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.

MENTAL MONTAGE: The "Goodies"

Bette would wield her riding crop mightily in

Jezebel.

James Cagney believed that any actor worth his salt knows how to pepper his performances with "goodies"-- little bits of physical business that add flavors and layers to his characterizations. Subtle movements, ticks, or off-beat choices can take a flat featured role and turn it into a scene stealer. In any case, the difference between an actor who uses 'goodies' and one who doesn't is the same as the difference between an actor who fills out a role and one who simply walks through it. Some of the greatest movie stars of all time possessed commanding presences and pretty faces, but the best of the best were the ones who added a little seasoning to their already palatable onscreen dispositions. Here are a few acting dishes served up hot, which in less adept hands could have left some of cinema's most classic scenes as bland as lima beans.

Bette Davis is recalled as a first rate character actress who, by the way, was one of the only women in history to maintain this station while becoming a movie star. Her attractive but generally imperfect features set her apart from her contemporaries from the get-go, but her talent was able to surpass industry expectations by making her a box-office queen. In other words, for once, substance won out over superficiality-- no easy feat in Hollywood. In addition to her natural command and hypnotic presence, Bette had dance experience working in her favor. While watching her films, one is particularly aware of the way she uses her hands. She often relied upon finicky, twitched movements in the fingers to communicate her characters' inner turmoil while maintaining an outward, stone-cold countenance. In time, her use of various techniques would become less focused, but particularly under the guise of William Wyler, she put her gift for physical communication to great effect. When working on Jezebel, for example, William wanted Bette to create a signature move to indicate who "Julie" was to the audience. This was a puzzle. How was Bette to impart Julie's willfulness, sensuality, and brazenness in one stroke? It turns out, in one stroke was just how she did it. So, the first time the viewer is introduced to Julie, she hops off a horse, grabs the train of her habit with her riding crop, and seamlessly lifts it up over her shoulder. Now we know that Julie is a force to be reckoned with: a lady with the grace of a southern belle and the cocky impudence more readily acceptable in men. After this swift move, Julie carries on with her obstinacy, walking right into a social gathering still in her riding breeches. Bette took an inconsequential moment and made it a monument. From her first appearance, her character is solidified, which makes her undoing throughout the remaining course of the film even more fascinating to witness. (Bette and William enjoy lunch between takes, left).

Another director Bette enjoyed working with was Joseph L. Mankiewicz, who was known for getting supreme performances out of his leading ladies... and then some. In Bette's case, it was all business, and there was indeed one particular bit of business in their collaboration All About Eve that quickly and effectively cut through the armor of her theater diva "Margot Channing" and got to the woman beneath. This is where Joe's genius into the female psyche came into play: the only thing more important to a woman than love... is chocolate. He put this knowledge to good use. During the pre-party scene, Margot is already feeling threatened by sickening sycophant Eve Harrington (Anne Baxter), who seems to be wheedling her way into Margot's love life and stealing the attentions of her lover, Bill Simpson (Gary Merrill). When Margot descends the stairs, she interrupts the laughing Eve and Bill, and her insecurity as a woman is even further enhanced (see right). Eve departs, and Margot and Bill bicker. Bette was concerned about this-- her first real confrontational scene in the film-- and asked Joe: "What can we do so that it's not just a talky scene?" Solution: during the ensuing argument, Margot keeps pacing past a jar of chocolates, eying them, reaching for them, and denying herself every time. Finally, as the fight reaches a crescendo, and Margot is left unfulfilled and without reassurance from her distracted lover, she gives in and pops a chocolate into her mouth: ahhh, comfort. Since Margot is also an actress, Bette's contribution of the chocolate dance is doubly effective. An actress's body and appearance is particularly important. Since Margot's fading youth and good looks play a large part in Eve's usurpation of her theatrical throne, this moment of chocolatey bittersweetness is all the sweeter in that it indicates Margot's almost accepted decline. If everything is going to Hell anyway, she might as well take a cue from Marie Antoinette: "Let them eat cake!" Or in this case, cocoa.

Spencer Tracy was the king of characterization. Another performer who maintained his stardom while giving his all as an actor, Spence gave his roles many touches that elevated them beyond robotic line-readings. So effective and underhanded were his character choices, that he often stole the scene right out from under his fellow co-stars, including Claudette Colbert, who recalled acting her heart out in Boom Town only to find herself overlapped by Spence's adept subtly. While her ego was certainly bruised, her respect for Spence only grew. Myrna Loy and Clark Gable would also recall another act of celluloid robbery on the set of Test Pilot (left). It should be said that Spence's acting intuitions were also working hand in hand with the welcomed spirit of hijinks and one-up-manship he and Clark enjoyed throughout their working relationship. Spence was well aware of the fact that he was playing second fiddle to Gable's obviously handsome leading man. BUT, that didn't mean that he had to let Clark steal his thunder. Thus, he devised a plot to draw more attention to himself. During a scene in which Clark and Myrna had a back and forth going, Spence ran an approved idea past director Victor Fleming. Instead of just sitting there like a bump on a log during the scene, he would crack nuts. So, Myrna would say a line-- "crack"-- and Clark would say a line-- "crack." This way, while Spence's BFF character would normally be overlooked, he managed to continually draw the camera's attention to himself. This act of acting genius was also star strategy... and it worked. There Spence was, doing nothing but cracking nuts-- and simultaneously busting Clark's balls-- and he managed to steal the scene. Thus, tawdry pages of dialogue became much more interesting and comical.  The only character anyone pays attention to in the scene is Spence. Nutty, huh?

Spence's lady love Katherine Hepburn would also enjoy a superb cinematic moment, though the thanks for this "goody" goes to her director, George Stevens. Kate wasn't known for being a sex-kitten. Her previous roles and her demeanor may have insinuated a certain amount of girlishness, but sensuality certainly wasn't listed as a top priority in her acting. This is all part of what established her unlikely "type" in the business, but when it came to Woman of the Year, it was sex in particular that Stevens needed to sell. In order to get the audience to believe the affection and attraction between Spence and Kate in their first film together, which had to sustain the entire plot of the film, Kate was going to need to loosen up a little. The chemistry of the soon-to-be real life lovers was already present, but just because Spence was falling in love with Kate, didn't mean the rest of America would. George got an idea! Because Kate's character, "Tess Harding," was supposed to be a brainy take-charge female-- like herself-- the casting was perfect. Yet, the crux of the plot is that underneath all of her smarts and her controlled exterior, there is still a warm-blooded woman. Thus, George decided that the first time Spence's "Sam Craig" sees Tess, he wants there to be a palpable turn-on moment to humanize the otherwise cold, scholarly lady. He asked Kate, therefore, to show a little leg (right). Kate was reticent, but when Spence opens the door to an eye-full of Kate's gam, the look on his face says enough to express what no screenwriter could put into words. From the get-go, Sam wants Tess, and now the audience knows why. With their relationship immediately sexualized, due to Tess's accidental burlesque, the audience can empathize and understand the couple's continuing erotic pull toward each other.

Humphrey Bogart was not known to be a "ham-bone." The closest he ever came to comedy was his turn as the curmudgeonly "Charlie Allnut" in The African Queen. However, cinema's favorite tough guy did allow his sense of humor to guide him in the right direction from time to time.  When shooting The Big Sleep, Bogie was set to do a scene in which his detective, "Philip Marlowe," goes to a used book store to hopefully loot information on his current case. Suspecting that the store is actually a front for less savory business practices, he decides to barge in and test the saleswoman's knowledge about literature. She, in turn, fails to impress, and Marlowe emerges just a little bit closer to solving the mystery. Yet, when rehearsing, director Howard Hawks wasn't satisfied. He wanted the scene to go differently, but he was finding it difficult to articulate just what was wrong with it. It was too "stale." Bogie suggested mixing it up a little. With that, he decided to do a little character acting. He flipped up his hat, put on some glasses, and trudged into the store, not as the hardened Marlowe, but as slightly nasal, totally prissy book snob. As he pulls his glasses down and interrogates the saleswoman on their stock-- of a third edition of Ben-Hur 1860 most particularly-- his mannerisms deliver just enough humor to lighten the heavy tone of the film for a moment and indirectly show us a softer, more affable side of the hard-boiled detective: "You do sell books, hmmm?" (see left). Two birds; one stone. The moment still stands out superbly and humorously from the rest of the film as a result-- you kinda want to see the pompous book-monger again.

Howard Hawks was always looking for creative contributions like these to add more life to his films. One of his favorite actors to work with was Cary Grant. Cary was an adaptable actor, always eager to try pretty much any suggestion in order to improve a scene. During the filming of His Girl Friday, Howard and Cary were looking for a way to relay the exasperation that Cary's character, "Walter Burns," is feeling in reaction to his stressful work at the newspaper in addition to the absolution of his marriage to Rosalind Russell's "Hildy Johnson" (right). Cary would go through the scene and repeatedly deliver his lines and bits of comedy without a mistake, but Howard wasn't satisfied. It was, in his words, "pretty dull." Again, there was something missing. He and Cary conferred, and Howard suggested a vocal goody. Howard had a friend who used to "winnie" like a horse in moments of perturbation. He wondered if Cary would find the same exclamation palatable for his character? He did. And so, when in the world of fast-talking newspapermen (and women) words were not enough, Cary would burst out with a high-pitched "neigh" of irritation. It became one of his trademarks, and he used it on other films when he needed to convey the same overwhelmed demeanor.

If any actor new how to round off a character, it was Lon Chaney. Most recalled today for his macabre and horrifying performances, earlier in his career he had a great deal of success portraying the underhanded "heavy." Due to his textured performances, his con-artists, bruisers, and deviants, were totally believable on the screen, making him an intimidating cinematic presence. As he was always committed to telling a story honestly, he had no qualms about portraying a villain through and through. In doing so, he lived out the dark sides of his audiences, which made them respond to him all the more heartily-- ironic considering how sinister he could be. One example comes in Outside the Law. At the beginning, Lon's "Black Mike Sylva" (left) is plotting with his accomplices, including Wheeler Oakman's "Dapper Bill Ballard," about his latest caper. At a local dive bar, they smoke, sip drinks, and plan away. When the game is set, the trio of thugs rise from the table, throwing down some dough for the swill. As they depart, Black Mike exits last and very stealthily swipes the tip from the tabletop and pockets it! In one swift movement, Lon has told the audience just how dishonest, selfish, and underhanded Mike is going to be. He spends the rest of the film living up to the reputation.

The Strange Love of Martha Ivers is a strange movie in cinematic history. A B-movie potboiler, it is more remembered today for being Kirk Douglas's first film as well as one of Lizabeth Scott's first performances. However, the majority of the plot revolves around Barbara Stanwyck's conniving "Martha" and her prodigal childhood sweetheart "Sam Masterson," played by Van Heflin (both right). Van must have realized from the beginning that this film was not of stellar caliber. A quickly made noir, the film was built to sell tickets not alter the shape of the universe. As such, the only way to amp up the quality was in the acting. Van layered his character with his usual dose of charm and masculinity, but to denote Sam's playful and restless side, he also contributed another gag. He would, throughout the picture, roll a coin between his fingers. It became his character's nervous, boyish habit, and at the very least added a little visual stimuli to a movie that turned out to be a bit of a snooze-fest. Van would recall that Barbara was delighted the first time she saw the trick. A seasoned pro herself, she appreciated Van's extra effort. However, after complimenting his digital dexterity, Babs looked him in the eye and said, "Any time you start twirling that coin, I'll be fixing my garter. So be sure you don't do that when I have important lines to speak." No, Babs wasn't going to fall for that gag-- no one was stealing the scene from her! Thus, Van kept his coin out of Babs's scenes, and she kept the audience's attention!

And so, these Hollywood hotshots took the acting road less traveled by... and that has made all the difference.

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.