HISTORY LESSON: Art Imitating LIfe

Linda Darnell's too good to be true life story was the inspiration 

for one of her biggest films.

I have referenced multiple times in the past the fascinating mirror effect of reality and fiction. One such article, The Blurring of Violence, dealt with the way life has appeared at times to imitate art-- or at least claim to. Today's turn will examine the way art has imitated life in the movies, or more particularly how it has directly imitated the lives of its stars. Of course, there are a string of biopics about our celebrity favorites, from the Good, to the Grand, to the Ugly, (aka Man of a Thousand Faces, Chaplin, and Harlow), but while these direct tributes of celebrity life are fascinating-- a movie about a movie star making movies-- there too are examples wherein filmdom more indirectly borrows stories from stars' lives to spice up their scripts. Here are some occurrences when art has imitated the lives of its artists:

Linda Darnell's rise to fame and celebrity stature was just the sort of Cinderella story that made Hollywood the dream town of youths all over the nation. While "overnight success" is not really achieved overnight, the hard work and persistence that Linda put into her dream would pay off suddenly and shockingly to the 15-year-old when she signed with Twentieth-Century Fox in 1939. Suddenly, a switch was flipped-- Monetta Darnell was off, and Linda Darnell was on. After her breakthrough roles in Hotel for Women and Daytime Wife, Darryl F. Zanuck and company decided to capitalize off Linda's sudden appeal and "road to super-stardom" story. Thus, by the age of sixteen, a script was already being penned for the new starlet by Jessie and Ivan Kahn about her up-to-now life story... sort of. While the film did tell the tale of a small town girl turned movie gem, the old Hollywood spit and polish made things much more palatable to a glamour loving public, thus Linda's eccentric mother Pearl, for example, was not included in the plot. However, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star-- as it was originally titled-- did include some facts in its fictions. When Linda first came to Fox, she rode on the train with two fellow discoveries: Dorris Bowden and Mary Healy. In the film, later titled Star Dust, these two supporting characters were rolled into one, and Mary herself took on the role of "Mary Andrews." In the film, Mary's character was made to be a flop in pictures who finds happiness in the real world. This made Linda's light shine a little brighter as character Carolyn-- one of the few lucky, "chosen" ones. (This plot point was somewhat premonitory in that Mary's career never did take off like Linda's, and she made few feature films). Director Walter Lang also replicated Linda's original Fox screen test of "Two Nuts on a Sidewalk," even using her same wardrobe, though Linda admitted that the fake test was better than her original one. John Payne was added into the mix as another movie hopeful and love interest-- with a constantly broken nose-- to give the film a little romance, though Linda had no such beau upon her Hollywood arrival. Strangely enough, she was falling for cinematographer Pev Marley behind the scenes on this project. When the film premiered, Linda's name was above the title, with Fox declaring that Linda was a star before she'd had any real time to prove her mettle. In a little twist of life imitating art, Linda would immortalize her hand prints outside Grauman's Chinese Theatre after the film's premiere on March 18, 1940, just as her character had at the end of Star Dust. For one so young, it was totally unprecedented and a living dream come true. (Ironically, the movie that declared Linda a star was the same one she watched the night she suffered the fire that claimed her life. Linda is with Mary Healy and John Payne, left).

Katharine Hepburn (right) was superbly represented by another Kate, Cate Blanchett, in Martin Scorsese's The Aviator in 2004, but Kate actually brought a little of her true life to the screen over 60 years prior in the film Stage Door. When still a struggling thespian, Kate had performed in the play "The Lake" in the early '30s. It was a critical disaster that resulted in one of her most scathing reviews a la illustrious drama critic Dorothy Parker: "Hepburn ran the gamut of emotions from A to B." The negative reviews were certainly devastating to the young actress, who took her work very seriously. Having had previous raves for "The Warrior's Husband," the sudden change in mood was hard to swallow, especially since "The Lake" was basically her Broadway debut. Director/Producer Jed Harris was little help, having pushed her in his direction against her natural instincts, thus instigating a flawed performance. He too blamed her for the play's failure. As per usual, Kate took the lumps and pressed on chin up. Fast forward 4 years to Kate accepting the role of the socially oblivious but goodhearted actress Terry Randall in Stage Door. Kate would poke a little fun at herself, and perhaps at Dorothy as well, during an important plot point. Having snagged a role in "Enchanted April" from another actress, Terry finds herself underwhelming in her performance and unable to deliver the following lines with conviction: "The calla lillies are in bloom again. Such a strange flower. I carried them on my wedding day. And now I place them there, in memory of someone who is dead." These were actually the self same lines that she delivered on stage in "The Lake!" However, in Stage Door, as in her life, she was able to prove herself. After learning that the actress she had inadvertently wronged had killed herself, her performance in "Enchanted April" became jaw-droppingly honest and poignant. Terry could act after all! So could Hepburn. In later years, Dorothy Parker would recant her earlier assessment, saying that she believed Hepburn to be one of the finest actresses in the biz and that her original, infamous quotation had been a "joke." Good recovery, Dot. (Use of the play "Enchanted April" was another inside joke, as a film of that name had been an RKO failure a couple of years prior.)

Kate's co-star in Stage Door, Ginger Rogers, also indulged in a little game of live and tell. After Ginger won the "Texas State Charleston Competition" at the tender age of fourteen, she and her mother, Lela, rode across the enormous state in a continuing performance circuit. Immediately after this, she began an engagement working with bandleader Henry Santrey, which meant that she and Lela would continue traveling all over the United States. Needless to say, there were a lot of train rides. Because the dough needed to maintain one's career-- affording hotels, wardrobe, and food-- often made the cost of living higher than the rate of pay, the dynamic duo had to find ways to cut corners and save cash. One way was train fare. Mother and daughter came up with a scheme pretty early to have Ginger pretend to be two years younger, making herself twelve and thus eligible for child rates. To complete the illusion, along with her acting skills, Ginger carried a large Egyptian doll named "Freakus" around to both cover her face and make herself appear physically smaller. The plot worked like a charm until, fortunately, Ginger got far enough in her career to afford lawfulness and avoid a life of little white cons. However, she got a pleasant surprise when Billy Wilder sent her the script for The Major and the Minor, since Ginger's character pulls the exact same stunt as in her youth: she pretends to be a child in order to afford cheaper train fare only to find herself trapped in the illusion after meeting the handsome Ray Milland. Freakus, however, was substituted with a balloon (see left). Though feigning an eighteen year age difference was more difficult than a mere two year one, Ginger still pulled off the feat flawlessly. If it ain't broke... don't grow up.

Hollywood storytelling is not always a laugh, as our continuing subscriptions to rag-mags and website tell-alls can attest. The poster boy for movie star breakdowns in 1923 was America's favorite playboy, Wallace Reid (right). Having just lost his battle with morphine addiction, Wallace was cremated and put to rest at Glendale Forest Lawn cemetery, but his memory and untimely passing remained quite palpable in the public. His sad end would inspire a film, spearheaded by his grieving widow Dorothy (Davenport), about the devastating effects of drug abuse on family. Left alone with two young children, Wally Jr. and Betty, Dorothy became totally devoted to educating the nation about drug use. She equally wanted to finance a hospital in her husband's name that would care for addicts seeking mental and physical redemption. Wally's mother, Bertha, was opposed to the idea, not wanting her son to be remembered for the way he died, but Dorothy was adamant. She joined up with Harold Lloyd in forming the "Anti-Narcotics League of Los Angeles," which she too hoped to finance with profits from the movie, which was originally titled The Living Dead. 

Compiling a screenplay with C. Gardner Sullivan and signing on friend Elinor Ince as a producer (wife of Thomas), the movie got underway with the acting talents of luminaries such as James Kirkwood, Bessie Love (shooting up, left), and Dorothy herself. Jesse Lasky and the boys at Paramount had no hand in the film, which is perhaps emblematic of their guilt-- they were at least partially responsible for Wallace's dependence on morphine. Despite all of the intention, the plot was a bit over-dramatic and convoluted, involving the corruption of a taxi driver who becomes a substance abuser and, thereafter, a thief to support his habit. He then inexplicably pulls his lawyer down into the bowels of addiction with him, and the families of both men suffer as a result. However, while the lawyer finds absolution, the taxi driver does not and is killed in the end. The film was imperfect, but few critics would throw stones knowing that it was a legacy of love for Dorothy and a commemoration of one of their favorite, fallen soldiers. Some did argue that Dorothy was simply trying to profit off Wally's name-- in the film's opening she had credited herself as "Mrs.Wallace Reid"-- but with two kids to feed, who could blame her? Ironically, while the film was meant to save lives, it nearly ended two. Actors Harry Northrup and George Hackathrone were nearly killed in a collision when they had to jump from a car before being hit by a speeding train, (Oh, the days before special effects). While the end product of Human Wreckage had little to do with Wallace's life, it was a testament to what he had suffered and was notorious for its honest depiction of drug use, down to the painful realizations of withdrawal. If the story was able to save even one life, Wally certainly would have been proud.

Norman Maine (Fredric March) tries to balance his love of his wife, Vicki Lester (Janet Gaynor), 
with his jealousy over her career, as Adolphe Menjou looks on in 1937's A Star is Born.

There has been a great amount of controversy surrounding the back story of A Star is Born, a film that has been made thrice ('37, '54, and '76). The plot varies little between the different versions and involves-- similarly to Star Dust-- the meteoric rise of a young ingenue in the film business, as her lover/protege/husband's career crashes and burns. The character of "Vicki Lester" is coached into her career by fading idol "Norman Maine," whose decent into alcoholism in response to his jealousy over his new wife's career leads him to suicide. Even today, rumors abound in Hollywood, but just who the true source of this tragic tale is remains a hot debate. Many pinpoint MGM's silent leading man, John Gilbert (right), as the inspiration for Norman Maine's tragic hero. This is somewhat understandable when one compares the downward slide of Gilbert's career with that of Maine's--  in addition to his unfortunate taste for alcohol. However, many differences suggest otherwise. Gilbert was much more a victim in reality, whereas on screen the Norman Maine character is pretty much assumed the culprit of his own downward spiral-- a mixture of changing audience tastes, his addiction, and self-loathing. Some too may draw comparisons between the relationship of Norman and Vicki and Gilbert and Garbo, but Gilbert's kind guidance of Greta during her early studio days is vastly different from Maine's complete metamorphosis of and public campaign for Vicki in the film. Too, Gilbert did not commit suicide but suffered a heart attack, so the two characters there also have a divide. Yet, the method of Maine's self-annihilation-- drowning himself in the ocean-- does bring to mind a story as told by Marion Davies. Apparently, John-- who would occasionally fall into bouts of despair-- once fell under the spell of his own melancholia while at one of Marion's beach parties. Dramatically and drunkenly, he declared to all within ear shot that he was determined to kill himself. Some onlookers called his bluff and dared him to drown himself in the ocean. In defiance, Jack dove headfirst into the waves. A worried Marion called after him to stop, but the less sensitive wisecrackers assured her that Jack would not complete the task. When he was indeed washed back ashore not much later, he began weeping at his own cowardice to the jeers of onlookers. Marion's heart went out to her deeply disturbed friend, and she balled the jesters out. Since John's life is still causing inspiration, as seen in the latest The Artist, it is possible that A Star is Born also absorbed some of his tragic tale. 

But these likenesses between John and Norman are not the only bases for the film. Another popular lovers' feud often referred to with Star is that between Barbara Stanwyck and her first husband Frank Fay (together left). Babs was a struggling young actress of twenty-one when she married 36-year-old vaudeville comedian Fay in 1928. Under the more popular entertainer's protection and guidance, Babs was able to kick-start her own career and soon had movie offers. This story alone has spawned rumors, including those that allege the marriage was one of appearance only. There is argument that both Barbara and Frank were homosexuals who wed to cover their sexual preferences and protect their careers. However, if this was the case, it makes the situation that followed somewhat nonsensical. Almost immediately after the nuptials, the young bride went to Hollywood where she began working at United Artists, while funny man Fay continued on the road. Eventually, he made the move to Hollywood and was signed at Warners, but he failed to catch on with movie audiences like his wife had. This led to envious arguments that often turned physical. Friend and neighbor Joan Crawford was witness to more than one brawl. Allegedly, Frank wanted Barbara to give up her career and join him on the road when his contract was canceled in 1931, but she refused. After the duo adopted son Dion, Fay's drinking only increased.  The battling couple was a well-guarded secret in the press, but the bruises that Babs often sported were common knowledge around town. When an inebriated Fay threw son Dion into the family pool, Babs decided enough was enough and pulled to plug. They finally were divorced in 1935. Barbara would go on to become one of the most beloved and acclaimed actresses of her generation, and Fay's name would slowly disappear from the limelight. The sadistic nature of the relationship-- with the male as the dominating force-- could well have been one more bone in the spine of the Star story, especially as the inverted careers of the man and wife were the same as in the film.

Yet, there is even another story that could have served as source material: that of everyone's favorite flapper, Colleen Moore and producer husband John McCormick (together right). Colleen was an old-fashioned but ambitious young woman when she decided that acting was "the thing" for her. However, even as a youth, she was business savvy, and she understood that her atypical looks and somewhat boyish figure did not make her the symbol of female eroticism the guys usually went for. Still, there was something about her--including the fact that her eyes were two different colors--that caught the attention of John, who met her one night when the duo went dancing with Mickey Neilan and Blanche Sweet at the Sunset Inn. Not used to flattery and a wise little thing herself, the cynical Colleen merely raised an eyebrow when John asked her to marry him after three measly dances. But, before she knew it, she was head over heels as well, and the two were wed a mere day before her birthday. At first, life seemed grand. With John's support and her own ambitious spirit, Colleen's career started gaining steam, but as in the case of Babs and Frank, John's jealousy of her rising star and taste for alcohol impaired what had at first seemed a match made in heaven. Colleen kept the facts of her personal misery a secret for many years, never being one for gossip, but she did finally unleash the truth. John had been physically abusive, once nearly throwing her out a window, and finally-- when she told him she was going to leave him-- nearly choking her to death. His angry words, "You can't leave me. You're nothing without me! I made you a star!" would echo in her ears for years to come... and quite possibly in the script of Star. 

Mrs. Norman Maine ( Judy Garland) takes a hit from her alcoholic husband 

(James Mason) in 1954's A Star is Born.

One particular factor that ties the factual and fictitious versions together is a phone call that Colleen made while still married to John. At the time, Colleen's career was thriving, but she received word that her husband was about to be fired from their home studio. Though the marriage was troubled, Colleen was loyal. She called up top dog Richard Rowland and stated loud and clear, "This is Mrs. John McCormick. I just called to say 'hello." The message apparently was heard, and John's job was temporarily saved. The marriage was not, and Colleen finally left John and never looked back. History did, for in A Star is Born, the famous ending line uttered by the grieving widow/superstar, which she delivers to fans, is: "Hello, everybody. This is Mrs. Norman Maine." (Strangely, this is not dissimilar from Dorothy Reid's credit as Mrs. Wallace Reid in Human Wreckage...). Whether the tragic romance of Vicki Lester and Norman Maine was based in part on one or all of these tales is still uncertain. It is quite possible that the age old battle of the sexes and the conflicts that arise when gender roles are eclipsed (in her case) or failed (in his) are enough of a starting point for any good screenwriter. In any case, the elastic nature of the silver screen continues to give and take with its stories and its stars, giving audiences a little truth mixed with the fiction. As long as the material is good, the pond from which writers reel in ideas doesn't matter. Keep 'em comin'.

(A friend just tipped me off to the story of John Bowers as well, who may very well have been a significant source in the A Star is Born story).

HISTORY LESSON: Art Imitating LIfe

HISTORY LESSON: Follies Girls to Leading Ladies

Paulette Goddard in a very elaborate get-up when she was
part of the Follies.

Hollywood and Beauty are nearly synonymous terms; Hollywood and sex are perhaps even more interchangeable. Aside from invigorating storylines and their emotional relevance, the movies have always offered us perhaps even more profoundly another source of satiation for our very ravenous eyes. Hitchcock wasn't barking up the wrong tree when he made Rear Window, starting a discussion on the obsessive and at times creepy voyeuristic tendencies of mankind. Watching gorgeous bodies in motion, observing creative and aesthetically appealing mise en scene compositions and camera angles, has made us all rabid devotees of theaters, televisions, and now iPads. But we didn't always have the movies. Before that, there was theater, vaudeville, travelling acting troupes... But nothing would produce the glorious collaboration of beauty and sex appeal, nor unleash it upon a grateful public on such a grand scale, as the brainchild of Florenz Ziegfeld: The Ziegfeld Follies. Using the knowledge that men enjoy few things more than looking at beautiful things, and enlisting the aid of a myriad of women who enjoyed the power of being the objects of male desire and adoration, Ziegfeld started the Paris-inspired Follies in New York in 1907, renaming it the Ziegfeld Follies in 1911. By 1913, The New Amsterdam Theater had become its home, with 1800 seats and shows going all the way up to the rooftop, where The Danse de Follies took place. While some regarded these extravaganzas as rude, offensive, and exploitative, you couldn't argue with box-office revenue. The public had spoken; they liked what they saw.

Chorus girls light up the stage.

The shows weren't as simple as strip-teases: there was elegance, detailed costuming, fantastical imagery, and romanticized story-telling. Sure, every once in awhile girls showed up buck naked, but in these cases, they were always forced to remain stationary so that the show did not become graphic or "lewd." It was only the glamorously bedecked females that were able to move and shake. And these women weren't frowned upon; they were adored. Wealthy businessmen, most of them older, near to retirement and enjoying their years of hard work, spent the late night hours paying it off on the numerous lovelies who danced and sang for them on stage. Of course, performances by comedians like Eddie Cantor were also intermittently featured, but that's not what the public came for. Tickets to get in were expensive, so only the elite could afford them, which also added to the acceptance of the shows as "classy." Because of the glamour and fashion, women came too, and the shows became hailed as legitimate and invigorating entertainment... with a side of naughty. The same reception would not have resulted in poorer districts that lacked the cash for flash. Working girls fought their way into the Follies, both to have a job that often paid more than their fathers were making, but also to hopefully land a "sugar-daddy." For some, a little gold-digging went a long way. For others, their brief moments on the stage only served as a stepping stone to higher aspirations. Many Hollywood leading ladies got their start spanking the planks at the scandalous Follies. It proved to be a wealthy source of education in terms of how to use sex appeal and feminine charm to demand attention. While some may have been embarrassed at their humble, fleshy beginnings, they often had to admit that the experience helped them establish their later film careers. In this respect, the days with Zeigfeld were not merely moments of youthful folly.


Olive Thomas:

Olive arrived at the Follies in 1915. A great beauty, it wasn't long before she became a main attraction, of course her ongoing affair with Florenz also helped her rise in the ranks. She was assigned to more and more scenes, got to wear the most elaborate and elegant costumes, sang solos, and accrued scores of admirers-- including a German ambassador who once gave her a $10,000 string of pearls, (that's $100 grand today). The era when Ollie was a part of the Follies is often remembered as the best, due to the epic stage designs by Joseph Urban, but the shows would continue into the early thirties. In the 1910s, girls would sometimes stroll through the crowds of appreciative spectators wearing negligees covered by several helium balloons (see Olive left). The men in the crowd would use their cigars to pop the balloons, slowly revealing more girl and less latex. The girls also played games to entertain themselves while onstage, such as competing to see who could hit the most bald heads with their tossed garters. While performing in the Midnight Frolic, which was slightly more risque, Olive was also one of the many girls who danced on the infamous glass walkway, which Florenz had built so the men could sit beneath the high-kicking ladies with a... better view. Like most of the girls working at the Follies during these early, rebellious years, Olive didn't take the whole thing too seriously. She felt no guilt or embarrassment with regard to her employment; she was laughing all the way to the bank, and in an era when women still had little authority-- indeed, not even the right to vote-- a position in the Follies was one of the most powerful positions a girl could hold. Olive tarried at the Follies for 2 years, and then left the stage for the screen. But, during her time with Ziegfled, she was numero uno. As the "Most Beautiful Girl in the World," she was featured in a routine that showcased various women of different nationalities walking down into a large cauldron of sorts. Then, emerging from the melting pot came the sum whole of their parts: God's perfect creation, Olive Thomas. She was the ultimate, male dream.


Barbara Stanwyck:

Back when Barbara was still known as Ruby Stevens, she was a feisty and ambitious youth determined to overcome her impoverished lifestyle. Toughened up after her mother's death and her father's abandonment, Ruby spent most of her tender years escaping from foster families until she completely dropped out of school and started looking for work on her own. By the age of 14, she was already pounding the pavement, and having been inspired by her elder showgirl sister Mildred and the acting of silent film star Pearl White, she decided to become a performer on her own. Driven by an unrockable focus, there was little that was going to get in her way, which, despite her unconventional looks, allowed her to force her way into the mainstream. Allegedly, an audition landed her a gig in the chorus of the Follies for both 1922 and 1923, when she about 15 or 16-years-old. She also participated in various other chorus girl acts after leaving the Follies, but the hardened youngster wasn't satisfied with merely smiling and looking pretty, and her great strength and passion for honest and deeply felt work would soon take her from the stage to the screen, where even after her death she maintains a reputation as one of cinema's greatest, most professional actresses.


Louise Brooks:

Louise started out her performance career as a dancer with absolutely no ambitions to go into acting. As such, she was much more comfortable performing on stage under the tutelage of the illustrious dance instructors Ted Shawn and Ruth St. Denis than she would ever be before the camera. After learning from the masters, she performed with Ted and Martha Graham in the Denishawn company, but was later fired by Ruth for her inability to "co-operate." Louise then found herself a part of George White's Scandals, a contemporary of the Follies, but quit to follow her friend Barbara Bennett to Europe. When she returned, Florenz Ziegfeld scooped her up, and she began dancing at the Follies of 1925. Florenz was impressed with Louise, and soon she was climbing the ranks (literally) and was placed at the top of those notorious Follies girl-pyramids. During her time there, she also befriended fellow performer W.C. Fields, though his routines in the show were far different from her own. Will Rogers was also a member of the company at that time, as was Paulette Goddard. Louise was finally wooed by Walter Wanger to Astoria's Paramount Studios, where she begrudgingly started taking on film work. She considered it a mere experiment when she made her debut in Streets of Forgotten Men, however, she would soon become one of Hollywood's brightest stars. The city girl was about to move West.


Marion Davies:

Marion Douras too came to the Follies in her youth, but she may have had a little help securing a spot in the chorus. She was already working as a chorus girl in various shows, along with her sisters, by the time she met William Randolph Hearst in 1915. She was appearing in the Irving Berlin musical Stop! Look! Listen! at the time, in which she appeared in the number "The Girl on the Magazine Cover." Hearst definitely noticed her, despite the fact that she was an awkward beauty with a stammer. Her light personality and large eyes won him over, and he started flattering her with flowers and gifts. She wasn't the only lovely he was courting, indeed he had a reputation with show girls (he had even married one, Millicent Wilson), but soon Marion would become the only real woman of interest in his life. He arranged to have some special photos done of Marion at Campbell's Studio to test her star power and promote her. Marion was fairly clueless as to what was going on, and was uncomfortable when she spotted Hearst sitting by the camera watching her. Noticing her discomfort, he in turn got embarrassed and left. He would begin courting her in earnest and started heavily publicizing her career in his many papers, which eventually helped to land her a spot in the Follies in 1916. Marion, who had by now changed her name to Davies, didn't shy away from the attention; it was a way to support herself and her family. She later admitted that she had started out a gold-digger only to surprisingly find herself in love. She didn't tarry long in the Follies, for Hearst was determined to make her a star in the movies. As was Marion's character, she just kinda went with it, and it paid off in full.

 

Many other girls paid their way to fame in the Follies, including Joan Blondell, Mae Murray, Josephine Baker, Gyspy Rose Lee, Dolores Costello, Eve Arden, Irene Dunne, Mary Nolan, and Billie Dove (left). However, there too were a few who were turned down as being "not pretty enough," including Norma Shearer and Alice Faye-- of course, those ladies certainly proved their worth when the world fell in love with them on the silver screen. While the Follies shows at first appear to be nothing more than early strip-joints-- and perhaps when it all comes down to it, that's what they were-- somehow they remain something better. Before the great depression, they were an example of the grandeur, the wealth, and the glory of the almighty American dollar. Florenz Ziegfeld spared no expense when it came to his sexual extravaganzas, a flaw that would later send him into bankruptcy, but his big dreams echoed those of his thriving country. As America continued to play with the very thin line between artistry and deviance, between innocent sexuality and flat-out sin, the Follies reflected the most we could get away with. While some of the participating women may be mocked or criticized for their bartering of flesh for cash, the times they lived in did not promote the same sense of "wrongness" that today's feminists cringe at in retrospect. The female had not yet escaped her place in life as an object/wife/mother. The Follies were thus surprisingly a step in the right direction; a step toward female independence. For the first time, and on a grand scale on that large, vibrant stage, women were finally able to feel powerful. With men wrapped around their fingers and drooling at their feet, the Follies stage must have been one of the only places on earth that these ladies felt completely safe, completely in control, completely in command... even while scantily clad. After all, they couldn't very well have sold seats to a crude show if there weren't people willing to buy tickets.

An example of the mixture of sex and sophistication that

Ziegfeld brought to his shows.

HISTORY LESSON: Follies Girls to Leading Ladies

Cast Aways: Part VIII

Fred and Ginger reunite for their second cinematic collaboration, 

The Gay Divorcee.

The visual splendor of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire in motion continues to fascinate and hypnotize even the most novice of film fans. The synchronicity of their partnership and the unexpected chemistry of their personae makes them inseparable in the history of cinema. What they had was magical. This is evidenced in the fact that Fred first danced on film with Joan Crawford in Dancing Lady for MGM, and that partnership did not lead to future pairings. Perhaps more than any other onscreen couple, Astaire and Rogers portrayed true movie romance head to toe. This makes one wonder what the world of filmdom would have been without them. Not only could a glitch in their seemingly divine partnership have negatively affected the rest of their careers, preventing them from building the reputations that achieved them other, separate acting opportunities (his Easter Parade, her Kitty Foyle par exemple), but there too would have been a gaping hole in cinema where its heart should be. Had fate not intervened, history could have danced along at a clumsier pace. Originally, Dorothy Jordan (right) was slated to dance the infamous "Carioca" with Fred in his first RKO film, Flying Down to Rio. Fortunately for Ginger, Dorothy had opted to marry producer Merian C. Cooper instead. In turn, studio head Merian, who luckily had seen a screen test of Ginger, saw enough potential in her to give her the small role in the musical-- a genre for which the action man had little interest. The rest is history. While one can't argue the talents of Dorothy, it also can't be argued that America's embrace of the art of dance would have been greatly affected had she gone toe to toe, or rather forehead to forehead, with Freddy instead of Ginger that first fateful dance.

Though Ginger (left) was lucky in landing what turned out to be a ten picture gig with Fred, there were a few acting opportunities that she passed up. It was Barbara Stanwyck who would later joke that she was always given the roles Ginger vetoed, but it was more obviously Olivia de Havilland who seemed to have the luck of the draw with Ginger's discards. It turns out that Ginger, one of the top female stars of her day, was offered both To Each His Own and The Snake Pit before Olivia snatched them up. One wonders why Ginger would pass on two such meaty roles-- one, the tale of a woman forced to give up her child and watch him be raised by another family, and the other the raw and shocking study of one woman's life in a mental institution. Perhaps Ginger was a little more worried about protecting her glamorous image than Olivia, who had no qualms about hurling herself into any role, no matter the subject matter. Well, almost anyway. Olivia allegedly turned down Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire because she found the character too... unladylike. While Olivia may have flinched at playing a lady of the night, she did not balk at portraying emotionally and mentally conflicted women from other varied walks of life. After O de H won the Oscar for To Each His Own and snagged another nomination for The Snake Pit, Ginger admittedly kicked herself with her taps. But, all is fair in film and war, and in the end, Ginger knew which roles she was best suited for. Besides, she already had her own Oscar to keep her company.

Olivia De Havilland combats a nervous breakdown and a strait jacket

 in The Snake Pit.

 

Before Alfred Hitchcock invented Grace Kelly, Cecil B. DeMille had done the same for Gloria Swanson. Gloria had gone from one of the many Sennett "bathing beauties" to one of the most famous and envied women in the world due to her work with Cecil, who had helped to mold her erotic and powerful image in films like Male and Female and Why Change Your Wife?. But Gloria eventually made her exit from Paramount Pictures to go rogue, leaving behind her maker and an unfulfilled career together. Cecil didn't pine, (as Hitch would later do for Ingrid Bergman when she abdicated her throne as his muse to marry Roberto Rosselini), but he still missed working with his little fella and often tried to elicit her freelancing services. He even offered her the "role of a lifetime" as Mary Magdalene in his epic The King of Kings. Initially, Gloria turned the chance down, having just suffered through a nervous breakdown coming on the heels of her disastrous divorce from the blackmailing Herbert K. Somborn and subsequent marriage to the royal Henri de la Falaise. Exhausted, Gloria needed time off... Or so she thought. She grew tired of being tired, and later inquired about the role, raising Cecil's hopes-- only to turn it down a second time to play a very different prostitute in Sadie Thompson. As a result, Cecil cast Jacqueline Logan (right) in the role of the scandalous and saved MM. It is the role for which she is most often remembered.

Gloria Swanson slips into another prostitute role in Sadie Thompson

 and cozies up to Lionel Barrymore.

Ava Gardner, an actress of the old school Hollywood style (see left), was intrigued about working with edgy new star Paul Newman when news of the Tennessee Williams adaptation Sweet Bird of Youth came to her attention. Ava always had little respect for her own acting gifts, so to work with someone who was being lauded as a great talent both flattered and intimidated her. Of course, as a sensual woman, she no doubt was equally attracted to the idea of working with Paul, whose pale blue eyes certainly must have reminded her of ex-hubby Frank Sinatra's steely and intense gaze. However, the pairing was not to be. Ava found the role of Alexandra Del Lago-- an aging, drunken actress-- a bit too close to home. The superb Geraldine Page swooped in instead and flew away with the movie. Nonetheless, Paul and Ava were teamed up in a later picture, The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean, directed by Ava's old pal John Huston. Unfortunately, the off screen chemistry was not as hot as Ava had hoped, although this had much to do with Paul's marriage to soul mate Joanne Woodward. Because Ava's reception from Paul was so chilly, the woman who could have any man she wanted was a bit miffed. She would refer to Paul as one of her most "unfavorite actors." Yet, her brief three-days of work on the film, playing "the world's most beautiful woman," of course, was still enjoyable, and while she may not have warmed to her co-star, she as always enjoyed joking and laughing with the rest of the film crew-- Huston included.

 

Geraldine Page reaps the benefits of Ava's uncertainty with Paul Newman

 in Sweet Bird of Youth.

When Paul was coming up in Hollywood, one of his greatest competitors for roles was James Dean. Both young, good-looking men proved that they had more going on than their pretty faces, but because James burst onto the scene to acclaim before Paul in East of Eden, his popularity allowed him to have first choice of roles. (Ironically, Paul would be up for the role of Aron Trask, brother to Jimmy's Cal, in Eden, but would lose the role to Richard Davalos). However, Dean's sudden death not only left a hole in the hearts of his fans, but it also, in bittersweet fashion, allowed Paul to step in and stake his own claim as a young heartthrob in Hollywood. Originally, the role of Rocky in Somebody Up There Likes Me was to go to James, which would certainly have been super awkward since the film would co-star ex-paramour Pier Angeli (they sit together in better days, right). When Jimmy shockingly died, Paul inherited the role of his former friend and made it his own. His performance would help to further establish his stellar reputation as a promising and gifted newcomer, and his continued devotion to his work and craft would earn him a place in Hollywood lore as one of our most diversified, defiant, and damn-goodlooking stars.

Paul takes his place in the (acting) ring in Somebody Up

 There Likes Me.

Cast Aways: Part VIII

MENTAL MONTAGE: What a diff'rence a bouquet makes...

Olivia De Havilland, looking lovely in

a floral garland.

When comparing notes about different celebrities, I can't help but notice a common trend of the floral variety. Flowers between friends isn't an uncommon theme, and for birthdays, Valentine's Day, or (sadly) funerals, they always do the trick to indicate sentiment and appreciation. In any case, here are a few tales of gardenia lore I have encountered, which I thought you too would enjoy. As they say, one should always take time to stop and smell the roses.

Our starlet of the month, Veronica Lake, (left) had quite a history when it came to flowers. When she initially arrived in Hollywood, she found herself a bit left out in the cold, despite the fact that MGM had summoned her to California in the first place. Told that her screen test was being placed indefinitely on the back burner, she kept herself busy attending the Bliss Hayden School of Acting, thereafter obtaining extra roles and bit parts in feature films. While the public was still ignorant of her existence, some people were taking notice, particularly men. Walking around the back lot, the petite but sensual young woman was a tasty bit of eye candy. Even among the throngs of gushing ingenues and "5 o'clock girls," Ronni had a way of standing out, perhaps because she didn't bat her eyes or coo at the men in charge. Her aloof impenetrability made her all the more desirable.

However, Ronni always remained ignorant of her beauty or her charms, so when she started receiving anonymous bouquets of flowers, she was bewildered. Who could they be from??? They started arriving every day for a month. Unable to piece the mystery together, Ronni was relieved when she finally got a phone call from her nameless suitor. John Detlie, an art director at MGM, had been one of the many men whose heart (and loins) had churned at the sight of Ronni. He became intrigued, and instead of being one of the abrupt oafs who simply accosted her and asked her out, he decided to woo her in the style of an old-fashioned Don Juan. Since Ronni thought most men were full of sh*t, she liked John and his approach. Enjoying the attention he lavished on her, she accepted an invitation to lunch at The Brown Derby, which her mother, Constance, attended as well. (By inviting her mother along, John had also endeared himself to the senior party).

Soon, Ronni and John were in love. Throughout their marriage, which began when they eloped during Ronni's first big hit, I Wanted Wings, John would always surprise her with flowers or stuffed pandas, her favorite animal. She had quite a collection filling her house, and even her engagement ring, which Detlie had designed, followed suit: it was a panda with a diamond. Sadly, their marriage didn't last-- after jealousy over Ronni's career interfered-- but during these early romantic days, flowers won John's way into her heart.

Ronni also had a notable encounter with a floral arrangement when she was working with Milton Berle (right) on his television show in the early '50s. After Ronni's film career faltered, as a result of a disastrous second marriage to Andre DeToth, an increasing addiction to alcohol, and a losing battle with schizophrenia, she had to return to her more resourceful ways to provide for herself and her three children: Elaine, Michael, and Diana. Though unnerved by the idea of performing live on television, it seemed to be one of the only viable options for an actress who was on the outs with Hollywood. Milton Berle did her a favor by asking her to participate, due to the fact that she had garnered a notorious reputation as a temperamental and difficult actress. However, during the show, Milton found Ronni to be anything but her alleged diva persona: she was professional, friendly, and most importantly funny. During her skit, Ronni was supposed to seductively walk onstage with her fur wrap, and instead she wrapped it around her head like a babushka. Milton almost lost it in tears of laughter. The next day, Ronni would find a bouquet of flowers at her front door from him. During a difficult time in her life, it was just the thing to pep up her spirits.

When not using flowers to woo, one often sends them just to say "Thank you." Such was the case for William Holden. When picked up to star in his first major role in Golden Boy, the cocky charmer found himself-- for perhaps the first time-- a nervous wreck. Given the lead role in a major motion picture opposite such acclaimed and studied thespians as Lee J. Cobb and Barbara Stanwyck seemed like a dream come true, but once on the set, he lost a little of his swagger. Stiff and awkward, even Bill's handsome looks couldn't save him from the atrocious work the studio was seeing in the rushes every day. His worst fear was being whispered-- he was going to be replaced! And he would have been, had it not been for Barbara Stanwyck (pictured with Bill, left). Beneath Bill's jitters, Babs saw an incredible amount of potential, if only he could learn to harness it. So, she took him under her wing and studied his lines and his character with him each night. Their friendly rehearsals bolstered Bill's confidence and turned his performance around. When the film premiered, it was a huge success, and Bill became an overnight sensation. He never forgot Barbara's generosity, and for the rest of his life, he would send her flowers on the anniversary of the film's first production day. Babs was equally fond of Bill, and when she won her Honorary Oscar for Lifetime Achievement, she paid homage to her by then deceased friend: "Tonight, my golden boy, you got your wish."

Three handsome, drunken rogues... During

From Here to Eternity: Monty, Burt, and Frank.

Frank Sinatra was a crooner who was notorious for his unique and powerful vocals, as well as his reputation with the ladies. In his day, he knocked boots with some of the greatest beauties of the silver screen: from Ava Gardner, to Angie Dickinson, to Mia Farrow. Needless to say, he knew how to show a girl a good time and shower her with gifts, however it was a man who was on the receiving end of Frank's floral generosity. During the shooting of From Here to Eternity, the boys club of Frank, Montgomery Clift, Ernest Borgnine, et al hung out, drank, swore, and rose hell. Strangers became fast friends and lifelong buddies. Burt Lancaster too got in on the action, and as a powerhouse actor and dominating personality, it was no wonder that the rest of the crew looked up to him. He became a sort of leader in the group, engaging in all night benders yet brushing off the effects like he had been sipping tea. Indeed, he could roll out of bed and head to set with ease, but he had to put a little elbow grease into sobering the rest of the fellows up. Because he was well-liked and even maternal in his treatment of Frank and the others, they started calling him "Mom." The joke didn't end when the shoot did, for Frank always used to send Burt a bundle of flowers on Mother's Day.

William Powell and Myrna Loy established one of the most memorable screen duos in cinema. Witty and romantic lovers onscreen, offscreen they were simply pals. Their natural chemistry translated well into the world of Nick and Nora Charles in The Thin Man series (right), where they volleyed off each other like squabbling siblings one minute and then kissed like sweethearts the next. Making fourteen movies together, they became staunch allies and the greatest pair of lovers who were never in love. It certainly helped that they enjoyed each other's senses of humor, which kept them laughing between takes as well. When Myrna Loy was voted the #1 actress in 1938, making her and Clark Gable the "King and Queen of Hollywood," William was proud of her, even though he had only ranked #4 in the same poll. To express his happiness for her, but also maintain their dueling humors, William decided to send Myrna a little congratulations. He had a bouquet of dead, atrocious twigs, leaves, and sour grapes sent to her in a huge box with the greeting, "With Love, from William the Fourth." Myrna had a good chuckle.

William continued his relationship with flowers with Jean Harlow, albeit on a more somber note. Jean was madly in love with William (together, left) and desperate to get married, but he had his reservations. He had already been wed twice: first to Eileen Wilson and then to Carole Lombard. Though the second union had ended in a still strong friendship, he wasn't quite certain that another trip down the aisle was in the cards. That didn't stop him from loving Jean, nor from buying her a nearly golfball-sized sapphire ring, which she wore during the production of Personal Property. When Jean suddenly and tragically died of uremic poisoning at the age of 26, William was devastated. He regretted not being there for her more, nor doing the one service for her she had truly wanted: to make her his wife. In her memory, he had fresh flowers placed on her grave at Glendale Forest Lawn for several years, so that "Our Baby" would know that she was still remembered and loved.

Jean: the "Baby" and a bouquet.

Marilyn Monroe had a great love of flowers. Her favorite photo-- taken by Cecil Beaton at the Ambassador Hotel in 1956 (right)-- is the vulnerable and sexy shot of her lying in bed, pressing a carnation to her chest. She frequented her favorite florist, Parisian Florist, at 7528 West Sunset Blvd, ordering beautiful bouquets to dress up her home or to send to her beloved friends. Sometimes, Joe DiMaggio, her ex-husband, would accompany her to the shop, where he autographed a baseball for the owners. (The flower shop still stands, usually displaying a picture of their favorite customer. If you ask, they will too show you the infamous baseball). Joe and Marilyn's union was an emotional and devoted one. Unable to live together due to Marilyn's fragile yet independent nature and Joe's old-fashioned and jealous tendencies, they still cared deeply for each after the collapse of their marriage. Marilyn remained on good terms with stepson Joe Jr, and whenever she needed someone she could trust, she called on Joe Sr. for help. Indeed, he was there to get her out of the Payne Whitney psyche ward of NY Hospital in 1961 when she was wrongly confined-- she had merely checked in for bedrest.

Joe and Marilyn in happier times.

When Marilyn died, Joe was destroyed. All the wrongs he had done her wore on his heart like a weight. If only he had done this, if only he had done that... But it was too late. One of the women he had loved most in the world, perhaps most of all, was gone and there was nothing he could do this time to save her. But he, like William Powell, would honor her memory, sending flowers to her grave at Westwood Memorial for the next twenty years-- always bright, red roses. He ordered them from Parisian. The cold, marble wall where she was interred seemed far too stale. But with fresh flowers, the delicacy and beauty that Marilyn represented to the world was more accurately communicated, even in her death. To this day, fans still bring her flowers and cover her grave with a garden of lipstick kisses.

Gone, but not forgotten...

MENTAL MONTAGE: What a diff'rence a bouquet makes...