Didja Know: Part III

Here are the latest facts that were "news to me." Didja know that...

Cagney gets a little rough with Bogie in Angels with Dirty Faces.

... James Cagney almost slept with the fishes???

In 1939, James Cagney and George Raft went to work on the intense prison film Each Dawn I Die (left). The two leading men knew each other and got along well. Both had grown up "in the hood" as it were, and had rubbed elbows with some of the nastiest ne'er do wells-- some of whom would go on to become leading gangsters and Mafiosos. However, both managed to keep themselves from becoming too deeply involved in the mobster lifestyle. For his part, Jim stayed completely away from the men he considered morally reprehensible. George, on the other hand, forged certain alliances when acting as a chauffeur for certain goons in his Hell's Kitchen days, yet he never got into the deep stuff. A suave guy, he knew how to play the game, kept things social, and stayed out of the business, while giving the bad guys just enough allegiance to maintain their respect and his own separate life. These connections would come in handy. James and George met again in Hollywood, and Jim got George one of his first big breaks dancing the "Peabody" in Taxi. Later, George would return the favor.

During the big Hollywood shakedown, when gang warfare had resulted in physical and financial intimidation of the studios-- who were forced to use mob managed union workers-- the notoriously stubborn Jack Warner must have been causing the big guns a little bit of irritation. While on the set of Each Dawn I Die, George happened to see his old pal Willie Bioff wandering around the set. Bioff's eyes landed menacingly on Cagney, no friend to the mob, then moved up to a large klieg light hanging above. George then witnessed Bioff give a signal to a worker standing in the rafters. What George didn't know, was that Bioff was planning a celebrity assassination: he wanted to take Cagney out by dropping a light on his head! Offing one of Warner's biggest stars was a definite way of sending the big-wig a message. It has been popularly recalled that George stepped in to save Jim's life, but this is only partially true. George clearly knew that something was afoot, but he didn't know what, and he also knew better than to get in the middle of it. Later, after the film wrapped, Bioff told George that he was indeed going to bump Cagney off, but had been halted because they didn't want to screw up filming for George. So, in effect, George did save Jim's life, even if indirectly. One wonders if Jim ever knew how close he came to curtains???

Of course, Jim always knew that life on a film set was dangerous. Not only is a film celebrity's career constantly in jeopardy due to changing public tastes, competitive talent, or demanding moguls, but before the advent of the Screen Actors Guild-- of which Jim was a proud member and instigator-- performers were often put through the mill emotionally and physically. Overworked, underpaid, and unprotected, the company brass had little concern for the pawns in their money game. After all, if you lose one actor, you can just hire another. This mentality led to the lackadaisical way actors were put in danger. Ever notice how in those old Cagney pictures and likewise gangster films, the shooters are always pointing their guns at a downward angle? This was because they were often shooting with live rounds. For those big productions, when Jim had to outrun or dodge an array of bullets, he wasn't acting. When working on The Public Enemy, for example, a man named "Bailey" was hired as a professional sharpshooter. Having served in the Great War, Bailey was an ace shot. The director would set up the scene and direct the movement, then Jim's character would be instructed to run this way or that away from the spray of bullets, which Bailey, from his gunner platform, calculatingly fired behind him, leaving authentic bullet holes along the walls of the set. Filming these scenes took a lot of guts-- or stupidity. As good a shot as Bailey was, it took a lot of trust for Jim to perform knowing that if he moved a hair out of place, he might lose his whole head! Luckily, the miracle of special effects has made this method of gun play obsolete on the sound stage.


... John Barrymore had one up on Al Jolson?

Everyone recalls The Jazz Singer as being the miracle film that moved cinema from a land of silence to a world of sound. However, this transition did not occur overnight. Even The Jazz Singer itself was not an in toto sound film from start to finish. Instead, it is a silent piece with synced music in various places, into which Al Jolson stealthily added a line of dialogue or two. Before continuous music and dialogue became the norm, there were films produced with random sound effects, profiting off the gimmick of the new innovation. Inserted into the fray were a whistle here, a car horn there, and occasionally entire songs. But, before The Jazz Singer was released in 1927, John Barrymore's romantic epic Don Juan was produced in 1926 (left). It represented another step toward sound film in that it was actually the first film Warner Brothers released with the use of the novel "Vitaphone." Warners really spearheaded the sound film movement by investing in and acquiring this new apparatus, while the rest of the industry remained hesitant both about the change and the huge costs it would incur-- not only in production but in restructuring theaters to suit the new technology. The first Vitaphone feature film, Don Juan was synced from start to finish with sound effects and music, though dialogue was still noticeably absent. When played to packed houses, it was often accompanied by more talkie shorts and even an intro by the fearful censor boss, Will Hays.The film was a huge success as a result, but despite big box office, it failed to recoup its financial losses. This put Harry Warner off a bit, but Sam Warner-- the most forward thinking of the brothers-- really pushed for continued use of the device. His pegged the next Vitaphone feature as The Jazz Singer. Though not the first film produced with the Vitaphone, it would in time prove to be the most vital. Ironically, Sam would pass away one day before the premiere of his greatest success.


... the Egyptian was the first Hollywood movie theater?

Back in the early Hollywood days, the awkward transition from live performance to recorded film was evidenced in the film premiere. These days, one merely sits back as the opening credits start to roll, but in the 1920s especially, the film premiere was made to be almost as big a production as the film itself. Sid Grauman personified the extremities of cinematic extravagance with his plush movie palaces, complete with vast stages for elaborate pre-show performances, skits, dance numbers, and songs. The theater-going experience was just that-- an "experience," and one ripe for the senses. In addition to transporting his paying customers and clientele to various different places as they watched the screen, Sid too constructed his theaters to resemble far off, exotic locales. Grandeur, splendor, pleasure-- there was no holding back, and customers paid to be awed. While his Chinese Theatre is best remembered, he too had great success with a previous venture, The Egyptian Theatre, which opened 5 years earlier in 1922, mere blocks away on Hollywood Boulevard (right). This was the first official Hollywood movie theater because it was built specifically for cinema and was not a transformed storefront or vaudeville theater like the others, including The Iris.

Modeled after the infamous African country, and cashing in on the invigorated interest in the recent King Tut phenomenon, Sid covered the Egyptian's walls with ancient artwork and hieroglyphics, convincing audiences that they were sitting in the midst of a desert mirage. Lining the red carpet entrance, where fans stood to watch their favorite stars attend premieres, there too were rows of vendors offering souvenir items and showcasing costumes and props from the latest flick. Needless to say, the largess made it a huge success. To Sid, it was all in the details. He even had a sentinel fully costumed, standing on the roof of the theater to announce when showtime was about to commence. After the pre-show hooplah, the fan mayhem, and the dancing girls, it's a wonder anyone had any energy left to even watch the scheduled movie. Because Sid created this first massive theater, he literally brought film to Hollywood, which until then wasn't considered the hub of the industry it is today. With studios scattered all around Los Angeles, Hollywood and cinema had little connection until Sid came along, which is why he was given the name "Mr. Hollywood." After nearly 90 years of operation, the Egyptian is still going, though it's interior has changed a great deal. Nonetheless, it remains the oldest running 100%-movie-theater in Hollywood.

 ... "virgin" is a dirty word?

In 1953, Otto Preminger decided to tackle Hugh Herbert's smash play and turn it into a film. The Moon is Blue, a comedy of wit and manners, may have read like a modern Oscar Wilde play, but it translated like a bombshell. Opposing forces took offense to the very open and lighthearted dialogue with regard to sex. The film's heroine is a young, outspoken, and charming girl played by newcomer Maggie McNamara, who just happens to be a virgin and makes no apology about it. After she meets architect William Holden on the Empire State Building observation deck (where else?), he becomes completely smitten, but is mostly consumed with the idea of-- politely-- ridding her of the tedious "virgin" label. What results is a inept seduction with fellow suitor David Niven thrown into the mix and both boys realizing that they're no match for Maggie's smarts. Despite the fact that all ends well, in matrimony, MPPDA head Joseph Breen was hot under the collar due to the casual way with which sex was discussed, not to mention the open way in which the characters of Holden and Niven went about hatching plans to seduce their innocent prey. Breen refused to give the film the censorship's seal of approval, but Preminger released the film anyway with the help of United Artists. Such a thing was unprecedented. Due to the film's themes and the use of words like "seduction," "mistress," "pregnant," and "virgin"-- the latter of which had never been used in such context in a film before-- several theaters refused to show it. It started at small venues, slowly drumming up a fan following, and eventually earned a hefty $3.5m dollar profit. "Virgin" thus became the word that started the toppling of the production code administration. The film was additionally successful in earning McNamara an Academy Award nomination and winning Niven a Golden Globe, (which was doubly eventful for him, since originally the studio didn't want to cast him, thinking he was old news). 


... porn is nearly as old as film itself?

That's right. We've all been dirty perverts a long, long time. It's nothing new. While some pinpoint early German sexual education/health films as the earliest source of pornography, the movie labeled as the first official stag film is 1915's A Free Ride (right). There is some debate as to the year of its release, which may actually have been later, around 1923, but thus far it is the oldest surviving product of our cinematic debauchery. The plot is about as intricate as those today: some random guy picks up some random girls on the side of the road. After he pulls to the side to relieve himself in the desert, one of the two females follows him to do the same. The sight of her panties dropping apparently is more than he can handle, and before you know it... Yadda yadda yowza! Because such levels of sexuality and outright raunchiness were illegal, the film was not released publicly but was instead shown in all-male clubs, so as not to offend delicate, female sensibilities-- excluding of course the two female leads. What can be said about this now hilarious attempt at celluloid erotica, is that the filmmakers apparently embraced its comedy. The director is credited as A. Wise Guy, the DP as Will B. Hard, and the title writer as Will She.

TAKE ONE, TWO, THREE...: The Three Faces of Ev-il...

When Tony Curtis was released from the US Navy at the end of WWII, the 20-year-old was determined to pursue his dreams of acting. After learning that there were some openings at the Dramatic Workshop, where he would be acting alongside soon-to-be-legends like Walter Matthau, Harry Belafonte, and Bea Arthur, Tony was ready and raring to go. The only problem? He would have to audition to be accepted. Because he was too nervous to perform a scene with dialogue, Tony opted to re-enact the great metamorphosis scene of Robert Louis Stevenson's Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. This, in addition to the compelling light and dark sides of Mr. Curtis's own nature, served as my inspiration for this week's post.

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The story of and legend of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde has been retold in many different ways and many different mediums. In cinema alone, the list of films that have been directly adapted from Stevenson's original novel are countless-- from Abbott and Costello Meet Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde to Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde. Though the tale being repeated ad nauseum should have expectedly grow cold by now, just as the evolving mythology of the vampire continues to peak our interest, this horror story keeps going strong. The themes of good and evil, human versus animal, and cerebral versus sexual, remain relatable topics. Sex sells, now more than ever. However, it was in the past that it presented itself more seductively, more interestingly, and more violently. In time periods of more strict moral behavior, and more stringent cinematic codes,  filmmakers had to be very crafty to divulge all of the facets and dangers of suppressed human sexuality with honesty and without suffering from the censors' scissors.


Watching the following three adaptations, it is interesting to witness what the audiences of the times must have: the slow unfolding of hidden yearnings, the unleashing of one's inner beast, the acknowledgment of those thoughts, feelings, and compulsions a proper, puritanical society teaches us to suppress. Witnessing the metamorphosis onscreen must have come like a rush; a welcome release and catharsis on a society ready for change, indulgence, and ecstasy. However, the horror too remains. The horror of what it is to look at the baser nature of ourselves and recognize only a monster-- one that lives within all of us, and one that we must constantly seek to control. Heavy duty stuff, but sometimes it is only through the most extravagant means that we see the clearest truths.


Below I briefly discuss the J and H films of 1920, 1931, and 1941. Instead of recapping the varying plot-lines, which are essentially exactly the same, I shall point out the ways each film manages to distinguish itself and the essential factor within each film that makes it unique. All of them are superb, and all should be seen, if only to compare the different interpretations of presentation and performance, but in the three following categories, each movie takes a turn standing above the others and holding its own: The Doc, The Women, and The Film.


THE DOC:

It probably comes as no surprise that one of the most lauded thespians in American history should hold the title for one of the greatest performances of all time. Despite the fact that Fredric March took home the Academy Award in 1941 for his performance of the good/bad doctor, it is John Barrymore's interpretation of the scientist-gone-mad that maintains a well-deserved notoriety. Barrymore (left in "Hamlet" in 1922) was the perfect man to cast in the role of the intelligent and innocent doctor who is slowly manipulated onto the path of darkness. For one, his reputation as a great male beauty, aka The Great Profile, made his transformation into a gruesome, egg-headed monster even more horrific. To see John in his prime-- young and fresh, before alcohol and ravaged his mind and body-- gives you a better idea of why the ladies had such great affection for the man who was Beau Brummel. More importantly, the Barrymore legend of acting talent is no overstatement. This guy is good. There is a reason that he, his brother Lionel, and his sister Ethel, were so revered in their time. "Pretty," Johnny may have been, but he wasn't afraid to get ugly, and the self-same torments and demons he possessed within his soul, which plagued him his whole life and drove him to self destruction, he equally wore proudly on any stage. He never failed to rip himself open and martyr himself before movie cameras at his most demented, pathetic, and destroyed. Inside all genius, there is madness, and it is precisely John's gifted madness that made his work on the 1920 film so breathtaking.

To this day, John's initial transformation scene of Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde is a moment that every actor remains enthralled by. The main reason is that no makeup is used. The cameras role without stopping, there are no special effects, it is simply John, clutching his throat, crumpling in agony, disappearing below his counter, and arising a totally different animal. He pulls a Lon Chaney, but without a makeup bag. The effect is astounding, mesmerizing, and terrifying. This one, uninterrupted moment more fully communicates how simple it is for all of us to give in to our own private monster-- how closely he lives beneath our skin. John does not disappoint for the rest of the film in his characterization, though he does have a little help from the makeup department as the story progresses. His Mr. Hyde (right) is diabolically sinister and physically repulsive. Whereas in Rouben Mamoulian's '31 version, Fredric March's Hyde is interpreted as primitive and ape-like-- a throw-back to our inner-caveman-- and the Victor Fleming '41 version gives us a Spencer Tracy with mad, emphasized eyes and teeth, John's Hyde is somewhat of a conundrum. His elongated, egg-domed head protrudes under a greasy mat of gnarled hair, and his hunched walk resembles a slinking, twitching insect. Indeed, when the transition begins to overtake him in a later scene, a tarantula is seen, super-imposed, closing in on his bewitched and transfixed body. The fact that his appearance is so inexplicable makes the terrorizing of his chosen victim Gina, the always superb vixen Nita Naldi, all the more repellent and despicable. 


While Fredric and Spencer both deserve kudos for what they brought to their characterizations, they can't touch Barrymore on this one. So, if it is the performance of the Doc you are most looking for, reach for 1920. You won't be sorry. Just scared!


THE WOMEN:

The casting of the women was a very important part of all three films. In casting the dancing girl/prostitute Ivy (or Gina as she was in the 1920 version), a girl had to be chosen whose overt sexuality could penetrate and disturb even the most self-controlled and moral of men. She had to be the epitome of desire, provoking and drawing forth a lust for which the doctor would purposely concoct a potion to release. But too, the actress needed to evoke sympathy from the audience, for the burden of being an object of insane desire becomes a punishment that eventually kills her. It's the old "hooker with a heart of gold" scenario-- no lady of the night was born on the street. The choice to use the sexy and scintillating Nita Naldi as John's counterpart, Gina, (I'm wondering if the writer cleverly left the va- off the beginning of that one) is no shocker. Nita was the epitome of feminine sexual danger at the time. Miriam Hopkins (left) as Ivy in the '31 version is also something to behold. In fact, her initial meeting with the as yet untainted Dr. Jekyll, when she tries to seduce him in her bedroom, is still quite jaw-dropping. When she raises her skirt and places his hand on her leg, it makes one hot under the collar even decades later. Miriam was a fascinating and truly gifted actress, too often forgotten among her contemporaries. It was just this type of envelope-pushing role, which deviated from the normal expectations of chastity and womanhood, that made her all the rage in the pre-code era. (If you get the chance to see her in The Story of Temple Drake or Design for Living, take it).

However, it is 1941 that wins the award for the superb exploration of the temptations of female sexuality. Not only did he cast the gloriously tragic and inhumanly beautiful Ingrid Bergman as Jekyll's temptation, Ivy, but Fleming also cast hot to trot Ms. Lana Turner as his luscious fiance, Beatrix (both right with Spence). At first, you may think that Fleming got these roles reversed-- that Ingrid would have served the film better in the prim and lovely fiance-next-door role, and the effortlessly sexy Turner should have been the target of Hyde's passion. This too is what I believed at first, but somehow the unexpected decision works. It is precisely Jekyll's repressed desire for his beautiful fiance Lana that fuels his need to make the sensual and vulnerable Ingrid his prey. In fact, the two women resemble each other greatly in the film. Neither of them have ever looked so gorgeous. With long, curly hair, soft lips, and ripe figures, they are practically interchangeable. The naive and youthful innocence of Lana, whom Spencer's Jekyll must be chomping at the bit to wed and bed, bears little difference from Ingrid's interpretation of Ivy-- except the price of sharing Ivy's bed is much cheaper than a wedding ring. In this version, Jekyll gets the girl of his dreams the right way, and Hyde gets the girl of his dreams the wrong way. The fantasy sequence in which Jekyll envisions himself as Hyde, driving a chariot pulled by these two women-- naked nonetheless-- speaks volumes. He sadistically lashes at them with his whip, urging them to go faster and faster in a physical representation of man's ultimate orgasm- the final unity of the Madonna and the Whore.

The Sadistic Dream Sequence

So, if it's the ladies you want to look at, turn your peepers to Victor Fleming's 1941 version. Ingrid Bergman is her usual magnificent, multi-layered self, giving great depth and pathos to her role of the broken woman, and Lana, whom I think is often underrated for her talents, is equally intriguing and sensitive in her portrayal of the suffering fiance.


THE FILM:

As you have probably guessed, the final trophy goes to Rouben Mamoulian for his adaptation of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in 1931. Despite the triumphs of both the silent and '41 versions, Mamoulian's direction of the middle film is both technically and narratively the most intriguing. A very smart move on his part, in order to better meld his audience with the protagonist/antagonist he created a series of point-of-view shots. When Jekyll (Fredric March) sits with his fiance Muriel (Rose Hobart) on a bench (left), we get direct to camera close-ups of both faces, which are smoldering with desire. As Muriel looks out at the audience enticingly, we more fully understand the lust churning in Jekyll's loins, which he is obviously struggling to keep suppressed. But she too is a mammalian creature, who yearns for her chaste lover as much as he yearns for her. The countdown to the wedding day thus becomes painfully long and unbearable, and the viewer is totally on Jekyll's side when he decides to indulge in his hidden animal, unleash the beast, and make Miriam Hopkins's sultry Ivy his unwitting prey. These POV shots become equally compelling once Jekyll becomes Hyde, seeing himself for the first time and living as him for the first time. Again, the audience moves with the camera, walking heavily in the shoes of their own dark and devious natures. It makes the film both thrilling and horrifying in that we are forced to personalize the experience.


The makeup used for Fredric is also unique. While at first he seems just plain ridiculous, looking like a goofy monkey and in no way passable as human, his appearance serves a purpose. It seems hard to buy that any woman, prostitute or not, would sleep with a being so obviously ape-like, and we have to use suspension of disbelief when Miriam is raped by the monster much more than we have to with the equally hideous portrayals of Barrymore and Tracy. I mean, this is just plain bestiality! But, that is Mamoulian's point. By tapping into suppressed desires and caged violent tendencies, Jekyll is getting in touch with his most animal, ungoverned, and unevolved self. His primate features recall that of the caveman, or perhaps even the missing link, who did not woo with wine and roses but simply clubbed a female over the head and had his way with her guilt-free. While modern man is sophisticated in ways of the heart, while he can love, feel pity, relate to other creatures, Mamoulian suggests that the baser nature remaining deep at our core can not, or rather will not, do the same. The absence of responsibility and emotion, existence based purely on the instant satisfaction of the "id," is the closest man can get to freedom. But, as the film points out, he must sacrifice his humanity to get it.


What finally makes this version a bit superior to the others is the fact that it was made at the right time. The years 1930-1934 were a very rich and enticing, albeit brief, period of film-making before the production code was enforced and the censors (via Will Hays and Joe Breen) went haywire. Stories were bolder, dialogue was more risque, and it was the last dance of the freewheeling twenties before the depression set in with full force. Thus, the themes of sex and violence are more freely explored, expressed, and enlarged upon than in the other two versions. With a little more wiggle room, Mamoulian was allowed the ability to go further than Fleming and silent director John S. Robertson had. The effects remain impressive as well, with Fredric March's transformation realistically being implied through a compilation of shadowing and the brilliant, twisted elasticity of his face.

Jekyll, regretting his decision!

In the end, it is hard to go wrong with the tried and true story lines of our horror history. Despite their macabre and frightening nature, we still look forward to witnessing new visualizations of old nightmares in every generation... possibly even every other week. It's like meeting an old friend. The beauty of J and H, in addition to other horror flicks, seems to be that it allows us to live vicariously through the malevolence of others, exorcising our own less savory compulsions and even letting go of pent up fears. Any of the previously mentioned versions deserve a gander and will allow you for a while to indulge in your inner Hyde while safely returning to your (I hope) more peaceable Jekyll side afterward. It's nice to know, after all, that when you just can't hide your Hyde anymore, you can always pop in an old video and let him out again.

MENTAL MONTAGE: Dirty Pictures

It seems like every other month, scandalous pictures surface from a popular actress's past. Pictures of her "in the buff." Likewise, insinuating videos are occassionally exhumed. These are typically "art" films, B-movies, or soft-core pornographic films, in which young, naive ingenues appear, baring more than their souls, hoping to work their way to the top. Cameron Diaz has been haunted by such a history, when some years ago footage of a film that she did while scantily clad emerged. Though not pornographic, the sexual nature of the B-film, which certainly seemed innocent at the time, was not the caliber of material she wanted to be associated with once she had "made it." The infamous Joan Crawford (above) was also rumored to have appeared in an early porno. After she signed with MGM, Eddie Mannix and Howard Strickling had to hunt down and burn every copy of the said film to protect LB Mayer's new investment. 


Sometimes the emergence of controversial photos are purely accidental on the part of the victim. Certain actresses may not pay their way in flesh, but rather pay the price of fame by having their privacy later violated. Fairly recently, Jennifer Aniston had to sue a certain publication when a photographer took photos of her sunbathing topless in her own backyard. Not-so-Disney's Vanessa Hudgens equally suffered the humiliation of having a nude photo of herself-- which she sent to her boyfriend, Zac Efron-- being leaked to the internet, thus becoming the talk of Teenie-Bopper Tinsel Town.

In the modern age of the world wide web and celebrity sex tapes galore, these acts don't seem to be shocking. They are more... expected. Eric Dane and Rebecca Gayheart enjoy a little menage a trois, and no one really blinks an eye. In fact, the more unflattering the video, the more hysterical it is to the public. Why oh why, I ask, do these celebs feel compelled to put themselves on camera when they are already on television? How much screen time does one need?!  It's partly pathetic, partly embarrassing, but mostly ridiculous. Law suits are thrown down, tempers flare, and tears are shed at the humiliation of having one's most private moments revealed for all to see. Once the cat is out of the bag, most celebrities-- minus the occasional rock star who is downright proud at the sexual publicity-- will do almost anything to erase all evidence of their sordid past (or present) to get their glossy reputation back.

 

Our starlet of the month, Louise Brooks (above), went through a very similar situation. When she was a young dancer in New York City, earning money in gigs with George White's Scandals or Florenz Ziegfeld's Follies, Louise did some photography modeling as well. Sometimes, the shoots were "artistic," and thus Louise was seen posing with nothing but her gumption on. Nudity was still pretty taboo in all media outlets, and naked pictures were "dirty pictures"-- early examples of pornography, distributed on the down-low before there was a Playboy Magazine to produce them. But, nakedness was no longer completely unheard of, and the modern culture started to accept the human body, at least the female body, as art. Sexuality was finding its way into the mainstream during the bustling Jazz Age as something less than sin and more than fact. Therefore, nudity was slowly encroaching on cinema, allegedly beginning with Audrey Munson in Inspiration (below),  and continuing here and there in films like The Penalty, which allowed viewers a brief glimpse of a nude model.

Louise, embracing this rebellious and daring new world, let her inhibitions hit the floor with her stockings and appeared in the buff with pride for sessions with the likes of photographer John De Mirjian.  Described as a person nowhere near bashful, this choice did not effect or embarrass her, as she always indulged in her own sensuality without shame. In the pictures taken by De Mirjian, she was draped with a sheer scarf and nothing else.  She was but 19 years old at the time of the shoot and considered her actions necessary in order to advance her dancing career, where the sexiest girls made it to center stage. After some film success, Louise found herself in the limelight, and she felt no need to return to, what she simply considered, a lower rung on the ladder.  After the release of her first major film, The American Venus, her pictures began re-emerging, and everyone wanted a copy. Louise took action and filed an injunction suit against De Mirjian to stop the pictures' distribution. He was not pleased, because he was making a mint off them.

Louise's reasons were not based on vanity or shame, unlike many of the celebrities today. She simply realized that she had crossed a path in her career and was ready to close the book on her past. She also recognized that the pictures were not being revered as the artistic accomplishments she and De Mirjian had meant them to be, but as food for a gluttonous public, more eager to enjoy the debasement of a notorious figure than to indulge in the beauty of her form. She refused to be played for a fool or looked upon as a joke, so the printing of the photos came to a screeching halt.

Recently, Natalie Portman stated in an interview that she would no longer do nudity in films for pretty much the same reasons that Louise had. Lacking any prudish outlook on nudity in film and proud of her former work, Portman simply expressed that it is no longer possible to bare one's soul and one's skin without suffering repercussions: "I just don’t want to do something that will end up as a screen grab on a porn site." In America, it seems, the repressed puritans in all of us cannot abide nakedness as casually as our European brethren. We laugh, we blush, we squirm, we sweat, we... indulge, shall I say? It is still viewed as something that is "wrong." Perhaps, if the censorship code of 1934 hadn't been enforced, the public would be more receptive to nudity and less put off by it, but all of the progress cinema was making on societal standards came to a screeching halt at that time thanks to Will Hays and Joe Breen.

Venus De Milo - "Artistic" Nudity

As it is, we continue to enjoy the tabloid fodder, the perverted stars, and their naughty, naughty ways-- struggling to find a compromise between our strict sensibilities and our sexual desires.