YOU SHOULD SEE: Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein

The gang gets spooky. Sort of...

Granted, Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein (1948) is not categorically a horror film. However, it is a comic horror spoof of fantastically entertaining proportions. The A&C style of WWII spawned humor is the same as in all of their other films (Hold That Ghost, Buck Privates), with Bud Abbott playing the irritable straight man who is somehow always duped by the adorably idiotic Lou Costello. This time, the wrench in their plans for holiday romance-- with two beautiful women who are, of course, both in love with Lou's character-- is perfectly monstrous. Banking on the continuing success of Universal's monster pictures, the boys find themselves stuck in a diabolical plot involving The Wolf Man, Frankenstein's Monster, and Dracula. This, my friends, is the good stuff.

The cast is what makes the film so exquisite-- a truly iconic moment in history. Bela Lugosi gamely put on his Dracula cape for the fist time since his appearance the groundbreaking 1931 classic to play this caper's mastermind, and he performed with the same sinister charm this time while cleverly adding a humorous wink. Lon Chaney, Jr. is back as the Wolf Man, who with his usual overwhelming depression tries to help the good guys out, but is reluctantly mutated every full moon into one of their worst enemies. Sadly, Boris Karloff didn't sign on to play the Monster, whose overly large shoes were instead filled by Glenn Strange. (Boris would regret his not so tactical business decision when it didn't pay off and would go on to join Bud and Lou in both The Killer and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde). Even Vincent Price made a cameo of sorts, tough purely vocal, as the Invisible Man. Of course, holding it all together is the ridiculous chemistry of the two leads, whose series of bumbling mistakes somehow foil a plot contrived by the greatest villains in the history of the world. I Heart This.

TAKE 1, 2, 3: Blessed Virgins

Oh, Sister... Debbie Reynolds makes the sound of holy music in 

The Singing Nun.

In answer to the Roman soldier of God post I did a few weeks ago, I thought it appropriate to offer the female equivalent. At first glance, the Nun may seem like the least likely candidate for a Hollywood heroine, but this character has been refashioned for the screen multiple times, from The Bells of St. Mary's to Sister Act. We've made a habit (ha, haha) of both extolling the virtues and questioning the agenda behind a life "of the cloth." As women in film generally fall into two categories, the virgin and the whore, exposing the complicated nature of a Nun is the most symbolic way that screenwriters and filmmakers have used to interpret the good and evil in mankind. Ironically, when holding the mirror up to womankind in her purest form, we have sometimes received provocative and intriguing answers regarding the nature, not only of womanhood, but of the very soul of humanity. It was hard to choose which films to discuss for this article, since there are so many of interest-- Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison or Doubt, etc-- but in selecting the following three, I think I will more ably be able to zero in on the "three faces of Eve": the Good, the Evil, and the Human.

The Good

Cynicism has put a great dent in the faith of mankind, as has Time. Certainly, there are still practicing Catholics, Jews, Mormons, Muslims, etc, but living in the modern era, it is often difficult to be allegiant to a religion devised so long ago, which consequently instigates wars and constantly reveals itself through varying levels of hypocrisy. We fall on our knees in times of great struggle, sometimes praying without even realizing we are doing so, but the average person no longer seems to keep the concept of God in the same untarnished and unquestionable position as our forefathers. Ironically, today it is almost a sin to utter the name of "God." Have we forgotten him or outgrown him? These are questions every man must answer for himself, and they are equally questions that make films like The Song of Bernadette (1943) seem a bit peculiar by today's standards. Yet, despite the highly devout nature of the script, the film somehow transcends modernity and skepticism.  The beautiful performance of Jennifer Jones as Bernadette (left) and the surprisingly complex portrayal of the various other supporting characters in the film illuminate faith as something very real and worth discussing, and finally worth embracing. It is how we react to miracles and how we approach conflict that determines our spirit. Whether the Holy Spirit is a man made creation or an intangible presence in human life, in this film, it wears the face of true innocence and piety, making believers out of even the most mistrusting of men and evoking emotion from the stoniest of hearts.

The plot of The Song of Bernadette follows the title character as she unexpectedly finds, introduces, and renews faith in her community-- the French village of Lourdes. A soft-headed, sickly girl, "Bernadette" is generally harmless. She has vague plans of getting married some day, perhaps to the nice Antoine (William Eythe) who lives nearby, and having a family of her own. Her own family is poor and-- more often than not-- Bernadette, for all of her sweetness, is still viewed as somewhat of a burden to them. Then, one day, when Bernadette is left alone by the river, she has a vision of a beautiful woman (in a strange cameo by Linda Darnell, right). She is moved by what she sees, is totally peaceful and adoring, but only she can see or hear what the great "Lady" says. When she shares this news, no one believes her, of course,  and her claims are made even more hysterical by the fact that she has had her vision in such close proximity to the city dumping ground. Yet, she continues her pilgrimage to see the Lady, who has asked her to come for fifteen straight days. Soon, her disapproving parents, the skeptical Priest, the town doctor-- a man of science-- are all won over to her side. Whether or not they believe in her vision, they believe in her-- her purity, her innocence, and her good will.

Bernadette defends her visions to Prosecutor Dutour, and her honesty and calm reason

trump his textbooks every time.

The only sect that does not believe are the lawmen, represented most fully and of course villainously with the always elegant and sinister Vincent Price as "Prosecutor Vital Dutour." Why is it only men of man-made laws that seem to fear her? Perhaps because they are not of the earth or nature. Even Lee J. Cobb's "Dr. Dozous," who is ever-rational, is still a man who uses the earthly elements to cure the sick. Law men only have their words and personal fabrications. They are threatened by the power that Bernadette peacefully and accidentally accrues, as throngs of followers begin to join her as she kneels before the Lady in her nightly prayers. The Priest, played by the crinkly-faced Charles Bickford, too combats his own doubts and is forced to confront his apparent lack of faith in man, which he rediscovers in Bernadette. But Price's prosecutor and his fellow cronies cannot fathom what has not been written down, and they too perhaps feel a sexual need to destroy Bernadette's purity and chastity: even a modest, unassuming, agenda-less girl like herself is harmful to them for the mere fact that she refuses to demurely sit in a corner and follow their rules. To add insult to injury, she serves, not even God, but the Lady, whom she describes as "The Immaculate Conception"-- a title that leaves the community bewildered.

In time, and due to much business that I won't go into, a spring erupts that brings with it mystical healing powers. Bernadette is now looked upon as a Saint. Her contact with this strange Goddess, whom she cautiously never refers to as the Blessed Virgin, has resulted in a much in-demand, natural elixir that heals the sick, cures the blind, and allows the crippled to walk. Bernadette carries no pride or honor for her deeds. She, simple-minded as she is, sees nothing strange about what she has done, nor does she feel the need to claim any sort of reward or glory for it. Jones, in her portrayal, is the epitome of innocence-- of goodness. She is selfless, kind, uncomplicated, but real. We never believe that Bernadette is immaculate herself, just that she, as a real girl, was chosen to be a vessel through which holy information comes. The accidental way that her natural knowledge always undoes the learned lawmakers and their own brand of reason is also continuously comical. Finally, when she is encouraged to continue her Godly work by becoming a Nun, she takes pause. She is not totally certain that she wants to leave behind a life of earthly love to continue seeking the divine. Yet, she is easily convinced that it is the proper path. She has been "called," and as a simple girl, she will follow where she is led. (Bernadette walks away from a life and love that could have been, left).

For many years, Bernadette does not see the Lady again, and her hours are spent in prayer, reflection, and staving off the icy attacks of fellow Sister "Marie Therese," (Gladys Cooper, right), who is insulted that all of her years of servitude have not been rewarded with the enriching visions that the novice Bernadette has attained. The work of a Nun is not a vacation. It is a hard life of isolation and obedience. Bernadette, of course, never complains, not even when it is discovered that she has a painful tumor growing on her leg. She is also continually tested about her prior claims by religious authorities, who still do not believe her tales and visions, but she steadfastly maintains her stories. As she finally dies, she sees the Lady once more. One wonders, as she shudders with her last breath, if all she gave in her life was worth it? What, in the end, did it all mean? The spring she once brought to life eventually became a gimmick for the local lawmen to draw in travelers, and the "holy" water is now sold as a product. The miracles that she worked-- except in the memories of those who knew her-- will seemingly die with her. Yet, it does seem worth it, and director Henry King's handling of the story convinces viewers that such simple things of beauty, such innocent creatures as Bernadette, such selfless actions, and above all, such messages of love, are all that count in life. The "song" of Bernadette may have only been understood by those nearest her in her own lifetime, but if we listen closely, we can still hear the music in our own. The trick is to avoid hypocrisy and abandon all rules but the golden one. If we live openly with the heart of a child, we can have a paradise on earth of our own making.

The Bad

Black Narcissus (1947) couldn't disagree more. If Bernadette was about how faith renews life, Narcissus is about how faith kills. The essential ingredient needed to make faith palatable-- and a shared experience between the earthly and the divine-- is people. Community. Brotherhood. This is why faith grew and thrived in Bernadette's small town of Lourdes. The plague of Black Narcissus is the plague of isolation. The Nuns are not sisters of Man, they are servants of God-- detached, cool, lifeless. Deborah Kerr leads the cast as "Sister Clodagh," and her usual stunning beauty is paled and starched to show the absence of flavor in her life. She is given the righteous task of being the youngest Sister Superior to manage her cohorts in Mopu, where they will form a hospital and school for children and young girls. It feels more like a punishment than a reward. The castle in the sky to which the Sisters arrive stands on a great precipice, (which gives one vertigo even from the comfort of the couch, see left). The sole sound of life that echoes from the Old General's donated Palace-- which used to house his ancestors' many mistresses-- is the large bell that tolls the hour and calls the sisters to prayer. Looking down as "Sister Ruth" (Kathleen Bryon) rings the bell as part of her daily task, it is strange to note that, though high above the village below, it seems that the Sisters are the ones in Hell. Peace and life are found with the local people, including the new, younger General (Sabu), whom the sisters take to calling "Black Narcissus." His presence is not welcomed at first, for he is a man, but as he cleverly points out that Jesus was too, Sister Clodagh agrees to take him in as a student.

Another snake in the grass is "Mr. Dean" (David Farrar), who at all time tests the faith of the sisters and flirts with them as well, making fun of their faith and counting the days until their lifeless isolation forces them to abandon their pie in the sky ideals. The sexual tension between him and Sister Clodagh is very poignant, but initially, his charms and chauvinism have no effect-- except on Sister Ruth. All the sisters are effected by Mopu in different ways, it seems. The Palace stands not as a place of healing nor peace, as they had intended, but in time it comes to serve as a test for their own faith and stamina. This far away from people-- in this heightened experience of isolation, the constant wind, and the constant cold-- each nun is left alone with only her own thoughts for company. No matter where they turn, each woman is forced to come face to face with herself. 

The results manifest themselves in different ways. The good in some is brought to the surface; the evil in others. Sister Ruth is suddenly ruled by an incurable lust and an obsession with Dean. "Sister Philippa" (Flora Robson) is filled with guilt over her own memories, which make her lose track of time and botch her gardening duties. The past brings her pain, and she lacks the courage to face it. She begs Sister Clodagh to send her away to no avail, for Kerr's hard-lining and hard-nosed Sister Superior won't allow any of them to bow to weakness. However, her Sister Clodagh is also forced to face her past, but when she does, color begins to return to her face (right). In her flashbacks, we see Sister Clodagh as a young woman in love, with her childhood family, with dreams... She slowly rediscovers her own humanity and her passions, and as a result, she eventually comes out from hiding behind her orders, dictates, and structures. The parts within that all sisters attempted to bury, thus, come to the surface. They tried to use faith as a shield from themselves, and now they are to be punished.

The tension that all of these revelations cause is harsh to the senses. In fact, the film is at times difficult to even watch, because the horror and dementia each Nun undergoes is so perfectly communicated by the at times taut, at times languid, at times beautiful direction. The entire story unfolds as a tease, as if one were falling asleep bored only to find oneself suddenly in the midst of a bad dream! The only moment of true vibrancy comes from the sinful and vain "Kanchi," played without a word by the always stunning Jean Simmons (left,with Sabu). She eventually steals the equally pompous but charming young General away for a sexual escape, and when these tokens of colorful life disappear, all Hell breaks loose. Indeed, when a young child dies in the Sisters' care, the entire village abandons them, thinking them cursed, or hexed, etc. Now, they have only each other to face, all with their spirits breaking and their convictions shattering. 

Sister Ruth brazenly decides to leave the convent and goes through the wilderness to reclaim her forgotten womanhood with Dean. Unfortunately for her, he wants no part of her maniacal seduction. He has clearly fallen in love with Sister Clodagh, whose stubborn defiance and forgotten self has touched him. (Even nuns, it seems, can get involved in the occasional cat fight). And so, Sister Ruth-- in full lipstick and civilian regalia-- climbs the long way back up the mountain to paint the Palace red-- with blood. Sister Clodagh waits, sweating, as if knowing her fate is approaching. Sister Ruth could even be read as the most evil, highly sexualized, gluttonous half of Sister Clodagh's character. Sister Clodagh fears her, because she sees a self that has remained a dormant threat to the vows that she took before God so long ago. The nearly psychologically broken Clodagh goes to ring the mighty bell for the last time, as the desperately creepy and menacing Ruth (right) lunges for her, trying to push her into the abyss! Sister Clodagh triumphs; Sister Ruth plummets to her death. The evil parasite has been exorcised.

The stunning photography of the notorious Jack Cardiff blends the beauty and 

horror of the infamous palace of mirrors.

Despite Sister Clodagh's triumph, the time has still come to abandon the Palace on a hill. The message seems to be that one should not attempt to grow closer to God as the cost of losing your humanity. God created life so that people could live it, not hide from it, as the sisters learned during their sojourn in Mopu. As the Nuns descend the mountain, the castle gets swallowed up by the clouds, as if it never existed-- as if they were in an intangible place and have been spit back into the real world. Despite everything that Clodagh has faced, she has been reconfirmed in her commitment to the cloth. Yet, we see shades of her young self as she extends her hand to Dean during their final goodbye. Demoted from her position, she has a long way to go in repairing the damage and shame that she has brought to the Sisterhood during the tragedy of Mopu, but she is willing to start over. Then, she and the sisters disappear into the fog from Dean's view, again, as if they had never existed. He has learned something of his visceral cynicism too-- that there is a state of being more intense and pure than the one that he chooses to recognize. The idea is that salvation is found in combining the two mindsets to find the perfect formation of life on earth.

The Human

This brings us to The Nun's Story, and it is indeed a Nun's story. The film's tremendous success can be attributed to both the intelligent and complex performance of Audrey Hepburn (left) and the depth and realism of the plot. Unlike Bernadette and Narcissus, who merely grazed the surface of what it means to leave one's life and one's self behind to enter into a life of religious servitude, The Nun's Story is all about that decision: the sacrifice, the obedience, and the harsh reality. Throughout history, the reasons of entering the nunnery have been that of necessity (a landing place for an unmarried girl who is a burden to her parents or is being punished for deviant behavior) or naive piety. From the outside, it seems easy. The church is a safe haven away from man's temptations and issues. Money is not a concern, sex is not a concern, and while one must get by with very little luxury or comfort, the reward for devoting one's life to God is believed to be enough. We have imagined these women quietly pacing behind the convent walls-- some of them angelic, some old and crotchety-- but never before this film has the harsh duty, discipline, and psychological torment that they endure been brought to life. The cliches are broken. Nuns are neither flawless super-humans nor dried-up spinsters with no other haven. They are your run-of-the-mill, fallible mortals, and the human battle that they endure on a daily basis is not some meek challenge to be sniffed at. Leaving one's life behind may be easy; but leaving one's soul is not.

Gabrielle sheds her vanity with her hair.

The film opens with Audrey's "Gabrielle" (soon to be "Sister Luke") entering the convent. Everyone tries to stop her: her father, her siblings, etc. They don't understand why someone such as herself-- so rebellious, it seems-- would give up her life to be, as they see it, tucked away from the world. Her father (Dean Jagger) tries to talk her out of it, but Gabrielle has made her decision. Her rebellion, her strength, is surprisingly what draws her to the sisterhood. She is a young woman with something to prove. Her determination to accomplish, perhaps in her family's eyes, the impossible is what appeals to her. She seems almost to be a masochist, and while her father warns her that the call to obedience will be a hefty chore for someone such as herself to follow, she quietly considers this a salivating challenge. She wants to conquer all doubt and conquer her self. We know little of her life outside the convent, other than the fact that she is leaving some pining man behind. Her decision to give him and her freedom up is the result, apparently, of nothing more than her iron will. 

Gabrielle undergoes all the usual processes and steps in becoming Sister Luke. She must learn to empty her head of selfish thoughts, she must employ only modesty-- which includes hiding her hands in her robes-- and most difficult for her, she must conquer her own pride. The Nunnery seeks to dilute all traces of vanity, thus all traces of individuality, personality, and color. There is no Sister Luke; there is only the body that operates as God's servant. Sister Luke finds these tests hard to take (see, right). She has countless sins to record in her prayer book every day. Her pride becomes a major factor, particularly when she is training in medicine, so that she may attend patients in hopefully a foreign terrain-- her dream. Like her father, she wishes to be a doctor, but better than him, she wants to serve both God and man in doing so. Yet, when she excels in class, it evokes the envy of another Sister. She goes to her Superior to ask for advice and is told that, to aid her Sisters better, she must show humility and fail her next exam. To Sister Luke, this is a sin greater than even she can accomplish. To deny this last vestige of herself-- her intelligence and her ability to help others-- is a submission she will not undergo. She passes her exam with flying colors, but is punished for this vanity when she is not immediately sent abroad to the Congo as she wishes. Still, she digs in her heels and keeps going. Not everyone is so patient nor so brave. Sisters-to-be drop like flies. Sister Luke makes it to the end of her training, and as is her wish, she is finally sent to the Congo.

Much like Mr. Dean in Narcissus, "Doctor Fortunati," played superbly by Peter Finch (left), fills the role of the masculine, sexual advancer in the film. He is Sister Luke's counterpoint. He challenges her beliefs with his science, he evokes her forbidden sexuality, but mostly he tries to wheedle out the passions of her former self. The sexual tension between them is never overt nor sensual. It is all subtlety. The misunderstanding and irritation that they have for each other quickly turns to mutual respect, as Fortunati realizes that Sister Luke is no ordinary Nun. If nothing else, she is a great nurse and medical aid. What's more, he can see the woman inside, as well as her constantly battling conscience, which leaves her tired, weak, and eventually bedridden. There are no come-ons. There is not even any touching. But, you see in their mutual body language and attentions to each other that, in another life, in another dimension, they would have been soul mates. Then again, perhaps Sister Luke's protective habit, which separates them, is the only thing keeping them together. When she pulls away from the Congo in the train, sent back to Belgium, and you see the disappearing figure of Fortunati watching her go, it breaks the heart.

War comes, and it tears everything to shreds. Sister Luke's hopes of serving God by serving man go unfulfilled as battles ensue. Consistently during her career as a Sister, Luke's obedience has been tested. She does not always stop to pray when the bell tolls, particularly if she is in the middle of helping a patient in need. She becomes too personal and emotionally involved with the men and women she cares for in Africa (right). Now, the world outside is raging, and she is locked away as if the sisters are in hiding when they should be out fighting, helping their fellow man, and trying to piece the broken world back together again. She makes a final act of defiance in allowing a new, young Sister to get out of the convent in order to help some soldiers. It is what she would have done at her age. It is what she wishes that she could do now. Then, word reaches her that her father is dead-- her father, whom despite herself she loves more than the Holy Father. It is the final straw that breaks her world-weary back. 

She makes the fatal decision to leave the convent. Just as when she first entered, many try to stop her and beg her to rethink herself. But her self is just what she is returning to. Her dismissal is a shameful display. She is treated like a woman with the plague, sent to a little room to remove her robes-- revealing the streaks of gray hair around her once young face. She is given her dowry back and her old belongings, and then... she exits. A door almost magically opens, and she walks out, growing smaller and smaller in the camera's view. The moment comes like a wave of relief to the viewer, who has endured her nerves and agony and has longed for this catharsis. Gabrielle, as she is named again, turns and walks away. Where she goes, no one knows, but for the first time in a long time, her path is her choice.

The isolation of the Nuns in Black Narcissus makes them seem hard

and "unholy." They only truly serve God when they come

in contact with the people of the village.

If the three discussed films have any commonality, it is the lesson they preach that there must be a unity of both God and Man. Anything in extreme is dangerous. If indeed there is a God, He created life so that we could live it. He created joy and love so that we could enjoy it, (and overcome all of those dangerous hurdles Satan unlocked when he tempted Eve with that damn apple). When the people of Babel built their tower in the sky, they got too close to God and were sent crashing down. So, the women of these films, while they have ethereal aspirations, cannot totally outgrow their human surroundings, nor should they. The point is not to be divine, but to be alive-- to do service to your fellow man in whatever mode one finds appropriate, whether as a Priest or a civilian. Abandoning your brethren for high ideals is, thus, the greatest sin of all. Celestial faith has a price, but goodness can be found and evil defied on earth. That is the challenge we have inherited and the one we must live with and endure together. All films are wonderful in their own way, but if you only see one, see The Nun's Story. I was shocked by how much I loved and responded to it, and I'm sure you will be too. Peace out.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Bette Davis

Bette "the Diva" Davis

I think I first heard the name Bette Davis from my mother's lips. Ma loves Bette. For certain, the first of Bette's films I saw was Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte. Thus, at tender age, I was able to derive two things about her: she was awesome, and she was scary. The first verdict was based upon the fact that what was all right with my mom was all right by me; the second, by the fact that I had watched this brassy, caustic, and intense female push a stone onto Olivia De Havilland and Joseph Cotten's heads with a smirk on her face. As you can see, I was introduced to the Bette of later years: withering, bitter, tough, and a bit unsettling to look at. What is interesting is, despite her hostile outward appearance and demeanor, I still loved her too. Bette Davis didn't take sh*t from nobody! At least, that's the persona she projected. It would take me a long time to unlearn the cinematic, boastful tricks she used to deflect from her true nature. It would take time to undo the caricatured performances she gave from All About Eve onward-- which were both self-congratulatory and self-lacerating-- to find the supreme and gifted actress underneath. The conundrum of Bette Davis is her own seemingly willful undoing, as if she chose to go from an accomplished artiste to a hell-bent monster. If we can agree on anything about Bette Davis today, it is usually that she was a total "Bitch." But this is more than the result of a post-WWII reaction to her ambitious, self-serving tendencies-- far from what men were looking for when they came home. It turns out that 'bitch' Bette became the greatest and longest-running performance she ever gave.

The romantic beauty in her youth.

Ruth Elizabeth Davis was born on April 5, 1908. As a youngster, she changed her name to "Bette," because its sounded more glamorous. This was befitting, because in her youth, she was a true Yankee Princess. No, a Queen, who was doted on and always got her way-- or else. Her father, Harlow Morrell Davis was an extremely intelligent and successful law student who became head of the Patent Department at United Shoe Machinery Corp. Her mother, Ruthie Favor, was a passionate and artistic woman who had left a life of performance behind to become a wife and mother. Both adored "Princess Bettina." Everything was perfect in Lowell, MA-- until the divorce. Harlow's busy work schedule and his wife's increasing dissatisfaction with family life led to the male party's infidelity. Soon, Harlow was married to his former nurse, Minnie Stewart-- who had taken care of him during a bout with asthma-- and Ruth was raising two daughters, including the younger Bobby Davis, on her own. Bette never forgave her father for his transgressions, nor truly forgave her mother for losing him. Any mental proclivities that Bette had toward order and control were thus turned up full-throttle, as she sought to find balance and comfort in an undependable world. Her constant attention to detail and cleanliness make some believe that she suffered from an undiagnosed case of OCD her entire life. Such a theory is not unfounded, as both her mother and sister suffered mental and emotional breakdowns that led to their temporary stays in sanitariums. As she went through life with less money than her friends and the embarrassment of living in a broken home, the anger and resentment Bette felt manifested itself against her sister Bobby-- who was a shelled turtle beside Bette's she-wolf-- and her mother, who seemed to go out of her way to please her constantly emotionally distraught and insecure eldest daughter.


The result was a willful young woman accustomed to unquestionable appeasement. It was Bette who wore the pants in the family. Ruth worshipped her, and worked her fingers to the bone to give her eldest daughter whatever she wanted, as if to make up for her botched marriage and thus botched life. After she got work as a photographer, Ruth created in Bette a little Narcissus, taking romantic photo after romantic photo of the pre-Raphaelite-like beauty with large, intense eyes and glowing skin. As Bette blossomed, she became popular at school, where she used her feisty personality to win people to her side. She too enjoyed charming the opposite sex and pitting them against each other for her affections. It was her way of proving that, while she had lost Harlow, she could have any other man that she wanted. Revenge was sweet, but beneath the assertive, sensuously charged veneer was an insecure little girl putting on a great show. So intense was her need to keep the performance going that she never learned to relax, to settle down, to be herself. The world was her audience, and if she broke character for even a second-- if she let her vulnerability show-- she would lose her power and thus her sense of safety. The incredible stress she put on herself resulted in earth-shattering fits of anger and unstoppable crying jags. She once, in a fit of hysteria, even bit her own mother!

Part of Bette's genius laid in her ability to take chances. Her willingness to play
 the homely old maid in Now, Voyager is an example of this. Here she is with
Claude Rains prior to her character's astonishing make-over.

Finally, Bette found release. After Ruth had moved the family to Newton, she took Bette (Bobby remained always in the shadows) to see "The Wild Duck." Starring in this Henrik Ibsen play was none other than Peg Entwistle, the woman who would later end her life by leaping from the Hollywood sign. In this moment, Bette saw none of that despair nor the tragedy that was to come. She saw only Peg in all her glory: a fully fleshed-out, complicated, emotional woman who captivated her audience. Peg's acting transcended acting. It was being. This is what Bette wanted. Mostly she wanted to openly be emotional with the excuse of it being in character. She vowed to play the same role of Hedvig in "The Wild Duck." It was a promise she intended to keep, and then some. The pressure fell on Ruth to enroll her daughter in acting class. Since she had already encouraged Bette in artistic pursuits, including a tenure at the exclusive dance academy Mariarden, the idea was definitely not unpalatable to the senior lady, but the money was. As always, Ruth made it work. The idea of having her beautiful daughter succeed where she had failed was perhaps the only fuel keeping her going. Riding on an exultant high, Bette landed at the John Murray Anderson-Robert Milton School with a ferocious appetite that propelled her quickly to the top of the class. So lauded were her sensitive and courageous classroom performances that she was awarded a full scholarship for her second term. Despite her glowing status at the Academy, she took a risk and dropped out, pushing herself immediately into the world as a working actress. There was no question of failure, for Bette's mindset only received signals of success. This thinking, they say, is the thinking of winners. She went on to perform in stage successes like "The Earth Between" and, of course, "The Wild Duck." Then came the call to Hollywood that would change everything...

Universal and Warners struggled with how to cast Bette. They tried to 

glamorize her, not realizing that her "glamour" was 

her intelligence, singularity,  and strength.

It is possible, had Bette never come to Hollywood, that she could have gone on in this same brazen, inexplicably blessed fashion. Had she never come to Hollywood, perhaps she never would have started questioning or doubting herself. Her career may have soared continually instead of burning out mid-flight and ending in a battle of self-destruction. Hollywood breaks hearts, and indeed it would even break the unbreakable Bette Davis. Having spent her life as the toast of every occasion, lauded for her beauty and talent, she landed in Tinsel Town only to be told that she was "ugly," awkward, giftless. Her first screen-test for Samuel Goldwyn was a disaster. For any other girl, this would mean defeat. For Bette, it meant war. After David Werner called her back to Universal after seeing her perform in "Solid South" (this Yankee often found herself in Southern Belle roles), she landed a three month contract with the studio. The casting department fretted: What to do with her? She's not conventionally beautiful... She's not conventionally anything... Each snipe cut her to the quick, but more than ever, Bette needed to prove to herself that she was better than anyone else, if only to show her father-- who objected to her career decision-- that she didn't need him or anyone else. It was power that she was after. Though her ego was severely damaged by this un-Christian greeting from the City of Angels, Bette was determined to get to a place where she could tell everyone to go to Hell. She would find that place on her throne as the leading lady of Warner Brothers.

Bette takes the graceful, feminine ideal to school and wins

the world over with her earthy, real, and flawed 

performance in Of Human Bondage.

After a series of bit parts that took her nowhere, Bette was signed with Warners in 1931. After making over twenty films, she would finally reach success in what remains one of her finest performances. In fact, at the time, it was deemed "probably the best performance ever recorded on the screen by a U.S. actress ." Her elusive, selfish, and at times repulsive take on W. Somerset Maugham's anti-heroine Mildred in Of Human Bondage was a sensation. Never had acting been so raw or unapologetic. Other actresses had shied from the intense and unflattering material. Bette latched onto it with desperation, knowing that it was her last chance to prove her mettle. To stand out in Hollywood, she was thus agreeing to be just what they thought she was: ugly. It was a gamble that worked. Her stature on the lot and in Hollywood in general climbed after this film, leading to critically acclaimed collaborations (and an affair) with William Wyler in Jezebel and The Letter. Nominated five years in row for her work, after an initial snub for Of Human Bondage, Bette would take home 2 trophies for Dangerous and Jezebel. 


An unlikely starlet, her appeal to women in particular-- who were craving an escape from societal expectations and gender shackles-- made her one of the biggest names in entertainment. She used her intelligence, abandon, and amazing understanding of physicality to inject pathos into her roles in Now, Voyager and Dark Journey. She was the actress other actresses wanted to be. With her strength, she was the woman other women wanted to be. The champion of "women's pictures," Bette's harshness projected a realism that gave her soul sisters comfort. Her atypical features too gave her a place with the common women of the world, who were elevated by Bette's uncommon ability to translate their secret pains, fears, and yearnings. One watches films like Old Acquaintance or Marked Woman today and still willingly absorbs the Bette Davis punch. She is solid in her shoes, unapologetic, authentic, flawed, human, and not to be trifled with. To see a woman take charge so naturally was a much needed breath of fresh air, making Bette the female answer to Warner's typically male-heavy gangster films. She was a social gangster.

Bette tests Henry Fonda's loyalty and her own sexual powers over

him, and suffers the consequences, in Jezebel, one of her 

greatest performances.

Yet, slowly over time, Bette's aim faltered. Her aforementioned 'punch' stopped smacking sense into the public and suddenly seemed to become self-inflicted. Some would say that the "actress" became a "star;" some could say money and not art became her agenda. In any case, Bette Davis seemed only to be playing Bette Davis after awhile. Always an unfalteringly strong performer, her technique dwindled and her characterizations suffered. Her formerly calculated mannerisms became little more than nervous ticks and old tricks. She wanted to maintain her power, but seemed to be surrendering it at the same time. Her well recorded disputes with Warner Brothers allegedly revealed a woman who wanted better opportunities, but in retrospect we see that she sabotaged every chance for elevation she received. She turned down interesting work and feigned illness to get out of compelling pictures, as if her faith in her talent was waning. She became a victim of her own internal battle: the pressure of staying on top became too much, and so she subconsciously started to jump the plank. 


Her personal relationships too give a key into her descent. Never trusting of the familial environment, considering her own broken home, she tried and failed to have marriages with every type of man on the list: sweet pushover "Ham" Oscar Nelson, social ladder climber Arthur Farnsworth, overbearing beefcake William Grant Sherry, and the abusive macho Gary Merrill. But no man would ever be as important to her as her career. Like so many of her film characters, she tried to be a woman who "had it all," only to find the push and pull between home and career to be far too abusive for her psyche. She wanted more than she was able to be a loving wife and mother. She lacked trust: trust in men and trust in herself. A great majority of her marriages became abusive, and Bette willingly seemed to instigate most of her physical punishments, particularly with Gary Merrill, who too beat her daughter, "B.D." Partially terrified and partly gratified at the bruises she received, Bette seemed to be seeking absolution for her failure as a woman. Then again, perhaps as a woman who had reached such great heights, she just wanted to feel pain to feel human again.

Bette makes history again as Margot Channing in All About Eve. She 

finally found a man to go mono-e-mono with her in Gary Merrill-- 

but their union cost her the last of her self-esteem.

Being Bette Davis, in the end, destroyed Bette Davis. As her career started dwindling, she made All About Eve-- which remains one of her classic performances-- then disappeared into maladjusted family life with Gary Merrill, daughter B.D, and her two adopted children Michael and Margot, who were essentially bought to be toys for B.D. Michael would be abused by his eldest sister as Bette had and continued to abuse her sister Bobby, and Margot would be ostracized after it was discovered that she was brain damaged and thus unmanageable. Bette assuaged herself the only way she knew how: in her constant cleaning and in booze. The result was a woman who appeared far beyond her years. It was no surprise, therefore, that she made her brief career renaissance in horror films. Her lipstick scowl still painted across her constantly disappointed face, Bette howled vengefully at the fading Hollywood moon with another never-say-die lady, Joan Crawford, in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? It was a sleeper sensation and led to a reawakening in Bette's career. But glory was not to last. Age, poor health-- including a battle with cancer-- and a foiled sense of self-esteem would work against the icon.  Her last major triumph in The Whales of August is a great example of this. She spent the entire filming period ostracizing herself from the rest of the cast, including Vincent Price and Lillian Gish, who tried and failed to befriend her. She had become too isolated in her cocoon of self-doubt and desperately resorted to antagonism for a sense of control. Her final effort in The Wicked Stepmother was cut short when she dropped out after seeing her aged face in the rushes. It was as if she was finally forced to recognize the monster she had created, and instead of flaunting it and feeding it as she used to, she became terrified of it and let it eat her alive. Her death in 1989 was a sad end to a woman who had shined so brightly at her zenith. But then, Bette would never have admitted to this defeat.

Fallen idols in a final triumph: What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?

While Joan Crawford was religiously devoted to her own 

preservation, Bette seemed intent on self-destruction. 

In retrospect, all of these hell-raising, intimidating qualities, which became exaggerated in her later years, only served to endear Bette to us more. We counted on her to be over-bearing, to be pushy, to live out a side of ourselves on and off screen that we were always too afraid or too polite to personally unleash. We sometimes need a devil to wreak havoc for us. Perhaps this was Bette's purpose, and why we continue to love her. Despite the aged caricature that seems to sometimes eclipse the slender, petite, beauty she once was, one cannot deny this woman's talent, nor the way she influenced an era of women undergoing another social renaissance. To watch the nuances she gave her characters takes the breath away. Her turn as Leslie Crosbie in The Letter expanded upon Jeanne Eagles's original villainess by eliminating Leslie's mania and making her a calculating woman one-card-short of a full-on sociopath. Her martyred Charlotte Lovell in The Old Maid reveals one woman living two lives-- one as a frigid aunt, bitter and overbearing, and the other as a secret mother who yearns for her beloved child's affection. Had Bette continued to trust her intuition, her natural scent for character, her downward slide after The Little Foxes wouldn't have been as rapid. Her need for control affected her ability to cooperate and collaborate. Instead she disappeared into overly manufactured characters, and became the woman of only one face: the Bette Davis face. It is a testament to her as the vital force she was that that face was the only one we needed and the one we continue to search for in all of her dangerous, uplifting, and life-changing portrayals. As "bad" as Bette was, she's still so good. Incomparable. Perfect. Beautiful... Especially when she gets ugly.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Cecil B. DeMille

Cecil B. DeMille- Director and Renaissance Man.

That's right, this time around I chose to feature a director. Not just any director-- the director. The name DeMille still has a powerful resonance and serves at times as the very definition of Hollywood itself. This makes perfect sense, being that ol' CB was one of the founding fathers of this luxurious place we know as La La Land. And trust me, luxury has everything to do with it.


While DeMille was an artist and craftsman, working behind the scenes in the original days of Hollywood-- back when orange groves and pepper trees lined the major through street of Prospect-- at heart he was a showman. In fact, he studied acting first, attending the same school at which his father-- a playwright-- had once taught: The American Academy of Dramatic Arts (ring any bells?). Taking the brains of his father, the passion of his mother, and the flamboyance of family friend David Belasco, young Cecil matured from a curious and ambitious youth into a vivacious and unstoppable entrepreneur. He took odd jobs in the theatre circuit-- writing plays, directing, producing, even acting-- all of which he could perform ably, but it wasn't until a partnership with Jesse L. Lasky and Sam Goldwyn brought him into the cinematic world that his life was forever altered-- and our world as well. His first directorial effort, The Squaw Man, made with the help of Oscar Apfel, is still historically cited as the first full-length feature film made in Hollywood.

Jesse L. Lasky, Adolph Zukor, Sam Goldfish (Goldwyn), Cecil and Albert 

Kaufman- Founding fathers of Famous Players-Lasky.

The match was struck, and the fire in DeMille was ignited. He would work without even stopping for breath from 1914-1959. Forty-five years worth of dedication, drive, passion, and vigor would inevitably leave behind a legacy of unparalleled celluloid glory. After his contemporaries, including hero D.W. Griffith, disappeared into obscurity, DeMille always marched on, his energy for his work kept alive by the devout love of his craft. As the times changed, DeMille may not have exactly changed his own style, but he allowed it to expand, pushing the envelope further and further each time with respect to his artistic capabilities and his aesthetic extravagances. He loved movies, and he watched them as much as he made them, keeping up with the latest directors, the latest techniques, and the newest innovations. Over time, he fell into the immaculate cliche he had contrived for himself, that of the egotistical mouthpiece of God. His epic religious features, meant to strike the fear of a higher power into his viewers, too allowed them to indulge unapologetically in their sensual sides. While every film preached a lesson of love, brotherhood, and humility before one's maker, it too presented a very thorny and enjoyable segue on the crooked way to righteousness.

The King of Kings- DeMille's piety. (H.B. Warner as Christ).

Herein we have the two DeMille's: the craftsman and the poet, the moral liberal and the political conservative, the lover and the fighter, the tactician and the showman. DeMille is either accused of being a slave-driving fascist-- marching around the set in his boots and riding breeches, followed everywhere by his chair boy, and shouting out brash commands through his megaphone-- or a dastardly seducer-- injecting his sexual, sinful, and exuberant films with a moral lesson simply to get them past the sensors. The truth is, both versions are true. "Indulgent" is, in fact, the best word with which to describe CB. His brimming intelligence yearned to ask every question, his passionate side sought to fulfill every pleasure, and his spiritual side hoped to do honor to the only being he was humble before, God himself. His silent films remain dangerous and inventive contributions to a quickly growing and expanding medium, and his sound pictures have found their place in hedonistic kitsch. But in either case, the one unifying factor is detail: the composition of every enchanting frame in every rich scene. DeMille produced vivid, living texture-- films his audiences could very nearly reach out and touch. It is this reason beyond any other that they last. Beyond the story, beyond the cheesy dialogue, beyond the special effects that still leave directors like Steven Spielberg and Martin Scorsese spellbound, is the painterly, fluid, lusciously dripping quality of each masterpiece. This is why DeMille is synonymous with "Classic."

The Affairs of Anatol: DeMille's hedonism. (Gloria Swanson, the woman

he made a star, and Wallace Reid).

As controversial as DeMille remains, his lasting imprint on cinema is justified. But his impression was left on more than the screen. Those who knew him in his life were struck by how this cinematic God could so seamlessly come back down to earth. Many personal accounts recall the tenderness with which he dealt with those he loved and the generosity he provided to those in need. After his father passed away in his youth, the adult CB would always provide for his mother and even his brother, Bill (who too was a director, though a less notorious one), and his wife and children-- oh, and his three mistresses, who were not lookers but were intellectually vibrant and integral to his life. When actors from the silent period witnessed their careers disappearing into the abyss of sound, Cecil always found them parts in his films. He and his wife, Constance, began many charities, particularly for children and women. He lavished friends with gifts, enjoyed his wealth while living simply, and lived each day with the ambition of sucking all the marrow he could out of life. This he did up until the end, when, in 1956, his determination to re-make and improve upon his original silent film, The Ten Commandments, nearly killed him. In fact, perhaps it did. But he succeeded, and his last directorial effort became the pinnacle success of his career, (though The King of Kings remained his proudest film).

 Samson and Delilah: the DeMille unity. 

(Directing Hedy Lamarr and Victor Mature).

We cannot imagine a Hollywood without DeMille, for he was and is Hollywood. He built it as if with his own two hands, and he made it something bigger, something greater, something grander. Cecil and cinema are inseparable, which is why he was the necessary ingredient in Billy Wilder's Hollywood masterpiece, Sunset Boulevard. His mere name carried the context needed to relay all that movies are, all that they endow, and all that they represent. While a director in memory, he was at heart an actor, putting on the greatest show of his life by being the untouchable, indefinable Cecil B. DeMille. What he did, no one else could do, and the effort has taken down many men, (as Joe Mankiewicz could attest after his own Cleopatra debacle). CB gave his movies everything he had and gave us a limitless world in return. Vincent Price once said that you weren't a movie star until you had appeared in a DeMille picture. I suppose it goes without saying that you aren't a film lover until you've seen a DeMille film. With that said: All right, Mr. DeMille. We're ready for your close-up.