felt for each other directly proportionate to their love? Or were they all disturbing and confused messes from the beginning: accidents just waiting to happen? Addiction and attraction are very different things, as are obsession and adoration. Just as certain chemicals, when brought together, can be combustible, these spouses caused explosions wherever they went. Perhaps it's possible to love too much. Perhaps psych evaluations should be a prerequisite to matrimony...