PERSONAL NOTE: Who can ya' trust?

Walk of Fame or Walk of Shame?

Navigating through various source materials to get to the "truth" of my monthly stars is always an ordeal. One biographer says one thing only to be opposed by another writer; one source tells a story, while another witness remembers things differently. So, whom do I believe? The short answer is: every one and no one. The only thing I can rely on for certain are facts: dates, recorded history, the words from the subject's own mouth-- and sometimes not even that-- and then, I allow the various other accounts, rumors, hearsay's, to pepper the facts with a story. Afterward, I can only hope that my logic and good sense will guide me down the most honest and accurate path. I consider myself an open-minded person, and while I am occasionally disappointed with a negative portrait of a personal hero, I don't allow whatever reaction I feel to end in a place of judgement. I don't blame people for falling below my own expectations, because I constantly fall beneath my own. We're only human, after all. Neither do I ignore more salacious or slanderous materials, and I assure you this is not just because they feed a certain greedy part of my morbid curiosity-- if we have a "funny bone" we too have a "sickly bent"-- but because I want to be open to all possibilites in rounding out the personalities of cinema. I am not deluded about Hollywood, or human nature for that matter, or its questionable underbelly. For Pete's sake, there was a bordello that supplied customers with Movie-Star-Look-Alikes. I don't think anyone is in denial of La La Land's dual nature at this point.


But when it comes to whom to trust, I am always going to choose the guy who backs his conclusions up with solid research and not the guy who relies on mysterious, unnamed sources who are good for one or two stories. Out of respect for the subject, I too am going to listen to what his family and close friends have to say more than the guy "who met him that one time at coat check" or the girl who "saw him at parties once and awhile." As to the authors themselves, a reader can tell the difference between a thoroughly investigated text and one that is feeding the author's own fancies. I didn't come to Hollywood until 2005, so everything prior to that year remains a complete mystery, but I too can't help but indulge my bull-shit detector when I come across a script that is clearly taking a little too much pleasure in nullifying or completely erasing the brighter sides of Hollywood. The writings of Darwin Porter, David Bret, and even Charles Higham-- who has been publicly lambasted for his (unprofessional) tendencies to edit source material for his own intentions, aka the Errol Flynn "Nazi" claims-- are constantly called into question, debunked, and cast aside as entertaining, lewd mirages written to sell books and not to be believed. I don't know these men. For all I know, they are telling the complete truth or at least think that they are. But when studying various examples of their work and comparing them with what I have learned through my own personal research, I don't rely on them for accuracy. I keep their "theories" in the back of my mind and move on to more reliable authors.

The reason I introduce this discussion is because much ballyhoo has been made of the recent memoir of Scotty Bowers, an alleged Hollywood pimp, prostitute, what-have-you to the stars. I've had several people bring his recent book, Full Service: My Adventures in Hollywood and the Secret Sex Lives of the Stars, (left) to my attention and ask me about it, and since one of the subjects he discusses amidst his numerous sexual rendezvous is this month's star, Spencer Tracy, I thought it appropriate to at least address the text on that count. Now to begin with, I urge anyone approaching "biographical" material to do so with a certain amount of skepticism; to be certain that the author is approaching the material objectively, and that his "sources" are in fact sources. Too, do not rest on one perspective for the whole story, but compare and contrast with what other researchers and writers have discovered, as well as the recorded statements and memories of those who actually knew the subject. You have to be able to balance the materials and compare the facts with falsehoods. In other words, don't accept one version of history without doing some serious, critical thinking first. Mr. Bowers certainly seems to have people fighting in his corner, such as Gore Vidal, who vouches for him, so this makes it difficult to completely discount his stories. Yet, the way in which he narrates calls his reliability into question. The book reads like a badly written smut novel with the obvious intent to profit off sensationalism. For all of his intimate sexual relationships with the stars, you sense no intimacy, just the thunderous sound of his own back-patting-- he essentially describes himself as master-puppeteer of a population of sexual monsters. He assumes the tone of "free love" and acceptance, of course, to dilute this narcissism, but it is pretty clear that he didn't write this book to shed light on some long-hidden truths but rather to illuminate his own magnificence.


In addition, the book is very poorly written. I really couldn't take any of it seriously. For him to claim that he knew so many stars so well, and then fail to accurately capture their voices and personalities, is something to note. For example, he describes a scene between himself, George Cukor, and his "good friend" Katharine Hepburn, in which she sulks under George's beratings and then pouts, "You know I don't have any friends..." Ha. Hahaha. Interesting, since every other account of Kate paints her as a resilient and somewhat haughty woman not prone to be howled at by anyone. She hardly seems the type to mourn her loneliness, and if she were to show such a vulnerable side, it makes one wonder why she would do so in the presence of a complete stranger-- close friends often claimed they didn't know what she was thinking because of her fierce, emotional guard. Again, Bowers reveals himself as someone just that special-- like moths to a flame. I'm sorry... I'm still laughing as I write this... I'm imagining Kate kicking Bowers in the nuts and saying, "Who they Hell do you think you are?!" That scene is much more believable, I think.

Is it not somewhat absurd that in 2012, we are still led to believe that femininity and lesbianism

 (and equally masculinity and male homosexuality) are mutually exclusive concepts? If Kate

 preferred to "wear the pants," does this necessarily infer same-sex orientation?

Bowers may have run in the same circles as the stars. He describes his ascent from a gas pump attendant to a bartender, who consequently winds up pimping for his straight and gay friends and prostituting himself when requested-- though, of course, he never accepted money for his services. It was all about love, man. Now, clearly human sexuality is a much more malleable thing than we allow ourselves to admit, and it is possible that Hollywood during the studio era was something like a precursor to the "free love" '60s, but if Bowers wants us to buy this product, then he has made a fatal error. I get excited when supposedly revelatory books like this hit the market, thinking that I will learn something knew and hopefully true about a part of our history. Sadly, I am too often left disappointed by the sensationalized, graphic nature of the script, such as in this case. Are you trying to tell me a story or turn me on? Because you're doing neither. Bowers does not take the position of: Well, I was around these people, this is what I saw, this is what I know. He instead goes into lewd detail of his sexual shenanigans and prowess, luxuriating in his position as Mr. Congeniality. It's like listening to a grade schooler brag about himself. I'm going to get sick of listening to you after 3 minutes, and I am not going to believe anything you say: "Oh, you can bench press 3000 pounds? Sure, ya' can. Sure."

For example, the rumor of Cary Grant and Randolph Scott's (right) romantic relationship is one that is more popularly accepted, though it is still contested by various remaining family and friends, including ex-wives and his daughter. I would be willing to accept this scenario as a possibility, however. A hidden identity would explain a great deal about Cary's personal sadness, and other different accounts hint at its plausibility. I have never one-hundred percent accepted it, just because it hasn't been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt in anything I've encountered, and out of respect to his remaining kin, I don't want to publicize something that could be a falsehood. But if Bowers hoped to convince me, he did not go about it the right way. Talking about how suave Cary was (which everyone knows) and how charming Randolph was (which everyone knows) doesn't display any particular knowledge, nor does talking about how "hot" it was when the three of them gave each other fellatio bolster the story. Thus, the disappointment: I open a book intending to discover a fact, only to witness a man indulging in fantasy. Which, again, if it is true, I cannot believe, because there is nothing to back it up. There is nothing to endear me to the author and make me trust him. There is no integrity in the script, nor any sense of dignity leading me to believe that he truly cared about these various people. It's merely an emotionless account of him screwing his way through Los Angeles. After every "romantic episode" I was left... well... laughing, and then asking, "Yeah, and?"


Bowers has come under fire as well for his lack of proof. We are all left to "take his word for it." Now, as a human being, he has as much right to be heard as anyone else. But, whereas other biographies, books, or articles use more than one source to tell their subjects' tales, there is no voice here to back Bowers up. There too is no mention by him of anyone else (living) who can say, "Yes, I was there. I know this happened." Suspiciously, Bowers is the sole man in Hollywood who witnessed any of this. He must have been really special to have been invited into this secret, secluded world. There too, since this book was released, have been many dissenting voices crying out against him and accusing him of fabrication. Now, these could be either disappointed voices who do not want the stars they've imagined polluted or family members that don't want to admit such perversities were present in their dearly departed. But, noted and acclaimed biographers and researchers have also violently debated the book's veracity, and it is interesting that in all of their research, they have come across no evidence to support Bowers's claims. It appears more that Bowers latched onto various rumors at the time, attached them to some of his own experiences, and exaggerated for dramatic effect. What is also noteworthy is that, while many are contradicting his stories, no one is validating them. Even Gore Vidal cannot lend him real support, for he states, "I have never caught him in a lie," but he cannot say, "I know he is telling the truth." Other writers who support him too are more enchanted by his tales than certain of their veracity, which, if he is telling the truth, is very unfortunate for him.


But, despite all of the He Said/She Said, there are definite examples of perjury to prove him wrong. Vidal may not have caught him in a lie, but others have. There has been a lot of controversy surrounding his trysts with the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, Edward VIII and Wallis Simpson, whom he claims were both homosexuals. Very possibly true, but he errs when he claims that Edward preferred for him to call him "Eddy." A minor thing, but many researchers have made much of it. Those who have done their homework claim that Edward would never have surrendered his royal title. Now, even this could be argued. Who knows what this guy was like in the bedroom? But the fact that he told Bowers to call him "Eddy" and not by his real nickname, "David," is more than a bit suspicious.

But to come more to the point, James Curtis, author of Spencer Tracy, pointed out several examples as to why Bowers's portrait of Spence (left) was total invention. Bowers asserts that he and Spence, whom he claims was bisexual, had a fling around the time Spence was filming Pat and Mike, which was released in 1952. He describes the "seduction" thusly: Spence would get sloppy drunk, behave like a mad ogre, then engage in sexual relations with the stunned Bowers, who had no idea of Spence's inclinations but was happy to oblige. The only trouble with this tale is that it has been well documented that Spence remained completely sober from his 1945 release from the Doctors Hospital, which he entered essentially for detox, to 1955 when he slipped up on the set of The Mountain and had a drink. The entry in his calendar for that day reads, "Gin." Spencer always recorded his alcoholic slip-ups. As a devoted Catholic, it was, in a way, a form of flagellation for him to note when he had essentially failed as a human being. Just as he would celebrate "3 months sober!" so too would he record "loaded" when he fell off the wagon. There is no note in his calendar during the Pat and Mike period to indicate that he got trashed and consequently had sex with a man. Now, the sex he may have purposely not mentioned, but the drinking... always. Spence was serious about handling his alcoholism, and he would go for incredibly long spells without drinking, even resisting the temptations of imbibing friends like Clark Gable or Laurence Olivier when they drank around him. If he had taken a drink during this period, had he atypically not noted it himself, the studio would have, the press would have, friends would have. Everyone knew when Spence fell off the wagon, because he followed the same routine: drank for days, disappeared, holed up somewhere, got sober, and re-entered society. No such situation is recorded by anyone during this breadth of time. Which means, Bowers-- as an aware human being-- knew that Spence battled alcoholism and tried to use this detail to bolster his story. Too bad that little added detail of Pat and Mike perjured him. The timing doesn't add up.

He too asserts that Katharine Hepburn was a lesbian and that the relationship that she and Spence shared was a studio mandated publicity ploy to cover up both of their sexual preferences. Interesting. Now, why would MGM choose a married man as Kate's beard? Why stop one scandal by starting another? You don't put out a fire with fire. In truth, the studio did all it could to stifle Spence's philandering and his relationship with Hepburn in the press for fear of smearing his reputation as a married man (to wife Louise), so explain the thinking that would put him and Kate together to save the latter's face? Why not choose a nice, single beard for her? It makes no sense. Particularly since, as their extra-marital affair was well protected by the studio, the general public knew nothing about it until very late in their careers, after the great passion that brought them together had simmered into their latter day affection and companionship. So, if news of their "fake" relationship was meant to protect their bi/homosexuality, the studio sure got a late start on the cover-up. But this is nothing compared to the first-hand witnesses of colleagues and friends, like Garson Kanin, Ruth Gordon, and Kate's niece Katharine Houghton who saw their love affair and described the relationship's ups and downs, their devotion to each other, and their deep and abiding love. Bowers is asking us to believe that Kate and Spence not only fooled the press, but fooled everyone they came into contact with as well. There would be no reason for them to carry the charade that far, particularly if the inner-circle Hollywood Bowers describes was as open and unashamed as he claims it was. If Kate was a lesbian with no romantic feeling for Spence, why was she so fiercely protective of Spence? Why go to such lengths to keep him sober, why follow him around like a little girl in love, if she did not adore him? Why would he look at her with warmth when he thought no one was watching him, if he too did not love her? I'm sorry... I'm witnessing Kate kicking Bowers in the nuts again... Hahaha... (Kate and Spence relax while filming Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, right).


Bowers too claims that the studio invented Spence's Catholicism to explain his failure to obtain a divorce and marry Kate-- again, allegedly to protect the real reason for the deferral: their sexualities. First of all, by the time this would even have been an issue to publicly discuss, Spence would have been dead and needless of studio protection. Secondly, anyone who knew Spence would validate his religious inclinations. Spence was a deeply conflicted individual concerning his religion. He was not proud of his behavior as a man, and at the core of his unhappiness was his belief that he had failed as human being because of his drinking and because of his infidelity. He was like a little boy who couldn't help himself and would then punish himself for his sins. Attending church was a special thing he shared with his father as a boy, and he continued to attend mass regularly as an adult, as many witnesses could affirm. He too admitted on several occasions, including to longtime friend Pat O'Brien, that he had wanted to be a priest as a boy and regretted his decision in taking, what he considered to be, a lesser profession. Spence's Catholicism was not an invention. It was a cross he bore his whole life. Which begs the questions, what the Hell is Scotty Bowers talking about? And if he is lying about this, then what else is he lying about?

Bowers had some pretty shocking things to say about Tyrone Power. I won't give it away, but

 it rhymes with "Olden Tower." ("Bowers," coincidentally, does not rhyme with "taste").

In the end, I don't know. I don't know if Bowers is telling the truth, or thinks he is, or is some crazy old fart who has become lost in his own imagination. Since he describes suffering sexual abuse as a child, it is possible that as a resultantly sexually confused adult, in order to cope with and hide from certain demons lurking in his own soul, he created an erotically charged world of Hollywood, where all of the brightest stars adored him and came to him for sexual satisfaction-- a place where he was in control. Yet, if he is telling the truth, then he simply told his story the wrong way. Reading his book is like watching porn (not that I ever have, mind you): you sit there indulging in the most outrageous of scenarios where absolutely everything is over the top. The interactions are ignorant, inhuman, super-animal, and as a result, internally, you laugh. You know it is all a joke. This isn't how real people sound or act. It is fantasy. It's fun. But in no way, shape, or form do we believe it to be emblematic of the real world. The best I can say of Bowers is that he has a great future as a porn writer.


The trouble with books of this variety, is that they claim to shed light on the truth while really clouding it. While the book isn't solely about homosexual revelations, that is the portion that-- as always-- has caused the most controversy. We know that there were a great number of closeted homosexuals in Hollywood from the silent days onward. We know about William Haines because he was very open about it. We know Marlene Dietrich was bi-sexual, because she too was unabashed. We know of the likes of Ramon Novarro and Rock Hudson, sadly because of the way they died. It only makes sense that there are more hidden stories, and certainly it is a hope that their dignity be restored and thus dignity extended to the gay demographic in having the truth revealed. However, when the gay community is "outted" in this fashion, it actually does them a disservice. Instead of depicting them like everyone else-- movie stars forced to keep up a facade, including in this case their sexual preferences-- they are painted as sexual deviants and perverts. They are portrayed as human-adjacent as opposed to just human. What purpose does this serve? But perhaps I am simply offended, because I have a great many homosexual friends and take such things personally. Too, Bowers does the gay population no favors by describing nearly all of Hollywood as gay, as if everyone born with the acting gene too was born with same-sex orientation. Because you can't believe that every person-- minus Humphrey Bogart, I suppose-- living in Hollywood during this era was gay or bi-curious, you have to receive Bowers's perspective as foolish, and thus believe that he's lying about everyone. So, we are back to square one, and those members of the populace who were indeed forced to remain closeted are still left closeted. That... is sad. And in the end, what does it matter? None of my heroes' sexual proclivities are going to change my respect for their talents one iota, so if Bowers simply wanted to stir the pot and shake things up, he too has failed on that count.

Gene Tierney illustrates the point: there are so many faces in Hollywood, 

but which ones are real?

There is much fault that I can find with Bowers's memoirs: depicting Errol Flynn as a pervert who liked little girls, claiming that Walter Pidgeon (?!?!) propositioned him after having known him all of 5 seconds, because he just looks that good pumping gas... I don't seek to protect the stars from the slander of "gayness" nor to uphold a pristine image of Hollywood, because I know more than anyone else that that is the greatest lie of all, but I do have to use my conscience when gauging material.  If I can't trust the author, I can't trust his writing. I don't hold anything against Bowers for his latest offering, and I give him the benefit of the doubt that at least some of it is true, but "in defense of Spence" at least I had to point out some glaring inconsistencies.  After all of the research that I've personally done, I feel that I am fair in weighing what information to believe, what not, and what to consider when building up a subject for myself. I won't deny the possibility of Bowers's stories, but let's just say that he has a long way to go to prove himself, particularly when there are better researched, better written, and more thoroughly supported accounts of the people he claims to know so well. It says something when a stranger like Curtis can use his words to get me so close to a man like Spencer Tracy that I feel like I know him, and a "friend" of the stars like Bowers can tell me some "first-hand experiences" and leave me... well... just laughing. So, to those who asked my opinion, I respond, "Go ahead. Read the book. Enjoy it. Then come back to the land of reality and do the subject matter the dignity of thinking logically." The truth is not as simple a thing as we make it out to be, but nor should we indulge in uncertainties to float our own fancies. People deserve better.

PERSONAL NOTE: Who can ya' trust?

HISTORY LESSON: "The [Songs] That [Almost] Got Away"

Joots prepares to unleash her golden voice.

Judy Garland's singing career is indivisible from her acting career. When one hears the name "Judy Garland," it is likely that one will immediately conjure up images of her in the midst of song. With a powerful voice matched by a powerful personality, it is no wonder that the tunes Judy gave us over the course of her career are still ringing in our ears. Some of the most popular songs in film history, and perhaps of all time, were first christened by Joots. Her sad and endearing rendition of "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" from Meet Me in St. Louis has caused it to become one of the holiday's most beloved melodies, and her duet "How About You?" with pal Mickey Rooney in Babes on Broadway can bring a round of smiles to even the most maudlin of occasions. However, some of Judy's most popular hits almost never came to be. Now that they are a part of our cultural and musical repertoire, history and life in general would seem incomplete without them. Here a three stories about three impromptu tunes.

1) "Over the Rainbow" is unarguably the most memorable moment from 1939's The Wizard of Oz. For generations, this film has maintained its endearing hold on the public via the tune that every human being, whether young or old, can relate to. We all still dream, still hope, and still possess some corner of our hearts where our youthful innocence takes harbor. Song writer Richard Arlen, one of MGM's greatest musical workhorses, had no idea how memorable his song would be when he wrote it. He got the idea when he stopped his car outside Schwab's Pharmacy on Sunset Boulevard and was hypnotized by the brilliant colors of the electric sign. When he teamed up with lyricist E.Y. Harburg, his inspiration took shape in a melody that would transcend time and send little Dorothy Gale (right) all the way to the mystical land of her imaginings: Oz.

But, "Over the Rainbow" almost didn't make the cut! After the initial previews in June of '39, the studio heads at Metro weren't sold on many portions of the film. It had been an arduous one to make, not to mention costly, and after all of the stress, they needed a clean, perfected hit to earn back their investment. First of all, the film was too long. An hour and a half was the acceptable length for a musical comedy or-- as the studio called this piece-- "a musical drama." A few minutes, therefore, had to be shaved. In addition to cutting some of the Wicked Witch's most scintillating and downright evil lines-- which, when screened in London, instigated the rule that no child could attend the horrifying film unattended-- a few odds, ends, corners, and even musical numbers had to be snipped. One Suit suggested that "Over the Rainbow" be cut. After all, it was a melancholy little number that merely delayed Dorothy's voyage to Oz, where all of the real action happened. In addition, having one of the studio's biggest assets singing in a barn surrounded by hay and hogs didn't seem like a keen selling point.

Off to see the Wizard.



When Harburg found out, he was furious! To him and nearly everyone else involved with the picture, Judy's rendering of this song was the most important moment of the fim. Not only did it establish her character, but it prepared the audience for what was to come, acting as a bridge to the unbelievable land where Dorothy would journey. King Vidor, who directed the scene, was called in to wrap up the unfilmed footage when Victor Fleming was called away to pick up Gone with the Wind from the ousted George Cukor. (Ironically, Cukor had been an advisor on Wizard after first director Richard Thorpe was fired and before Fleming was brought in). The last minute switch was kismet. Vidor was an alumni of silent film, and his interpretation of the scene, its poetry, the camera's movement, all lent to the beauty of Judy's longing voice. Out of the black and white of the scene comes the first true color of the film before the tornado ever carries Dorothy to Oz. Surprisingly, it was Louis B. Mayer who stepped up to the plate, convinced that the number had to stay. While he often himself appeared like the Tin Man, the sentimentality and wholesomeness of the song appealed to him. Apparently, he did have a heart. And so, the song stayed, and history was made.

2) "Get Happy" is the singular moment of Summer Stock, and one of the most brilliant moments of Judy's career. When watching the movie today, one often gets bored waiting for this one big scene amidst the drudgery and chaos of the surrounding, back-country plot. In fact, the charming Gene Kelly and the matronly Judy (right) seem like an unlikely fit, which makes their romance very confusing-- a far cry from their more suitable For Me and My Gal days. They perform better apart than together. Gene has his time to shine in his solo dance sequence, but even the incomparable, sexual dancer can't top Judy's pipes. "Get Happy" was the saving grace of the film, and it resulted almost by happenstance.

When Judy began work on the picture, she had picked up a little weight. After obtaining rest and relaxation at the Peter Bent Brigham Hospital, where she had been served three square meals a day, she did not look like the svelte beauty she had been in The Clock or Ziegfeld's Follies. In fact, she looked a great deal older than her 27 years. Being adorned in farm-girl attire only hampered her already less-than-startling appearance. After years of overwork, stress, and drugs, Judy was not in a good place emotionally when she started the film, and was also on the brink of a break with MGM. Going on a crash diet increased her edginess and ill feelings. Insecure, she often called in sick, arrived late, or used any possible delaying tactic to avoid coming to work, for-- as she relayed to musical director Saul Chaplin-- "I'm so ugly and untalented, they're going to find me out!" Director Chuck Walters, a constant collaborator with Judy over the years, was by now used to, if not immune to, her hysterics, and he knew how to work around them. He often distracted Judy with other business to keep her mind off work, knowing that if he could just get her up and in front of the camera, she would do her thing. His ploy often worked. He would tell Judy, "Oh, you look tired. Why don't you go home. But first, could you run through this song once for tomorrow?" Judy would agree, start to sing, and then "Whip, Boom, Pow!" She became the star everyone knew and loved, and Walters would turn the camera on to capture it.

La-La-Legs!

After the film wrapped, the studio watched the initial cut but felt that there was something missing. The movie needed one more big number-- a la Judy, of course-- to seal the deal with viewers. So, Judy was called back from vacation in Carmel to begrudgingly film one more song. Her one condition was that it be "Get Happy," written again by Arlen with lyrics by Ted Koehler. It was one of her favorites and was an old piece that Arlen had penned back in 1929. When Judy arrived on the set, she looked quite different. Rest in Carmel had served her well! Trim, sexy, and with her swagger back, she looked ready to go! She pre-recorded the vocals for the song with no problem, but she received an attack of the jitters when it came time to call "action." So drugged up that she could barely stand, Walters had to postpone the shoot until the next day, which the inebriated Judy didn't understand. She found the delay unprofessional, not realizing in her mentally unwound state that she was the source. Nonetheless, she arrived the next day sober, on time, and gorgeous. The pro had stepped up her game. Walters, who had been forced to choreograph the sequence himself, put Judy in a black fedora, jacket, and heels, and let her go. Those legs deserve a song of their own! And when Judy tips that hat and saunters down the stage, it becomes the musical moment worth waiting for. Without it, the film wouldn't have remained as famous and beloved as it is today. "Get Happy" would be Judy's last song at MGM as well as one of the pieces played at her funeral.

3) "The Man That Got Away" is yet another Richard Arlen contribution, this time with lyricist Ira Gershwin. Unlike the aforementioned episodes, this song was purposeful from the get go. An important moment in the film A Star is Born, this piece was calculatingly crafted to relate several things: the character Esther Blodgett's talent, which then induces the fascination and passion of Norman Maine (played by James Mason), and a foreshadowing of the doom their relationship is to endure. The movie has many brilliant moments and memorable songs, including the lengthy "I Was Born in a Trunk" sequence, but "Man" is the one that remains synonymous with the picture. In fact, without this song or Judy's pained and intense performance, the film would have crumpled into an obsolete heap next to the original (starring Janet Gaynor and Fredric March in 1937.)

No, the problem wasn't with the song this time... It was with filming it. It seemed that George Cukor, the director most remembered for his sensitive translations of the female heart, couldn't get this one particular moment right. In fact, he had to film it three times over before everyone, including himself, was satisfied. George adored Judy and was floored time and again by her boundless talent. Her character's painful conversation with Charles Bickford about her husband, Norman, and the emotional disease, obsession, and self-loathing that she can neither comprehend nor help, reveals to the audience a profound truth-- she is talking about herself, the real Judy, who is drowning, and unable to save herself. With such a force at his disposal, Cukor was excited to film the "Man" scene, as he was any musical number with Judy. The first attempt was made on October 21, 1953. Seeing the clip now, it is understandable why it was scrapped. Judy is adorned in an unflattering pink shirt against a pink wall, and she is surrounded by blue decor and musicians in blue suits. The color is garish, and Judy blends right in. The musicians often take precedence over her in the scene, her hair is fairly short and worn down, and the song is abrupt. It starts and it ends. Judy fills the moment with emotion, but it still comes off as anti-climactic. After Jack Warner and Judy's latest hubby Sidney Luft saw the dailies, they asked for a reshoot. Try number two, on October 27, was a bit of an improvement. This time, the instrumental introduction lasts longer. It gives Cukor time to cut away to Norman Maine, seen entering The Downbeat Club and witnessing the rag-tag group of performers and his latest fascination, Esther. The decor is dressed down-- the walls are still pink, but the trimmings are brown and dark. Too dark in fact. And when Judy sings in her now brown dress (as seen above), the audience still has trouble finding her. She looks a sight better than before, her hair half up, but she is still drab. 

 We have a winner!

The scene remained as it was until February of 1954. This time, Cukor attacked with a vengeance. The frumpy wardrobe designed by Mary Ann Nyberg was replaced by a respectable, blue Jean Louis suit-- simple, befitting the character, clean, and elegant. Judy's hair was pulled all the way back from her face, making her appear more youthful and pretty, and Cukor changed the camera angle from center stage to a side shot, more focused on Judy and her piano playing partner (Tom Noonan). The piano figures in as a deliberate prop. Judy moves around it, leans on it, and in one great moment grasps it as she tosses her other arm up in the throes of perfect melody. Another item is infused, for Judy's character is given more humility this time. In previous takes, she had always simply wandered about The Downbeat Bar with her friends before unceremoniously starting to sing. This time, Noonan prods her, "Come on... Take it from the top." Judy then peers down at the music, which makes the moment seem less planned and more serendipitous. Thus her natural, unbridled talent comes across with innocence and not with knowing agenda. With the light in place and in focus on her, she is no longer upstaged by the surrounding musicians, and Judy's accidental songbirg finally comes to life. Cukor too uses the camera to more effect, particularly in pulling back in a long shot during a climactic moment. This time, the greatest triumph is in having all eyes on Judy and her powerful delivery of a painful ballad. It was a sequence necessary to the rest of the film, for-- from this moment-- she has the viewer's sympathy and never lets go.

The almost divine intervention in all three of these films resulted in divine movie moments, and thus timeless, divine movies themselves. Certainly, Judy's voice would have enhanced and carried any film she was in, but the perfection of these three scenes made her work classic and eternal as opposed to merely acceptable. These three are also some of the songs she is most known for, so their absence from cinema would have been a severe detriment to, not only the lady herself, but pop culture in general. As it is, we keep the songs with Judy in our hearts. She is our eternal little girl lost, whom we find again and again in our favorite melodies.

HISTORY LESSON: "The [Songs] That [Almost] Got Away"

HISTORY LESSON: Something's Got to Give and It Ain't Cleopatra

During the last gasps of the studio era, there were no bigger stars than Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor. Both talented, beautiful women and indomitable forces, these ladies were greatly valued by the studios for their box-office appeal. Their roller-coaster love lives and love/hate relationships with the tabloids also bound them together in a kind of celebrity sisterhood. Aside from this, two women never had less in common. This would become blatantly obvious during the Twentieth-Century Fox cataclysm of 1962 when the faltering studio's prayers for salvation rested on these two stars and their respective projects. While Liz drained the Nile dry in Egypt (actually Rome), Marilyn's illness infected the lot at home, and Fox could only pray that box-office receipts would recoup their almost unfathomable financial losses when Joseph L. Mankiewicz (director of Cleopatra) and George Cukor (director on Something's Got to Give) finally called "cut." This was not to be. The Fates were against the Goddesses this time, and the Moguls would pay the forfeit. In history, Liz Taylor is remembered in this debacle as the frothy shewolf who ate up Twentieth-Century for breakfast, but at the time is was Marilyn Monroe who was held up as the sacrificial lamb, publicly blamed for the collapse of yet another Hollywood empire. As in most cases, it is always the drama behind the scenes that is most riveting. Today's Movie: The Buck Stops Here. The Stars: Liz Taylor and Marilyn Monroe. Aaaaand, action!!!

Fox needed a hit. A Supreme Court decision had abolished studio-owned theater monopolies in 1948, cutting profits in half. In addition, the phenomenon of television continued to thrive and keep viewers at home. Cinema was hurting. Twentieth even had to sell the land on its backlot to real estate developers to stay afloat: thus, when you're shopping at Century City Mall, you're actually walking on the sacred ground that was once Fox Studios. The idea to re-vamp the all time vamp Theda Bara's Cleopatra (left) was not a new one in 1959. Cecil B. Demille had already done so with the help of Claudette Colbert back in 1934 and George Bernard Shaw's play Caesar and Cleopatra was translated to film with the help of Vivien Leigh and Claude Raines in 1945. When producer Walter Wanger suggested that the time had come for yet another makeover of one of history's most notorious vixens, it seemed like a surefire success. Love, tragedy, war, sex, betrayal: it was a soap on wheels! Originally, the budget was a minimal one, with the studio hoping to produce an attractive, cheaply made B-movie to reel in major profits. Because of this, relatively unknown newcomers were suggested for the lead. Joanne Woodward's name came up, but it appeared that Joan Collins would be crowned as the chosen Egyptian deity. However, Wanger had envisioned a much more elaborate production; an epic no less. He wanted to make the movie to top all movies, one that he proposed could save Twentieth. Using set design artists to woo the money men, elaborate sketches were prepared to lure them into his dream. Surprisingly, President Spyros Skouras signed on. Thus, out of a small idea and a story as old as time itself would grow one of moviedom's greatest monstrosities.

Now that the picture was given the green light, Director Rouben Mamoulian was tasked with giving life to the old Bara film. The script was dated, appearing nearly like parchment itself when unearthed for editing, and it needed hefty revisions. Nunnally Johnson was one of many writers who contributed to sprucing it up. In the lead roles, Peter Finch was cast as Caesar, Stephen Boyd as Antony, and after discussing Audrey Hepburn and Sophia Loren as Cleopatra, Wanger put in his vote for Elizabeth Taylor, recently released from her MGM contract and for the first time working as a free agent. Not everyone was in favor of this idea. Liz (right) was not only a contractual liability, being constantly ill, but she was also going through one of her fan slumps. After the death of her husband, producer Mike Todd, Liz had found comfort in the arms of friend Eddie Fisher, snatching him out from under Debbie Reynolds's unsuspecting nose. She was almost unanimously declared a homewrecker. Still, few women packed the power or punch of Liz in those days, and this alone was enough to suggest that only she,  the diva extraordinaire, could portray a woman who had once been the most powerful female in the world. Liz herself had doubts. For this reason, when 20th called with the offer, Liz told new hubby Eddie to ask for $1,000,000. No one was more surprised than she when she got it. Or was she? A savvy business woman, Liz knew her star power. Uncertain whether or not she really wanted the role, she took a gamble and won big, becoming the first performer to earn a mil' for one role. She would make further stipulations in her contract that offered her additional income: the implementation of her deceased husband's groundbreaking, wide-angle camera, the Todd-AO, for which she too got royalties. Crafty, crafty.

For the time being, this all seemed like chump change. All the money the studio was sure to make off the film would more than make up for these early, lush expenditures. Oh, naive vanity. When cameras started rolling at Pinewood Studios in London (left) in September of 1960, the film was almost immediately doomed. For starters, the weather was horrendous. London was no Egypt. The rainy weather caused the elaborate sets to peel, the transported tropical vegetation had to be replenished almost daily as it died, and the weather too was wreaking havoc on Liz's frail health. She was able to appear in some wardrobe tests but overall was absent from the entire shoot. Mamoulian was forced to shoot around her, focusing on Finch and Boyd, but there was little to be done without the central character. When Liz's illness lapsed into pneumonia and induced a coma, she lay at the brink of death at her hotel. Luckily, a doctor was attending a party in another guest's room and was found, brought to her bedside, and able to stabilize her until an ambulance was summoned. An emergency tracheotomy was performed, the scar from which can be seen in the subsequent film. It was just disaster upon disaster. Mamoulian eventually walked when Finch and Liz continued to complain about the poor nature of the almost juvenile script, leaving the film with no director. As per Liz's contract, she would approve but two replacements: George Stevens or Joseph L. Mankiewicz,  the latter of whom she had just worked on Suddenly Last Summer. It was Joe who got the job. This big coup in addition to Liz's survival after her brush with death, which brought back a wave of fan sympathy, made it seem like Cleopatra still had a shot at being a success. Joe moved the set to Rome and began re-writing the script himself. Act Two was about to begin.

More drama followed as the film was pushed into production. Hard-working pro Mankiewicz, a wizard both with the camera and with words, wasn't even halfway finished with the script when he was forced to start filming. He was therefore stuck shooting all day and writing all night, kept awake with a series of drugs that left him an overworked zombie. Forced to shoot in sequence as a result, certain actors sat around while being paid with nothing to do, and already built sets were left vacant and un-utilized. Fox was bleeding money. The cast had also changed, as the months that had lapsed between the initial call to action and the current production had taken Finch and Boyd out of the running. Joe happily called upon friend Rex Harrison to take on the role of Caesar, and Fox bought out Richard Burton's stage contract on "Camelot" to win him over as Antony. It was a steal, or so they thought. The soon shocking love affair of Liz and Dick (right) caused enough of a scandal to earn even the Pope's wrath. Liz too was enjoying the luxuries of her own house-sized dressing room, gallons of champagne, and her favorite chili delivered all the way from Chasen's in West Hollywood, all at Fox's expense. This, in addition to the exotic costuming of 1000s of extras and the intricately designed and detailed sets, led to Cleopatra costing $70,000 a day alone to produce. Spyros Skouras was sweating bulletts, Liz and Dick were drawing tabloid ire, and Mankiewicz was left nearly crippled when one of his daily injections hit a sciatic nerve. However, the film had become too expensive to just drop. Fox needed another savior. Their only other bankable star was called upon to save them with a quick, fun romantic comedy. Act Three-- Iris in, Enter: Marilyn Monroe.

Fox again went digging for a script in their vault that could quickly and efficiently be produced and rushed into theaters. The success of My Favorite Wife in 1940 suggested that a slightly modernized re-write with Marilyn Monroe, Dean Martin, and Cyd Charisse would fare equally well, if not better, at the box-office. However, there were the same hesitations: Marilyn was notorious for holding up productions with her lateness, which resulted from her insomnia, which resulted from her nerves, stresses, and performance jitters. Still, the studio was forced to hedge its bets, and they decided to roll the dice once more with their most famous star. They were right to worry, for almost from the beginning, things went sour. A power struggle was constantly ensuing between director and star. Initially, Nunnally Johnson was called in (yet again) to help with rewrites of the script. Marilyn approved of this, as she had enjoyed working with Nunnally on How to Marry a Millionaire. Nunnally was attentive to Marilyn's own ideas and was ably trying to tailor her character specifically for her. Cukor, however, was not happy. He wanted to maintain the charm of the original 1940 film, and effectively had Nunnally replaced by his own choice, Walter Bernstein. Marilyn took the snub admirably, but was to suffer another one. At a phenomenal wardrobe test in April (left), in which Marilyn looked fresh, beautiful, and softer than ever before, Cukor was noticeably absent. Not much later, producer Henry Weinstein, who had replaced Cukor's friend David Brown, had to suffer the shock of finding Marilyn in the throes of an accidental overdose, from which she quickly bounced back. In fact, many marveled at the seemingly unfazed way her doctors reacted to what must have been a regular occurrence. Indeed, the suffocating nature of her relationships with both her psychiatrist Dr. Greenson and her acting coach Paula Strasberg would be future matters for the production to contend with. Cukor abhorred Paula's presence and executives were a little unsettled at the way Greenson, a shrink, was handling Marilyn's business affairs. He at one point assured them during a moment of hesitation not to worry because he could "convince Marilyn to do anything." Prior to the first day of shooting, Marilyn attended a script meeting, then flew to New York for a private acting class with Lee Strasberg, from whom she sought advice for her character. Unfortunately, she returned to Los Angeles with more than Lee's counsel; she too caught his cold.


For weeks, Marilyn was unable to come to work. Diagnosed with chronic sinusitis by the studio's own doctor, Lee Siegel, Fox thought it was just a case of the actress crying wolf. However, many saw her struggling-- blinded by headaches, shaking with chills, and barely able to rise to her feet. Her housekeeper Eunice Murray witnessed her waking up in cold sweats, and her own chauffeur sent her back into the house when he saw how ill she was. Head of Production Peter Levathes himself bore witness to her poor health, and tried to have the production pushed back until she was fully recovered. A resounding "No" echoed through the vacant Fox back lot. In the meantime, as during Liz's illness on Cleopatra, Cukor was forced to shoot around Marilyn. He did scenes with Dean and Cyd, scenes with the child actors, the supporting cast, whatever he could. Marilyn, who was eager to begin working, finally forced herself to come to set, though her initial attempts resulted in collapse. In later years, certain members of the cast and crew would maintain that Marilyn was not, nor did she ever appear, ill, which added to the false perception that her entire illness had been contrived. It had not. However, the studio had started administering drugs, given by Siegel, to get her going. Marilyn was giving daily injections-- "hot shots"-- of amphetamines. So, when Marilyn arrived to set, ready and glowing, people did not realize the true source. The drugs masked her symptoms and implied a picture of health. However, there were also witnesses who saw Marilyn faint on the set under the strain or witnessed her trying to psyche herself up in a corner, barely able to stand, because she was light-headed and dizzy.

The infamous kiss heard 'round the world.

It is interesting to note the strange similarities both films exhibited. Both sets were plagued by chronically ill female stars, who, as annoying as they may have been to executives, were legitimately unwell. Whether or not these ladies were able to psychosomatically induce sickness, which almost seems possible, does not deter in either event from the fact that they were indeed almost deathly ill at various stages of shooting. (Another parallel is that both Liz and Marilyn were raised with a background in Christian Science, and though Marilyn in particular did not adhere to this religion, the effects of the power of mind over body is evident in both of their lives. Suspiciously, whenever plagued by doubt, insecurity, or sometimes plain stubbornness, their health with give out in unison with their waning spirits). However, pros that they were, they both managed to muddle through the shoots, even triumph, doing impressive work-- though the use of drugs on both parts, and sometimes alcohol, helped to carry out this chore. For her part, Liz Taylor's behavior induced Fox to have an ambulance always parked nearby on "suicide watch" as her relationship with Burton grew increasingly tumultuous.

Both films were also driven by almost maniacally detailed directors. Cukor (right with Marilyn) insisted that the set be designed to mirror his own lush abode-- the same pleasure palace designed by William Haines-- and saw that every aspect, down to the exact shade of green on the trees, was the same. He too was suffering the physically debilitating effects of one of his crash diets-- aka starvation. For his part, Mankiewicz was working overtime, equally driving himself to a mental and physical breakdown, and essentially performing the duties of producer, director, and writer. The overly ornate designs of the Cleopatra sets, which he made sure appeared authentic, were diligently and expensively crafted-- some with pure gold leaf. The Roman Forum was designed to be three times its actual size, because even that wasn't deemed grand enough. Every aspect, down to the smallest walking stick had to be extravagant, and most of these details were only seen for a fraction of a second, if they remained in the final cut at all. However, despite all of Joe's stresses, he was never tyrannical on the set. Cukor on the other hand, who had not gotten along with Marilyn since their Let's Make Love days, took an uncharacteristic and almost sick pride in demeaning his lead actress and blaming her for every little thing that went wrong, though footage shows her maintaining her composure far more often than he.

Liz "arrives" in Rome.

Sex was also a common denominator. Many people recalled the day that Richard Burton marched onto set with a devilish grin and proudly announced: "Well, I finally f*cked Elizabeth Taylor in the back of my Cadillac!" Martin Landau, who must have missed this press release, was however present when the still married Richard strutted into wardrobe and surprisingly laid a wet one on the still married Taylor-- to which Landau internally exhaled an "Uh oh..." For some time, studio heads were fearful that Liz's star power would diminish under the swell of growing public hatred against both herself and Burton. Despite Joe Mankiewicz's feeble attempt to calm the storm with his crack that it was actually he with whom Richard was really in love-- resulting in Richard arriving to work and too laying a wet one on Joe-- the Vatican proclaimed Liz a "whore," the US Congress tried to have her dual citizenship (she was born in England) revoked, and Skouras feared that ticket sales would continue the anti-Liz onslaught. However, when Cleopatra's grand entrance to Rome was filmed-- one of the most awe-inspiring moments in cinematic history-- Liz triumphed yet again. The Italian extras were supposed to scream "Cleopatra!" But instead, they screamed "Liz! Liz! Baci Baci!" (Baci meaning "kisses"). It was at this moment too that many believe Richard Burton truly fell in love with his Queen, for in seeing her incredible hold over the public, he witnessed a force that nearly brought him to his own knees. He went from being the man that was sleeping with Elizabeth Taylor to the man who was infatuated with her. Thus, when Liz bows to Caesar and rises with a smile, her simple wink speaks volumes. Liz the tigress had prevailed.

Marilyn's sexual shenanigans also foiled the set of Something's Got to Give, however her great "arrival" occurred on the stage of Madison Square Garden for President Kennedy's birthday gala on May 19, 1962 (left). Upsetting Cukor and the other execs by skipping out of the shoot to attend the illustrious celebration, Marilyn was assured by Bobby Kennedy himself that the problem would be solved. It was a promise the hot-headed younger brother wouldn't keep. However, the cleverly orchestrated idea to have Marilyn sing a seductive rendition of "Happy Birthday" (complete in a barely there Jean Louis dress) to JFK was not a moment to propel her to the heights of stardom, as Liz's affair with Burton seemed to. It was instead conceived to publicly ridicule her and announce her as the lusty and misogynistic Prez's sexual plaything. In a brash move, JFK had inflated his ego by having his mistress all but publicly announce their affair. He had even given Marilyn private instructions over the phone on how he wanted the song performed. Marilyn knew that she was taking a gamble, even acknowledging the fact that she was about to make a fool of herself before she walked on stage, but she was so in love with and infatuated with Jack Kennedy that she let her need to please and be loved overshadow her reason. The result has remained one of the longest running jokes in history, and it is sad that after Marilyn had worked so hard to rebuild her image as a serious actress, she had all but annihilated such a prospect by illustrating herself once again as nothing but the embodiment of sexual desire. Her absence from the film set to perform this infamous song both infuriated the studio and sent shock waves through the nation. After this, Marilyn's days on Something's Got to Give were numbered.

36 and not too shabby.

Marilyn returned to a hostile setting, drawing antipathy for yet another absence when she failed to report for work after the party. She feared that she looked too tired after her whirlwind trip. This angered Cukor, but was rational on Marilyn's part. Knowing the effect fatigue would have on her beauty, and thus her fans, she used her clout to rest up so she could return only when refreshed and beautiful. When Dean Martin came to work ill, Marilyn too refused to work with him for fear that his health would again impair her own. Irrational as her behavior may have seemed to those on the other side of the camera, all was forgiven when Marilyn bared all for her infamous nude swim, enduring four hours in the water, shivering all the while . Even George Cukor, not Marilyn's biggest fan, behaved like a kid at a candy store when this actress did what she did best: exude sex appeal, beauty, and charm. After this success, Marilyn had a mysterious weekend. She returned on Monday, May 27th, a shell of a woman. There has been much debate over what happened, why she could barely remember her lines, why she seemed completely unglued... Many assumed that it had something to do with her relationship with Jack  Kennedy, who it was theorized had finally severed their relationship. Marilyn's only answer was scrawled on her dressing room mirror in lipstick: "Frank, help me!" Frank meaning Frank Sinatra. Dean himself kicked everyone out of her dressing room and tried to get to the root of his friend's problem. She was finally sent home. Footage shot that day was destroyed by Cukor, who knew how damaging the drug-addled performance would be to his star-- nemesis though she may have been. After pulling herself together and completing a few more successful scenes, Marilyn celebrated her 36th birthday early on June 1st with a decidedly modest party on the set. Cukor refused a real party, but was finally forced to acquiesce to a cake and birthday card after all the day's shooting had completed. The card read "Happy Birthday (Suit)."

That evening, Marilyn went to a fundraiser for muscular dystrophy at Dodger Stadium. After being out in the cold weather all night, Marilyn's health collapsed once again. She relapsed and was unable to report to work the next day. This was the last straw. Marilyn Monroe was fired. Of course, the reasons behind this were more than her supposedly temperamental behavior. In retrospect, Marilyn was not causing any more trouble in LA than Liz was in Rome. Liz too was chronically late, chronically ill, and worse-- chronically arriving to set drunk as a skunk after lunch with Richard. The costs of filming Something's Got to Give were far from the exorbitant expenditures of Cleopatra. The simple fact was that Fox had mismanaged its money, had poured too much into Cleopatra, and Something's Got to Give became the easier project to dismantle. There had in fact been several failed attempts to fire Liz, but she somehow always got out if it, much to the confusion of the executives. Marilyn instead was the one to fall. If ever there was anything to snap Marilyn back into gear, it was the fear of losing her career (she fights back in a strategic George Barris photo, right). After the studio started planting false and salacious articles in the press, claiming that Marilyn was both incoherent on the set, a drug addict, and mentally unstable, Marilyn rebelled. Footage and outtakes of the remains of Something's Got to Give are enough to refute these claims. Marilyn was present and focused on set, normally moreso than Cukor himself. The press release infamously issued by the crew of Something's Got to Give, thanking Marilyn for the loss of their "livelihoods," was yet another false scheme. Horrified by the news, Marilyn issued apologies to all involved. However, no member of the crew knew anything about the statement. It was a planted ploy of Fox to turn the public against its former star. Marilyn had become their scapegoat, but it had been their own mismanagement that was primarily to blame for the film's failure. When Shirley MacLaine and Kim Novak both turned down Marilyn's role out of respect and Lee Remick was announced as her replacement, Dean Martin walked off the set. Without Marilyn, there was no Dean, and no movie.


After forming her own publicity campaign to repair the damage that was being done, Marilyn won her fans back to her side as she always had. She was even able to enlist the help of Fox figurehead Darryl F. Zanuck. Zanuck had been increasingly angered by his studio's gross misconduct, which had impeded the completion of his own masterpiece, The Longest Day, at that time filming in Europe. Zanuck had never been Marilyn's biggest fan, but he at least was able, shrewd businessman that he was, to know the true culprit for the catastrophes of both Cleopatra and Something's Got to Give. As Cleopatra inched closer to completion, after years of hard work, and with Liz Taylor banking $7,000,000 total for her work on the film-- the extra dough resulting from overtime-- Zanuck decided to fly back to America, regain control of his studio, and get Something's Got to Give back up and running-- with Marilyn in the lead. Thus, mere weeks after she was fired, Marilyn got her job back. Unfortunately, she did not live to finish it. Her death was announced to the world on August 6, 1962.

This mural originally only showed Liz and Dick, but

Rex's contract demanded that he be painted in as well.

Cleopatra would finally conquer, wrapping on July 28, 1962. The movie, originally intended to be two separate films: Caesar and Cleopatra and Antony and Cleopatra was cut from 6 hours to 4. Reviews were mixed, with some calling it a triumph and others calling it a "monumental mouse." Fans still came out in droves, proving that Liz and Dick's allure and the public's fascination with them had not wavered. However, theaters were only able to show the film once a night due to its length, meaning that it was only bringing in half of an average film's revenue. For this reason, Zanuck ordered more cuts, bringing the film down to somewhere around three hours. Elizabeth Taylor saw this version when it premiered in London. And threw up. Cleopatra is recalled as one of Hollywood's greatest flops, but in truth it was not. It fared well at the box office, but recouping the film's incredible costs was not something easily done. It wouldn't be until future re-releases and DVD sales that it could completely make up for Twentieth-Century's losses. It went on to win four Academy Awards, and is at least successful in that it is still notoriously recalled today. As for Fox, Zanuck was able to slowly bring it out of its slump and enjoyed another hey-day with the smash success of The Sound of Music.

In the battle of Liz vs. Marilyn, there were no real winners nor losers. Both films, though one incomplete, had moments of brilliance and folly. Marilyn, who longed to be, yet never was able to become, a mother in her private life, is both vibrant and tender in her interaction with the actors playing her children in Something's Got to Give. Her new found sophistication and maturity also present an intriguing and distinguished Marilyn Monroe, one far removed from the elegant yet cheesecake Marilyn of the past. Liz, for her part, possesses both the brass and the class to portray the Queen of the Nile, and though the overly long and melodramatic scenes can lag on the viewer, by the time Cleopatra nears its end, there is a quietness and a dignity present in the defeated ruler and a palpable pain in her sacrificed love. 


It is strange how two such women, equal in stature, parallel in tragedy, and dissimilar in persona, were so closely linked for a brief time. Battling it out for survival-- not their own, but their studio's-- only one would even survive the task. Ironically, Marilyn had lobbied for the role of Cleopatra when the film was but a whisper of an idea years before it was produced, but despite her many talents, Marilyn lost out to Liz's more guttural snarl. This, among other things, is why Liz was for the most part able to triumph where Marilyn failed. Marilyn, impassioned  and shrewd as she was about her career, lacked the killer instinct that could keep her in an impenetrable position of power. Both women were able to get what they wanted, but Marilyn lacked the ability to hold onto it for an uninterrupted passage of time. This fact was evidenced by the ladies themselves at a party thrown by Frank Sinatra in Las Vegas. The two gals had never gotten along too well, perhaps jealous of each other and rightly sensing the threat of an equally beautiful, equally bankable female star. At the party, Marilyn became drunk and was wobbling around unsteadily, causing much concern and annoyance from friend and sometimes lover Frank. In a statement that said more than even she knew, Elizabeth declared to an observing reporter: "Marilyn shouldn't drink if she can't hold her liquor. I know how to hold my liquor." With that, she kicked her head back and took a big swig of her martini. She partied on long after Marilyn was carried upstairs to bed.

Long live the Queen...

HISTORY LESSON: Something's Got to Give and It Ain't Cleopatra