CAST AWAYS: Part XIII

Jane Greer and Robert Mitchum: movie casting Heaven

in the Hellish masterpiece Out of the Past.

Time for another round of Would-a, Could-a, but Should-a???

Robert Mitchum is one of those heavyweight actors that the history of cinema would be unfathomable without. The very specific niche that he carved for himself-- half leading man/half mysterious outsider-- was an important step forward in the world of film acting. Actors with his earthy appeal and natural, unrehearsed acting style, combined with the guttural passions of John Garfield, for example, paved the way for the Method phenomenon that would soon take shape. It makes one wonder if we would have been ready for the impact of Brando without the Mitchum bridge to carry us over... For that reason alone, Out of the Past-- the film that further defined Bob's deviant, film noir persona-- carries great weight in moviedom. Had he missed this chance at what was to become a cult classic of fanatic proportions, Bob may have been pushed into an uncomfortable, more commercial corner of the business, which probably would have given him the urge to "adios" before he could make such a huge impact on the industry. This was very nearly the case, as the role of "Jeff" was first offered to the King of Noir, Humphrey Bogart (left). It made sense that writer Daniel Mainwaring would envision the lead of The Maltese Falcon, To Have and Have Not, and Dark Victory, in his tantalizing film about sexual manipulation-- with the usual, scintillating twists and turns. Fortunately for us, RKO was more interested in pushing their new rising actor and assigned Bob to the film. Bogie would have been good, no doubt, yet his aggressive toughness onscreen would not have made him easy prey to the luscious Jane Greer's diabolical machinations. Bogie's film persona always solved mysteries; he wasn't bamboozled by them. Bob, on the other hand, had the perfect blend of sinister elegance and man's man vulnerability to fit the role like a glove. Thus, Out of the Past is ad infinitum.

After 10 years in the business, Bob had staked his claim and earned some real elbow room. A dedicated but reluctant actor, Bob had always wanted to be a writer-- a family passion that was passed down to at least two of his children. One particular story that was constantly kicking around his head dealt with the moonshine business-- and its necessary use of fast cars. Soon enough, his pet project Thunder Road was going into production with him at the helm as lead star, producer, co-writer, and sometimes director. He did specific research for the film, studying all the different methods of making and transporting the homemade liquor, which he was, of course, happy to sample. The cast and crew would grow friendly with the locals of North Carolina during the shoot and even enjoyed borrowing "hot" cars for the film that were used by actual "criminal whiskey drivers." When it came to casting the role of his character's brother in the film, Bob thought immediately of Elvis Presley, whom he was been very impressed with in Love Me Tender (right). When Elvis was paid a visit by his hero-- the Robert Mitchum, (whose hairstyle he had copied from an early film to create his own signature look)-- he was absolutely ecstatic! Unfortunately, Elvis, as always, needed the permission of his overly controlling manager, Colonel Parker, before he could say "yes" to the deal. Bob, who never needed anyone's permission for anything, was understandably flustered by the younger man's codependence, and the chance passed Elvis by. Instead, Bob did the next smartest thing and cast his eldest son, Jim, in the role of "Robin Doolin." Heck, as father and son, they certainly looked like they shared the same DNA, so they made believable brothers. Though Jim, then 16, was never able to copy the success of his father's career, he did pursue acting after Thunder Road and, due to his golden name, was able to land some gigs in mostly B-features.

One of Bob's most memorable performances, and my personal favorite, was that of "Max Cady"-- the lecherous anti-hero of Cape Fear. The project began when the eternal American gent', Gregory Peck, read the novel The Executioners by John D. MacDonald. Being impressed with the subject matter, he passed the book to director J. Lee Thompson and suggested it as their next project. After screenwriter James R. Webb adapted the text into a taut, daring masterpiece about a lawyer vs. his recently released and vengeful former client-- a brutalizer and rapist-- the casting for Greg's counterpoint became a grave concern. Officially, the film was on a tight budget, so most of the moolah was going toward paying the star, Greg. Therefore, actors of less public and economic stature were initially suggested: Rod Steiger, Telly Savalas, etc. Still, it didn't  feel right. Then, Bob's name was thrown on the table, and a light went on over Greg's head! His walking opposite and another bankable name, Bob fit the bill perfectly! Greg made his pitch, but Bob wasn't interested. He had been overworked and was looking for respite. He knew a character like Max Cady would require a lot of energy and dedication, and he just wasn't up to it. So, tactically, the production team started asking his opinions on the character, and Bob started offering his advice and his own perceptions: "The whole thing with Cady, fellas, is that snakelike charm: "Me, officer? I never laid a hand on that girl..." While talking, he started to realize that this role was meant for him. Still, he demurred. Greg cleverly sent him flowers and bourbon, and later Bob gave him a call: "OK... I'm drunk. I'll do it." Praise the Lord, for never was there a Devil so Divine! (Greg and Bob wrestle in the Cape, left).

With all the recent hullabaloo about the Sam Raimi prequel Oz the Great and Powerful, it is interesting to look back on The Wizard of Oz. There are many good films, quite a few classics, but there are few that  are bigger than time itself. The tale of "Dorothy" and her motley, goofy cronies' trip down the yellow-brick road holds its own specific place in eternity, where it steadfastly continues to inspire the young and old, make new memories, and resurrect forgotten or too rarely indulged dreams of innocent fantasy. The strange behind-the-scenes disasters somehow managed to come across brilliantly on the silver screen: the birth of little girl Judy Garland as a true movie star, the mythic and vibrant coming of age story, the nostalgic "Over the Rainbow..." Everything fell into place as it should-- even Dorothy's tornado swept house, which was actually filmed dropping from the camera and then played in reverse so it appeared to be crashing to the ground-- right on the Wicked Witch of the East! The "Wicked Witch of the West," (Hell of an alliteration, that), is the one we really remember. Margaret Hamilton's green-faced performance of horror, hysteria, and camp is the very one that she seemed specifically born for. A character actress with a notoriously unusual profile, there was little chance that she would become a screen sensation, yet she remains a legend still. However, the role was originally given to the glamorous Gale Sondergaard (right). The first interpretation of the character was to have the Witch much more sensual: evil hiding in beauty. However, as production went along, it was realized that there firstly was no place for sex in Oz and secondly, Gale was not exactly a frightening threat. MGM decided they needed more edge, so they tested some "ugly" make-up on her, but Gale was so aghast at her mutilation that she resigned from the role. Margaret picked it up, and the film caught fire, burning infinitely! (This can be taken more literally, as Margaret actually did catch on fire at one point during filming)!

Ooh-la-ahhhhhh! Maggie works her [black] magic!

In case it has somehow escaped your notice, Sunset Boulevard is my favorite film. (I am actually pretty sure that I could run a blog specifically about Sunset and Lon Chaney and never run out of material). A movies about movies? The ultimate, silent celebrity playing the ultimate silent celebrity (and spider woman)? Billy Wider?! I mean... Come on! Holden's not bad to look at either, but that goes without saying. I've mentioned in a previous post that Mae West was actually offered the role of the fading movie icon, "Norma Desmond," but she wasn't the only one considered for the epic part. Before Gloria Swanson won the role-- which she thought was a mere supporting part, only to be surprised that she was yet again the leading lady after so many years-- there was another woman in the running. When one thinks of silent cinema, of top Hollywood figures, of heroes, legends, and the talents that built this industry, there is only one woman who could ever bear the name "Mother Hollywood," and that is Mary Pickford (left). Mary's life was slowly starting to resemble that of Norma Desmond by the time she was offered the role. As she spent a great deal of her latter days in hermitage in her fading temple, Pickfair, grappling with her own sanity-- I'm literally making a sad face as I write this, :(-- her casting in the film, in retrospect, would seem not only to be a product of synchronicity at its best, but her understanding of the role and her presence in the film would have certainly made it a phenomenon. Yet, there were some hiccups. Mary may have been a bit too perfect for the role, for she immediately started indulging in her too little exercised inner diva of old. She felt the film should center entirely around Norma, making Holden's "Gillis" a mere speck of dust in the periphery of her own magnificent mania! Wilder wasn't sold on Mary's ideas, as they eliminated the bulk of the story. So, he went back to the drawing board and cooked up some other fading screen madams, including Pola Negri. Yet, it was Gloria Swanson's destiny to breathe vivid and disturbing life into Ms. Desmond, which she did to perfection. For that, Gloria, I heart you forever!

"We didn't need dialogue. We had faces!" Damn straight, Gloria!!!

STAR OF THE MONTH: Audrey Hepburn

Audrey Kathleen Van Heemstra Ruston

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

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

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

authoress Collette handpicked Audrey when she

saw her randomly in a hotel lobby!

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

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

Audrey's sense of fun and youthful wonder mixed with

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

in Gregory Peck.

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

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

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

the world saw the epitome of gorgeousness.

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

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

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

Alan Arkin terrorizes Audrey in Wait Until Dark.

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

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

Gorge on the gorgeousness.

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

CAST AWAYS: Part XI

Acting is no day at the beach, but Montgomery Clift takes advantage 

of his proximity to the ocean to peruse some scripts.

In the midst of filming The Big Lift and riding the wave of his current success, the film offers were rolling into Montgomery Clift. A savvy actor,  he was pretty good at weeding out the good prospects from the bad. One particular item that initially presented itself as a "goody" was the chance to collaborate with Billy Wilder. The project: Sunset Blvd. Wilder had in fact written the part of "Joe Gillis" with Monty in mind. Who better to portray the jaded, morally ambiguous screenwriter than the mysterious, multi-faceted Monty? For awhile, it seemed a done deal, and Monty and Billy went back and forth about the project over a period of months. Imagine the director's surprise when Monty's gave him a long-distance phone call from Berlin and informed him that he would not be taking the role. Billy was flabbergasted... and a bit miffed! After all, he thought that they had come to an understanding? Monty stood firm, insisting that the part wasn't right for him. In the end, Billy was stuck with the much more macho and cynical answer to his prayers, William Holden. Monty's decision turned out to be a blessing for the project, which went on to become a critically acclaimed masterpiece that reignited William's career. In retrospect, Monty always maintained that he was proud of his decision and thought the film was amazing. His refusal of the part was perhaps the simple result of his business acumen, and his knowledge that there was a better fit for the role out there, but many also made assertions that he found too many uncomfortable commonalities between the nature of Joe's relationship with the dominating "Norma Desmond" and his own relationship with his mother.

Fortunately for cinema, Bill Holden took no umbrage to being under a powerful

woman: with Gloria Swanson in Sunset Blvd.

Monty's perception about casting extended beyond his own career. On many of the projects he was involved with, he had definite ideas about whom should be cast opposite him. One such example occurred when he landed the role of "George Eastman" in A Place in the Sun. It was already announced that Elizabeth Taylor was to be his leading lady, after hearing the news of which Monty responded, "Who's Elizabeth Taylor?" One hopes he was being sarcastic. The role of his more ill-fated girlfriend in the film was still up for grabs, however. Monty had great respect for Betsy Blair (left), and he had become good friends with both her and her husband Gene Kelly. With her subdued and underplayed talent and her handsome but modest appearance, Monty thought she was the perfect fit for "Alice Tripp." He went to bat for her, but-- perhaps due to Betsy's leftist political leanings during the "red scare"-- the part went instead to Shelley Winters. Monty was displeased. Almost as critical of others' performances as he was of his own, he was vocal of his dissatisfaction with Shelley's portrayal of the forlorn assembly line worker. He thought she was coming on too strong and playing the part too pathetic and desperate from the get-go. Despite his misgivings, others praised Shelley's performance and many claimed that it was the best of her career. Betsy, as fate would have it, would finally have her own day "in the sun" 4 years later when she appeared as the plain Jane leading lady of Marty.

Oh, life's wondrous options: Monty and Shelley deal with the consequences

in A Place in the Sun.

Tippi Hedren (right) didn't really know how to react after the success of her first major film, The Birds. On the one hand, she was a bona fide actress now on her way to being a full blown movie star. On the other, the filming process with Alfred Hitchcock, the obsessive director who had discovered and essentially bought the young model, had been a debilitating and back-breaking one. "Sexual Harassment" didn't even begin to describe the abuse that she had suffered at the hands of the Master of Suspense. There were days when Tippi found herself cornered by a sexually demanding Hitch; there were days when birds were literally tied to her with string so that they were forced to remain close to her body for a shot, which led to them pecking and biting at her. Co-star Jessica Tandy was one of many watching in horror as the poor girl wandered from the set to her dressing room covered in bird sh*t. Unfortunately, there was no escape after wrap-- Hitch had Tippi under exclusive contract, which meant she couldn't get work anywhere else. The next torment was set to be Marnie, which included a demeaning rape scene that Tippi was not looking forward to in the slightest. A slight ray of hope entered the horizon when it was mentioned that Grace Kelly would be returning to the screen from her royal sojourn in Monaco to assume to lead role. Tippi was not at all upset that she was being replaced. It was like a Godsend! Unfortunately, politics got in the way, and Grace found herself unable to re-team with her still lovelorn director. Thus, the burden fell on the frail Tippi's shoulders again. Marnie remains a curiosity more than a triumph, though it does possess its merits. Then again, perhaps Grace simply smelled an over-complicated clunker and knew that re-entering the fray was not the best idea. After the film, Tippi underwent an arduous process of extricating herself from Hitch's maniacal control, but her career never took wing the way it should have after The Birds.

Hitch gives Grace a hand. His idolatry of her made him much

easier for her to handle, yet made life with him after her

Hollywood exit traumatic for the actresses to follow.

Barbara Stanwyck (left) had her eyes and ears open all the time for projects that either spoke to her or could serve to enhance her career. She got particularly excited when she learned that the controversial (and lengthy) Ayn Rand novel The Fountainhead was going to be adapted into a film. She was eager to play the role of "Dominique Francon," and when Lauren Bacall dropped out of the project, she campaigned heavily for the role. Contributing factors may have been the leading man-- Gary Cooper-- and the director-- King Vidor-- both of whom she had collaborated with so flawlessly in the past. It turns out that Ayn had insisted on Cooper's casting in the role, which had ousted original candidate Humphrey Bogart and, in effect, Lauren Bacall, who left after Bogie was denied. With the door open, Babs was more than ready to step into the role of the cold, scheming Dominique, whose reserve and isolation is penetrated by Coop's passionate, individualistic architect "Howard Roark." Unfortunately for Babs, an unknown, willowy ingenue with a Southern, scotch-coated drawl was cast in her place: Patricia Neal. Few were certain of the casting decision, including Coop, who saw Pat in early tests and thought that she was dreadful. Must have been early nerves, for Coop certainly warmed to her after filming began. The duo were able to make it the length of filming without giving into temptation, but as soon as the director called "that's a wrap!" they indulged in a lengthy and scandalous affair. Now see: had they cast Babs, they could have avoided that whole catastrophe. (In related, funny news, Coop later admitted to Ayn after his lengthy, heady courtroom speech that, while he had memorized his lines to a T, he had absolutely no idea what he had been talking about).

Coop and Pat embark on a dangerous partnership in The Fountainhead.

Much has been made of Errol Flynn and his tendency toward young ladies. Apparently there was some sort of court case about it... But few know the following story about how life very nearly imitated art. Errol's last major love affair was with the teenaged Beverly Aadland, otherwise known as the "Wood-nymph" (together right). Pushing 50, Errol was a mere fragment of the vibrant, young man he had been during his reign as Hollywood's favorite swashbuckler and ladies' man. Three failed marriages, financial troubles, and a devastating sense of self-loathing and regret only served to enhance his alcohol and drug addictions. On the one hand, he seemed to be a man who desperately wanted to live life to the fullest; on the other, he seemed to be resolutely committed to killing himself. Somehow, he was still working, albeit intermittently, and his relationship with the naive yet seemingly loyal Beverly buoyed his spirits, to perhaps a deluded extent. Stanley Kubrick was coincidentally hunting for actors for his upcoming Lolita, a movie that explored the scandalous obsession and sexual relationship between a middle-aged man and his teenaged step-daughter. To Errol, it seemed like kismet. Not only would he indulge in a role that explored his own demons, but he hoped to star in it with his latest paramour, Beverly, in order to help her own career along. Stanley was intrigued, not with the inexperienced Beverly, but with Errol, who seemed a prime candidate for "Humbert Humbert." It was not to be. Errol passed away before filming ever began, though it is questionable that, in his poor condition, he would have received the role anyway. The parts went instead to James Mason and Sue Lyon, the latter of whom made her film debut in the role of the dangerous nymphet.

The act of painting a woman's toe-nails is often used to exemplify emasculation in film.

James Mason illustrates the point with Sue Lyon in Lolita.

Much has been made of the recent speech Clint Eastwood made at the Republican National Convention. Some stated that he respectably blended his status as an entertainer with the political nature of the event; others said that his oration was clumsy, rambling, and misguided. Spoiler alert: Republicans dug it, Democrats did not. (Don't you just love election time)? Anywho, Clint's big send-off at the conclusion was his most infamous line: "Make my day." The eternal, squinty-eyed pro first delivered this quote through steely teeth in the now iconic role of 'Dirty' Harry Callahan. Dirty Harry (left) was a game changer in the cop drama, which blended realistic investigations with pulp, taut suspense, and an edge of comedy. The result, was pop-cultural history. Yet, another notorious tough guy almost played the most impersonated cop in history: John Wayne. No, that is not a joke.  (I'll give you a minute to recuperate). However, Duke turned the job down, not having confidence in the material nor in himself in the role. After the film went on to great success, getting Clint out from under his cowboy hat with a different holster, Duke had regrets. Clearly, he had missed out on a great opportunity. His solution was to take on a similar role in the film McQ as another vengeful Lieutenant. The results of this film would not be as stellar, and Duke would make but three more films before succumbing to cancer. He went out in a role that better suited him, that of a cowboy in The Shootist. Thus, while Clint won the cop war, Duke still owns the West. I kinda want to hear Duke ask me if I "feel lucky," though...

STAR OF THE MONTH: Barbara Stanwyck

Ruby Catherine Stevens

I'm going to be totally honest: I don't know anything about Barbara Stanwyck. The good news, for my self-esteem at least, is that no one else seems to either. As many bios as I read, as much investigating as I do, the general consensus seems to be that this woman remains unknowable-- a compelling, talented, provocative, damn mystery. The one thing that I do know about Barbara Stanwyck is that she stood apart. Apart. Above. Beyond. Far and away, head and shoulders over everyone else. She was separate somehow-- within, while without. She was a movie star, but she was more finitely an actress. More concerned with delivering passionate, dedicated, and shameless performances than being glamorous, she endeared herself to depression era audiences by more fully representing them as a true working girl and not a beauty queen. With her small eyes, large nose, and tiny mouth, she too falls into the category of unlikely celebre fatales-- a slot also occupied by the pop-eyed Bette Davis and the over-angular Katharine Hepburn. While not remembered as the most gorgeous of the silver screen's offerings, an honor belonging to perhaps Ava Gardner and Lana Turner-- both of whom had affairs with her 2nd husband, Robert Taylor-- Barbara seems sexier, more dangerous, and more interesting. While beauty tends to cripple certain actresses, Barbara's natural attractiveness-- sometimes soft and sometimes threatening-- was elevated by her smarts. She was intriguing, dominating, and indecipherable. While she wore her emotions out unapologetically in her film roles, still she remained evasive-- a question mark forever inviting our curiosity. Barbara was a Hollywood starlet, but she was not of Hollywood. She stood apart. Perhaps this is because little Ruby Stevens always stood apart from Barbara Stanwyck.


Ruby Stevens was born on July 16, 1907 to Byron Stevens and Catherine McGee in Brooklyn, NY. The youngest child, Ruby 'stood apart' even then, being the only one of her siblings to have a name not beginning with the letter "M." Her isolation would only be increased when she lost her mother in a tragic accident-- Catherine was knocked off a streetcar by a drunk. Not long after, Ruby's father took off, allegedly to find work digging the Panama Canal. Soon, the family received word that he too had died, although it remains debatable whether he passed away or merely passed on his family. In any case, he never returned. Thus, the children were shuffled between foster homes and each other, with Ruby remaining closest to her brother Malcolm (called Byron). She would often run away from whatever home she was currently occupying to the front stoop of her old house, where she would stubbornly and forlornly await her mother's return. The feisty fighter the world would remember was herein beginning to take shape. Ruby's saving grace through every harmful hard-knock she would take was her fortitude: her iron will. True, she may have been dealt a dirty hand, but she was going to win the pot even if she had to flat out bluff to get it. This she did by putting on a controlled, tough exterior. She would wear a series of masks-- whatever best suited the occasion-- in order to get past the BS and get to what she wanted: freedom. It is a testament to her inner spirit that she was able to emerge from this maelstrom as gracious, grounded, and dignified as she did.

The young ingenue, showing her soft, delicate side.

God knows, it wasn't easy. After Ruby came to live with her sister, Millie, who was a chorus girl, she too took up the craft. It was easy money, and anyway it was as close as she could get to her real dream-- acting. Ruby adored Pearl White, and when the world of poverty and hunger began to crowd her, she would push aside the negativity by indulging in cinematic dreams. She too would enjoy going to the zoo and studying the cats, whose steely, controlled strut she would mimic in order to put on an exaggerated confidence. She would need these happy thoughts and tricks, especially as life around her grew increasingly dark. While she would recall her showgirl days with fondness-- happy times of youth and high-kicks, when anything seemed possible-- this was mostly the work of a woman who refused even in retrospect to play the victim. The truth was that days in Texas Guinan's nightclubs and the Ziegfeld Follies, particularly as a fifteen-year-old, had been hard, even violent. Women were pinched, prodded, manhandled, and sexually manipulated. How far Ruby went to maintain her ambition, and perhaps even safety, remains a mystery, but there are hints at the pain she suffered. Many friends would catch a glimpse of the cigarette burns she had on her chest-- unwanted trophies of her survivalism. There is rumor that she received these war wounds from Al Jolson himself, though this has never been proven.

The young bride and her husband, comedian Frank Fay-- 

their marriage witnessed little funny business.

Ruby found a champion in Willard Mack who cast her in his new show, "The Noose," giving her her first real chance at acting. Her performance was so moving that fellow actor Elisha Cook, Jr. would have to excuse himself so he could vomit. Ruby soon found herself in the arms of Frank Fay, the vaudeville comedian of his day and a performance hero to up-and-comers like James Cagney. The marriage of Ruby and Frank remains an eye-brow raiser, but the impetus behind Ruby's decision to wed the rough, older man is not difficult to decipher. He was successful, and he was powerful, at least in the showbiz world. She hoped to find a protector, perhaps a father figure. Since she latched onto him shortly after the death of another lover-- "Noose" co-star Rex Cherryman-- it is also understandable that in her vulnerable state she grasped blindly onto someone for comfort, even knowing that she could never fully give him her heart. After fighting and failing to get stage roles and enduring several disastrous screen tests and auditions, Ruby was ready for a change of scenery. Fay went West to Warner Bros, and she followed. The odds were against her, yet, strangely, after having been a small fish in a big pond, she would indeed become a great white in Tinsel Town. She would call Hollywood her home for the rest of her life.

The dangerous, blonde Stanwyck, as she appeared in her 

pre-code days as Baby Face et al.

Barbara Stanwyck, as she was now called, would come to define a generation of women. They trusted her on the big screen, because she was one of them: no pretension, no frills, no fallacy. She was the real thing-- grit, gumption, and guts; pain, fragility, and love. In the tales of many Hollywood heroes, it appears that most of these Golden Gods just got lucky. Not Babs. No way. She got where she was going through sheer determination. But she did have some help. Her career really took off when Frank Capra took her under his wing. When she auditioned for Ladies of Leisure, Capra was nonplussed. She was nervous, awkward, and unattractive, or as he put it: "a porcupine." Then, he saw a screen test she had done in color from "The Noose." He did a complete 180, and as he directed her and realized the depth of her talent, his tune would change: "She doesn't act a scene. She lives it." He would also fall madly in love with her in the process. His treatment of her in their films together would establish her future screen presence-- that of the authentic, American female. She was complicated, sexual, strong, emotional, vengeful, and vulnerable all at once. After tickling America's fancy in the naughty Forbidden and provoking their hypocrisy in the interracial romance of The Bitter Tea of General Yen, she continued free-lancing and landed the role of Baby Face-- a film which in itself represents the debauchery and daring of pre-code cinema and its women. As Barbara's Lily Powers sleeps her way to the top, taking no prisoners and showing no mercy, she maintains audience sympathy, because they have seen the slums from which she came and to which she refuses to return. She too possesses the heart of a woman, which despite all her efforts, can still break. This was the Babs epitome: tough on the outside with a soft and creamy center.


In life, Barbara's heart too broke. Her relationship with Fay became-- if it had not always been-- abusive. As her fame and status grew, so too did she outgrow Fay, who became jealous, possessive, and malevolent. Babs probably would have endured his cruelty longer, in her typical martyr-like fashion, had she not her adopted son, Dion, to protect. After Fay showed signs of redirecting his anger at the small boy, Babs pulled the plug on the marriage and said "adios" to Frank. In truth, Babs wasn't cut out for marriage or motherhood, a lesson that she would learn too late. She wanted desperately to create the illusion of the happy home that she had always craved, but having no knowledge or experience of it herself, she was ill-equipped to maintain it. Furthermore, she was far too independent and too self-protective to let any man too deeply into her life, even her son-- with whom she suffered an increasingly estranged relationship as he grew. Her deepest sadness was perhaps not being able to find a soul mate who could meet her eye to eye, who could both dominate her resistant emotional nature and still nurture and protect the little girl inside. After escaping the overpowering menace of Fay, Babs set her sights on a fairer member of the opposing sex, Robert Taylor-- who, like Tyrone Power, was the masculine answer to cinematic objectification. Since jokes ensued that Babs wore the pants in this relationship, it is reasonable to assume that she purposely chose a weaker partner this time around so that for once she would be the one in control and not the doormat. Neither extreme worked. This marriage too ended in divorce.

The early erotic charge of the Taylor-Stanwyck affair would quickly cool once the

 publicity of the notorious "Unmarried Husbands and Wives" 

article scared them into matrimony.

Another wrench thrown into the Babs romance debacle is her controversial sexuality. Some allege that she was a strict homosexual and that both of her marriages were frauds. But this doesn't seem completely acceptable. It is known that she had sexual relationships with men, including Taylor-- which provoked the cataclysmic "Hollywood's Unmarried Husbands and Wives" Photoplay article on 1939-- and even a scandalous affair with the much younger Robert Wagner-- which makes her eyeballing of him in that initial Titanic elevator scene quite telling and hilarious. It seems she had an eye for the "pretty boys," which is too evident in her friendships with men like Gary Cooper (with whom she may too have had a tryst) and the devoted William Holden, whom may have been the only man she ever truly loved, albeit in a completely platonic way. She too was so deeply grieved by her divorce from Taylor that she remained bitter about it for the remainder of her life, claiming alimony even though she could most certainly have maintained herself financially. 


It too is assumed that the mysterious cuts that appeared on her wrists were not the result of a mishap with a broken window, as she claimed, but rather self-inflicted wounds that she administered after learning of Taylor's affair with Lana Turner. Was she that deeply in love with him, or-- if this story is indeed true-- were these damaging mutilations more emblematic of her own insecurity and her anger that yet another man had betrayed her: that the dream life was indeed just a dream? Then, one cannot completely ignore the many questionable rumors about love affairs or sexual relationships she may have had with members of her own sex, including Joan Crawford-- who was a close friend and a woman with whom she had much in common. But are these merely rumors? Or was Barbara a bi-sexual who occasionally took sensual comfort in the arms of a female friend? Since her nature was to evade, it would make sense that she refuse to "take a side," as it were. Her inability to settle down and open up emotionally may have manifested itself in multiple, inconclusive sexual relationships with both men and women. Since she grew defensive, then silent, whenever the subject of her sexual nature was raised, it appears that the world will never know.

Her dangerous, protective gaze in Stella Dallas-- the character's ambition 

mirrored her own, but Stella lacked Barbara's determination.

As conflicted, painful, and lonesome as her personal life was, her work never varied. Because she did not place herself above her characters, she would inhabit them fully and richly-- whether playing the sadistic femme fatale of Double Indemnity or the con-artist with second thoughts in The Lady Eve. Over time, she came to prove that she could play anything and play anything truthfully. For this, her audiences worshipped her. Her co-stars did too, particularly the men. Coop, Joel McCrea, Cecil B. DeMille... They were all enchanted and a bit hypnotized by her talent. Her commitment, wherein she would heedlessly perform her own stunts and proudly show off the bruises, endeared her to her co-workers and the crewmen, who adored her and greeted her warmly each day on the set. She was earthy, not an artiste nor a stuck-up prima donna. And she was gifted. The only thing she couldn't play was "dumb." Her filmography, though filled with the occasional clunker, is so overridden with memorable performances that she remains the envy of every wannabe ingenue in Hollywood. Golden Boy, Remember the Night, Ball of Fire, Clash by Night, Sorry Wrong Number, and Stella Dallas. Oh, Stella Dallas... Does acting get any better than this? Babs's turn as an inept social climber turned sacrificial mother is one of few films that turns me into a blubbering idiot every time. Yet, due to the political processes of the Hollywood studio system, she never won an Oscar for Best Actress. As a free-lancer, she was without studio protection and thus without studio pull. She would settle for a Lifetime Achievement Award.

Babs reduces Henry Fonda to a sexually intoxicated buffoon stuttering about 

"a b-b-burglar" in The Lady Eve.

As Babs aged and times changed, she maintained her work ethic. She made the transfer to television easily, starring in her own show and later in "The Big Valley." Despite being a city girl, Barbara always loved Westerns, and even had a ranch of her own. After a life of struggle, the peace and serenity of a simpler life of roping horses on the open plains probably came like a wave of welcome relief. Despite her continuing desire to create, it could not be denied that her services were not requested as much as they had been in her hey-day. Though still luminously beautiful in her old age and just as riveting, Hollywood has always been about youth. At the end of her life, Barbara thus became melancholy, yearning for the work of her younger days and admitting to close friends that she felt like she had been "forgotten." After strong television performances in the likes of "The Thorn Birds" and silly but necessary contributions in "Charlie's Angels," Barbara Stanwyck passed away on January 20, 1990 at the age of 82. Her ashes were scattered upon land that had once served as the location for many of her Western shoots. Ruby Stevens had fought her way through one hell of a life, and her ultimate success had been accomplished: she had died a legend.

From Ladies They Talk About... of which she certainly

still is one.

Barbara Stanwyck remains just as enticing to modern audiences as she did to her contemporary fans. Her talent is still envied; her private life is still much gossiped about. Her allure compels almost tactically from beyond the grave, as if she too made a Chaney or Garbo-like decision the pull a great, impenetrable curtain between her work and her true identity, forever inviting fascination. When one goes searching for Barbara's secret self, one is destined to emerge from his mental travels just as perplexed as ever. It is her great humanity that draws us, for in the end, what else is there? She seemed so tough, so strong, so self-assured... When you start to break through the mask and see the fragile person inside, it leaves you a bit dumbfounded. She reveals herself as a small child. As a woman, you want to mother and nurture her; as a man, you want to kiss her tears. But just as quickly as the revelatory, big screen, emotional moment occurs, she throws out more smoke and mirrors and disappears behind her husky, assertive drawl and her sharp, snake-eyed stare. In her work, she inspired people to live fully, affectionately, dangerously, romantically... to enjoy the life that she never did. It is only in her work that she lives and breathes with total honesty; with no secrets. It is in her work that you find Barbara Stanwyck... and sometimes even the little girl she began as: Ruby Stevens.