BITS OF COINCIDENCE: Part Six

Rita Hayworth helps her boyfriend-- and future husband-- Orson Welles

with one of his Magic Shows.

One of many descriptive words applied to Orson Welles is "magician." As he played the role of a sort of intellectual trickster figure in Hollywood, creating hypnotic illusions and entrancing audiences, the title seems to fit. However, Orson had a fascination for magic that was literal as well as figurative. Captivating a live audience, keeping them enthralled, and shocking them to resulting ecstatic applause was a way of marrying both the ambitious man and his idealistic and playful youth. It was one of few ways that the overgrown boy allowed himself to indulge in his more childish nature, so often hidden. This is because the curiosity he held for the art started in his boyhood, and was one of few things that he and his father shared-- that and alcohol. Richard Welles enjoyed a good magic show, and while his son perfected his own tricks, he decided to give him a special treat: he took him to see the great Harry Houdini! When going back stage, Orson was probably as close as he would ever be to starstruck. Of course, his already scintillating ambition won the day, and he performed a handkerchief trick for Houdini, who watched appreciatively. Afterward, Harry praised the young chap but told him to keep practising and practising until the gag was perfect, even if it took a thousand times. Orson did. When he returned at a later date to show Houdini his improvement, he was surprised to see another magician teaching the master a new trick. This disappointed the peeping boy, who realised that maybe Houdini was, after all, just a man applying a craft like everyone else and not as Godlike as he had assumed. While this crushed Orson's little, innocent heart, it also taught him a great lesson-- never let them see what's up your sleeve; maintaining the illusion is the real power. This tactic was heartily applied. Later, Orson prepared a very elaborate magic show, which he performed for the servicemen during WWII. He used his current girlfriend, Rita Hayworth, as his assistant during the show, through the length of which he made several costume changes. After Columbia Pictures'  Harry Cohn objected to Rita's involvement in the show, much to her chagrin, she had to bow out, and Marlene Dietrich stepped in on her behalf. (Previously, Orson had also done a performance where he sawed ex-girlfriend Dolores Del Rio in half).

 

Marlene fills in for Rita Hayworth as Orson's assistant. Marlene was also

an avid wartime entertainer and was always happy to do her part.

When Lon Chaney was a young theatrical performer trying to eek out a living in vaudeville (left circa 1905), he traveled around a great deal. As was typical in those days, actors would join up with a troupe only to find themselves abandoned in a strange city when the financing went kaput and left them penniless. Dusting yourself off and starting over became second nature to him early on, and for an ambitious youth with unquenchable passion and itchy feet, the trials were worth it. At the very least, he got to travel around the country-- sometimes on trains that were moving so slowly that one could hop off and take a brief stroll before hopping back aboard. He too got to meet some interesting and talented people. In 1910, he and his first wife, Frances "Cleva" Creighton were living in Los Angeles, and Lon got a gig working with the Ferris Hartman Company at the Grand Opera House on Main Street. He was in gifted company, including a chubby young singer and comedian with light feet and a kind heart. Then, people called him Roscoe Arbuckle, but later he would be known as "Fatty." Lon also rubbed shoulders with Robert Z. Leonard, who would later become a film director and re-team with Lon in Hollywood for Danger-- Go Slow. Most importantly, Lon met the woman who would become his second wife, Hazel Hastings, though at the time, the married man took little notice of her. She and the other chorus girls helped out in babysitting his young son: Creighton Chaney, later known as Lon Chaney, Jr. Cleva had little time, since she was performing herself as a singer and equally was descending into alcoholism. Hazel would recall Lon's early ambitions toward comedy and his natural penchant for making people laugh, as well as his talents as a song and dance man. However, his later career in Hollywood would become the exact opposite. Odd how time (and a damaging divorce) can change things...

Former vaudeville star Fatty Arbuckle teams up as a movie star 

with Charlie Chaplin in The Rounders.

Greenwich Village in the the roaring twenties was the place to be. A spiritually and intellectually liberated city, it became a quite the den for artists, youth, creativity, and expression in the 1920s... with a little debauchery, of course. One thing that made it so enticing was its openness to sexuality, and it was one of few places where homosexual couples could walk around openly and without fear of persecution. It was here that future film star William Haines (right) would find himself at home and also meet two lifelong friends: Mitchell Foster and Larry Sullivan. At the time, the couple did much to polish Billy into a more stylish and cultured young man. Later, after Billy made it big, they would help him in his antique business and interior design company as well. While enjoying the nightlife, including seeing female impersonator Jean Malin at Paul and Joe's or Charles Spangles put on his "Josephine and Joseph" routine, Bill would make some other acquaintances. All types of artists migrated to the bustling Village, and it was here that he would meet comedians George Burns and Jack Benny for the first time, both of whom he would call friends for the remainder of his life. He too would meet a young painter, Jack Kelly, who would later become the famous designer Orry Kelly, and a young vaudevillian, Archibald Leach, who would later become Cary Grant. It is also believed that it was here in the village that Billy first met director George Cukor. George was already working in showbiz-- as a doorman at the Criterion Theater. They too would re-team in Hollywood, where Billy would help George inch his way into cinema and too decorate his lush pleasure palace. 

 

Archie Leach aka Cary Grant. The young cockney is already looking

polished here, but he had a way to go before he reached "suave."

Groucho Marx had a great love for the ladies (left with his favorite mark, Margaret Dumont). An intelligent man, he enjoyed the company of equally interesting and funny women, whom he admired. He would remark in later life that he always made the grievous mistake of marrying for beauty over intelligence. At least in his friendships, he was rich in sharp and sassy female companionship. One such gem he enjoyed was Gracie Allen. Their attraction was never physical, but Groucho respected the "Irish tap dancer" and her great humor. One night, he and his gal pal were dining in Schenectady when he spotted another friend across the room. With that, George Burns came over and said "Hello," and Groucho introduced him to Gracie. Groucho would later say that, then and there, George fell in love. George had seen Gracie before, of course, for in the small entertainment world everyone gets to know each other professionally if not personally, but the two had never officially met. Groucho took pride in the fact that it was he who finally brought the two together. Maybe they would have met without him, maybe not, but certainly Groucho held the debt over George's head for the rest of his life. For his part, George was eternally grateful. He would later say that the real talent in the George and Gracie act was all in the latter part. He was nothing without her. Together, they were comic dynamite.

 

The recipe for a successful marriage: love and laughter-

George Burns and Gracie Allen. Take note, Groucho.

Howard Hughes (right) had many relationships with and engagements to beautiful starlets over the years. An awkwardly handsome and eccentric man, he was as alluring as he was confusing. But then, maybe it was all the dough... He once gave the same sapphire ring he had given to Ginger Rogers to Ava Gardner after an exasperated Ginge' gave him the heave-ho. He too was deeply involved with Kathryn Grayson, Katharine Hepburn, etc etc etc. As always, the great innovator saw potential in many things- cinema, air travel, and women. He too saw a goldmine in Norma Jeane Baker, though whether this was of the purely professional or sexual nature we'll never know, (though based on his track record it is easy to guess). While Howard was recuperating from his infamous Beverly Hills plane crash, he saw a picture of Norma Jeane in a bathing suit on the cover of Laff Magazine (below, summer of 1946). Apparently, the picture helped his recovery. He sent his associates on a manhunt to find out who she was and put her under contract at his studio. Her agent at the time, Bunny Ainsworth, caught word of his interest and used the information to advantage-- not to forge a love connection but to help Norma's career. Bunny planted a story with Hedda Hopper that Howard was seeking Norma out and used this as leverage to score her a contract with 20th-Century Fox. "Howard Hughes wants her, so you'd better act fast!" The ploy worked. Soon enough, the beautiful girl was making the screen test that gave cinematographer Leon Shamroy the chills-- both in excitement and in a fearful premonition. Thanks to Howard, Darryl F. Zanuck scooped the ingenue up and put her on her way to becoming Marilyn Monroe.

Marilyn Monroe was still going by her married name, Norma Jean Dougherty

when she did this shoot. It, and her hair color, would soon change.

BITS OF COINCIDENCE: Part Six

STAR OF THE MONTH: Orson Welles

Orson Welles, exhibiting his widely remarked upon "Oriental quality,"

 amidst objects also indicating the beauty and beast of his nature.

Orson Welles. The Boy Wonder, the Great White Hope, the Wunderkind, the Enfant Terrible, the Quadruple Threat, the etc. etc. etc. A man of multiple ambitions and perpetual, frantic, mental motion requires more than one name to account for his being. Interestingly, each moniker too infers a sort of size and magnitude. In time, his physical self would come to mirror the enormity of his intellectual capacity. History would indicate that Orson Welles was larger-than-life, a belief that he too supported by elaborating on his own mythology. You never knew where fiction ended and truth began. However, with Orson, despite the personal BS-ing, despite the flagrant disregard for societal or artistic standards, despite an almost indefatigable urge to disturb, the purpose was always about truth: uncovering truth, discovering truth, interpreting the truth, or even reforming it. But can anyone get to the truth of Orson? Doubtful. However, by dissecting his work, we can more fully come to respect him if not completely to comprehend.

Audiences waiting to get into Orson's voodoo "Macbeth," which included an all black cast. 

Orson's love of Shakespeare and dedication to reinterpreting the master was equal 

with that of contemporary Laurence Olivier. His dedication to politics and black

 rights too was a constant in his life.

Perhaps the fact most key to understanding Orson's nature is his parentage. In effect, he was forced to pay for the flagrant sins of the father and the supposed divinity of the mother. This duality, the good and evil angels whispering in his ears, continuously pulled him apart, putting him in constant turmoil with himself. His mother was the artiste, the musician, and the ambition propelling him toward success, and his father was the seductive, debaucherous, temptation pulling him to ruin. In either case, the result was excess. There was no half-way with Orson, no dabbling, no "perhaps;" there was only full throttle, full-speed-ahead, caution be damned! From an early age, after his mother's death, Orson devoted himself to becoming the brilliant youth she had always taught him to be, indeed told him he was. In fact, his mother's lover-- and in effect, his "step-father"-- Dr. Maurice Bernstein, was perhaps more fascinated with the boy than the woman. Orson would pick up quite a few father figures in his life, all of them compelled to both foster the young man's unique intelligence and artistic penchants and perhaps vicariously live through them. Orson's power and passion for life was seductive and was perhaps more interesting to men because it was always more cerebral than emotional-- though his intoxicating presence certainly affected many women in a more sexual nature. Orson's mother taught him to approach life through his head not his heart, and this effect can be seen in all of his work- cool, calculated, intriguing, but without sentiment. After his father too passed away-- a man from whom he had grown increasingly detached over the years-- Orson carried a heavy cross of guilt, and in turn began mimicking the alcoholic's self-destructive habits. Booze, women, amphetamines, food... excess. Always excess. The stress of living up to his mother's standards and the need to defy them by embracing his father's weaknesses created quite the contradictory individual-- at once intimidating, at once compelling, and always questionable.

During one of his popular "Mercury on the Air" broadcasts.

From his birth to the culmination of Citizen Kane, the story of Orson Welles's life looks like an impossibly perfect existence. Everything he touched turned to gold. In everything he tried, he excelled. Even his imperfections were exhultory, because they were devastating, different, and provocative. This was no ordinary boy. Quoting Shakespeare like he knew what he was talking about while still a tot, becoming the writer, director, and star of school productions at his beloved Todd School in his adolescent and teenage years, and making a smashing debut at Dublin's Gate Theater in "Hamlet" at the age of sixteen (playing Claudius and The Ghost, both decades older than himself), the fascinating youth's vigor was hypnotizing. Every patch of earth he tread upon, he altered. Via the Federal Theater Project and later the Mercury Theater Group in NY, he became the toast of the industry when he produced, wrote, directed, and sometimes starred in shocking vehicles such as "Macbeth," which he brazenly set in Haiti with an all black cast. Shakespeare was a constant fascination for Welles, and he would create several stunning interpretations of his classics over the years on stage and in film. His voice-- that superb, resounding, booming voice-- possessed a natural command, which was needed in such daunting roles and large scale productions. This voice too would lead him to radio, where he infected two-dimensional stories with a vivid and even violent life on the airwaves. Running back and forth from the stage to the recording studio, he would eventually write, direct, and perform in adaptations of Mutiny on the Bounty, Rebecca, Dracula, and most importantly The War of the Worlds, which memorably started a bit of a furor (which despite rumor was completely unintentional at the time). In doing so, he elevated the possibilities of entertainment. It was not just his performance, nor the performances of some of his favorite Mercury players (Agnes Moorehead, Joseph Cotten, or George Coulouris), but the creativity with which he delivered his interpretations that was so interesting. Imaginitive, bold, and inventive, he gave incredible detail to the sound of his broadcasts, even performing in the men's lavatory if he had to to create the illusion of a sewer. It was these qualities that made him a star before he had reached the age of 22, and these same qualities would bring Hollywood calling.

In Citizen Kane-- his masterwork and what some argue 

is the greatest film ever made.

Citizen Kane remains a hot topic of debate among cinephiles. It is genius, or it is absurd. It is the greatest film ever made or the most overrated. As always with Orson-- controversy. Some found fault in the film's coldness, the lack of feeling, the objectivity. Others see this as exactly the point, and they extol its artistic achievements and technological  innovations, which in effect changed filmmaking forever. The use of light, sound, camera angles, and the photography that Orson and Gregg Toland developed together kicked Hollywood in the pants and slapped America in the face. Some weren't ready for it, but ready or not, there Orson was. At the least, Citizen Kane was exciting! Not just because of the uproar it caused in the press, due to the too-close-to-home resemblance of the main character to newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst, but because it indicated a new generation of filmmaking-- art imitating life and twisting it instead of glorifying it. Change, Growth, Possibility: these words were at the very core of Orson's agenda. The likeminded Charlie Chaplin was a fan of the film. Louella Parsons, Hearst's right-hand-gossip columnist, obviously was not. Today, the vote is still split. It was argued that, afterward, Orson's chances for true success were destroyed by Hearst and the latter's battle to demolish not only the film but Orson himself, (which is ironic since the film actually indicated more about Orson Welles than it did Hearst or his lover Marion Davies). But, Orson had his own help in dissolving his heretofore stellar career. There were bright moments ahead, but for the unstoppable boy who grew up too fast, Citizen Kane became the burdensome triumph he could neither duplicate nor live up to.

Filming in Brazil for the unfinished It's All True.

But oh, did he try. After Kane, Orson-- forever putting too much on his plate-- started filming three vehicles at once. The Magnificent Ambersons, Journey into Fear, and the government induced documentary promoting the "Good Neighbor Policy," It's All True. He filmed Ambersons and Journey simultaneously, jumping from one set to the next without changing wardrobe, then left them unfinished and in the hands of the studio-- RKO-- while he went off to Brazil to maintain the Panamerican goodwill initiative between the North and South Americas, only to be swept up in the majesty of the "Carnival" of Rio, the samba, and the saga of the local people. Editing the first 2 films long distance, he basically offered input that was overturned, and both Journey and Ambersons suffered while he nonchalantly remained abroad, dedicated to the task at hand. For this, he too was partly at fault for the massacred remains of both pictures. Draining the studio dry financially-- for Orson only cared about the art not the cost-- RKO finally released sub-par versions of the films that Orson had originally intended and then pulled the plug completely on It's All True, which remains unfinished to this day. The hunt for the original cut of Ambersons makes it one of the most sought after films of all time, though there is beauty in the final cut left behind. Journey into Fear, with its climactic rain-soaked ending, and the remaining footage of It's All True also bear the unmistakable Welles mystique.

The Lady from Shanghai-- in which Orson challenged Hollywood both

by tampering with cinematic style and the perfected image of his 

movie star wife, Rita Hayworth.

In the end, it seems that Orson became overwhelmed by his own ambitions. He held such noble aspirations, but he was never able to carry things off as flawlessly as he had in his younger days. The pressure of staying on top only succeeded in knocking him off his pedestal. But he still had bright moments to come. Between his political stints-- using radio to defend the blinded, African-American war veteran Isaac Woodard, to support FDR for re-election, or to defend himself from assertions that he was a communist-- he revisited the theater, sometimes to exultant effects-- 1947's primeval reinterpretation of "Macbeth" or the racially controversial "Native Son"-- and had moments of cinematic brilliance as well. The nightmarish quality he produced in The Stranger, urging America to wake up, recognize and remember always the attrocities of WWII, the twisted and "somnambulistic" artistic achievements of The Lady from Shanghai with that incredible, indescribable final showdown in the funhouse, or the technical wizadry showcased in the four minute tracking shot of Touch of Evil-- as spellbinding as anything ol' Hitch could produce-- show that the genius was still there. His performance in The Third Man would too maintain his reputation, if only for his contribution of that cuckoo clock monologue. What is most often concurred about Welles's work is his perfect use of sound, which is unprecedented. But more telling perhaps is the visual composition. All of his films work, even when played silently, is hypnotic. Masterpieces to the eyes, one can be riveted, moved, and mesmerized even while not completely understanding what he or she is looking at. What these intercut images relay to each individual are perhaps not always effective, but they are affecting. That was Orson's purpose. He cared little what everyone thought; he cared greatly that people were thinking.

Orson's performance as Harry Lime is what some believe to be his best. 

The seductive, mysterious, and immoral character could only have

 been made charming by a man as equally complex.

Orson's embrace of concept, of taking an idea and bending it (and perhaps breaking it) to his own unique will is what has made his work stand the test of time and continue to engage both fans and enemies. As he aged, despite different triumphs, in Chimes at Midnight for example, Orson's achievements became lost under the immensity of his polemic reputation. He became somewhat of the butt of the joke. The man who had once been the toast of the town, married to Rita Hayworth, and with all the future in the palm of his hand, was now an overweight has-been producing a slew of theatrical flops and doing vocal work on the cartoon "Transformers." To Orson's credit, he never apologized for his girth, but rather used it to full effect in his later films. Perhaps this too was indicative of his shame, a living portrait of the disgusting wreck he had become. He thus apologized and refused to apologize at once. Orson's success, however, lay not in his perfections but in his imperfections; in his daring ability to say what others wouldn't, do what others wouldn't, and try what others wouldn't dare. The result was not always popular, but it was always bold. In his case, the means justified the (at times indiscernible) ends. His eccentric, flawed, and confused body of work thus remains one of the most remarkable to ever come out of Hollywood, simply because it is the product of pure originality.

With Peter Bogdanovich and unknown. Peter was a huge fan and did several

interviews with his mentor.

Martin Scorcese said that Orson Welles was the filmmaker who influenced a whole new generation of directors to want to make movies. Orson wasn't about offering answers, he was about asking questions. He did not want to luxuriate in ignorant bliss, he wanted to instigate intellectual warfare. He took a medium based upon pretty images and fairy tales and helped to turn them into something darker and more nightmarish and equally showed that such exploration was not a crime. While he himself may be held prisoner by his own caricatured self-- mocked even in his lifetime-- his disruption of the Hollywood agenda could possibly be the best thing that ever happened to the imaginative but often uninspired town. He is best compared to his most perfect role and his most highly acclaimed performance: Harry Lime in Carol Reed's masterpiece The Third Man. Not appearing until nearly an hour into the movie, Orson exists still as a dominant presence. The audience waits, growing increasingly anxious for his appearance, and when he finally reveals himself from out of the shadows, his insolent smirk alone produces an indescribable rush worth waiting for. Suddenly, things are more interesting, more provocative, more dangerous. You can't explain why, but Orson always seems to bring "something" to the table. He had more than his finger on the pulse of American life; he was a jolt of adrenaline in its arm. If you compare films made prior to Citizen Kane to those made after Citizen Kane, you will soon be forced to agree that we are all still his junkies.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Orson Welles

NOW, THAT'S FUNNY: Part V

Carole Landis, poised for laughs.

Carole Landis's fun-loving attitude made her an eager participant in many a good-natured joke or game. A warm person, her mere presence seemed to flip the happy switch and put people in a better mood. This came in handy most particularly when she started entertaining the troops during WWII. Her heart went out to the battling soldiers, and she would do anything to give them a little peace and joy in the midst of the chaos that they daily faced. And I mean anything... During the war, radio became a useful outlet for the boys fighting abroad, and a steady stream of broadcasts gave them comforting reminders of home. One particular show, Command Performance, was based upon this concept. It took random requests from the boys and put them into action, making the oddest desires come true. Hopefuls called in with strange petitions, asking for various sound mementos from home or-- more daringly-- celebrity performances. On one interesting occassion, a huge Carole fan asked for very small favor. All he wanted was to listen to her "sigh." Carole must have gotten a good chuckle out of such an odd inquiry, but she gamely agreed to do it. So, on June 14, 1942, Carole stood in front of the microphone and softly proclaimed to soldiers all over the world, "Ahhhhhhhh...." It was a sensation and one of the best remembered moments of the show, as well as one which earned the most requests for replay.

The next jest is too tied to Carole, but there is debate over whether it was she who indeed committed the whimsy or her contemporary Lana Turner (left). In either case, one of these two ladies was again entertaining the soldiers in wartime and dancing with one fellow in particular-- who found his gaze continually traveling downward to the damsel's low-cut neckline. The soldier then humorously asked if the plunging cut was supposed to symbolize "V for Victory?" Not to be outdone, the lady in question quipped back, "Yes, but the bundles aren't for Britain!" Carole would later attribute the punchline to Lana, but some argued that she had in fact said it herself. I guess we'll never know. Both ladies were certainly capable of that kind of brazenly, silly stunt.

Beyond the Forest is most memorable for being the line in which Bette Davis uttered the eternal quote: "What a dump." However, there is actually a rather funny story involving another quote from the film. See, Bette didn't want to do the film in the first place. She thought both the story and the character were beneath her. Having constantly battled with studio head Jack Warner in the past, her fierce, stubborn streak was old news at this point. It was clear that both Bette and Warner Brothers were growing tired of each other. She fought, begged, and pleaded to get out of the role, even offering up casting suggestions-- she thought Virginia Mayo was better suited to play Rosa Moline, which was probably a back-handed compliment at the actress, who was more notorious for playing sexy, gangsters' molls. In the end, Bette's tenacity did not get her out of the movie, but it did end her contract. She threatened to walk off the picture, which was only half finished, thus inducing an ultimatum from Warners: if she finished the picture, she would be free from her home studio. She agreed. Finally, liberated after eighteen years, Bette was ecstatic... Until she learned that she had to return to do some voice over on a badly recorded scene. Glumly, she trudged back to say her last line at WB: "If I don't get out of here, I'll die." (See iconic moment, right).

Gary Cooper (left) was a quiet sort of guy, but that was part of his charm. Where most celebrity males of the time, and in fact today, walked with a confident swagger, he more gracefully strolled. Where many were loud and boastful, throwing their masculine weight around, Gary was quiet and soft spoken. Many a person, particularly women, spent a great deal of time trying to figure out what was going on inside that pretty, silent head of his, and certain gals like Carole Lombard threw up their hands in defeat after trying to figure him out. In the end, Carole preferred the brashness of Gable, thinking Gary was, well, boring. However, this was not so. Coop too had a great sense of fun and naughtiness, as Rita Hayworth and Veronica Lake would witness first hand... when they went on a bender together. This unlikely trio of shy outsiders banded together one fateful night while in Chicago on a War Bond tour. Determined to forget their stresses and throw caution to the wind, they soon found themselves at a strip joint watching the current female attraction on stage.

Gary, despite his bashful demeanor, was one of the notorious Hollywood "ladykillers," so it came as no surprise to Ronni and Rita when a girl plopped down next to him and started a conversation. Gary listened sympathetically, despite being schnockered, as this young woman explained that it was her sister who was dancing on stage and, "Oh dear, isn't it a horrible thing?" Veronica and Rita marvelled at the way Coop was able to draw the unsuspecting girl to him like a moth to a flame; how a complete stranger found herself babbling her innermost sorrows as he at least pretended to listen. He had such a wooing, calming effect. Eventually, having unburdened her conflicted heart, the girl made a drunken exit, leaving her stripping sister and famous cohorts behind, though she was probably not even aware to whom she had just been speaking. Feeling a bit guilty after this revelatory conversation, the three friends quieted their consciences by becoming equally inebriated and ambling down to another strip joint. And just who do you think should be dancing center stage? The very same girl who had just been mourning her sister's sad profession!  As eyes bulged and mouths opened, one can almost imagine Rita and Veronica looking at a surprised Gary and cackling at the twist of fate. The joke, it seemed, was on them! The girl recognized the coterie and humorously gave Gary a great deal of attention, for which he provided a generous tip. As they departed from their night of debauchery, the man of few words had, as usual, little to say. Smirking and shaking his head, he let it go with a: "Well, I'll be damned." (Gary and Rita reunite more soberly during They Came to Cordura).

Vicente Minelli, Judy Garland, and Kate Hepburn chit chat
on the set of Undercurrent.

After the disastrous shoot on Summer Stock, Judy Garland found herself permanently severed from her home studio MGM, which was bittersweet. Happy to be free, yet anxious without a home, her depression was only intensified by her deteriorating marriage to the homosexual Vicente Minelli. At the end of her tether, Judy disappeared into the bathroom and used some broken glass to slash her own throat. This suicide attempt was no laughing matter, of course, but it was typical of Judy, whose injuries were far from fatal. Mostly, she was crying for help, attention, and sympathy-- publicly proclaiming herself the victim of MGM's ruthless brutality. The message was received, and Louis B. Mayer, in a panic about what the negative publicity could do to his studio, sent for Hollywood's immovable pillar of strength, Katharine Hepburn, for help. She agreed to go talk to Judy and hopefully coax her out of the black hole into which she'd fallen. Kate arrived at Judy's home and was barraged by photographers, whom she told in no uncertain terms that if they took her picture, they would be punched in the face. Needless to say, the shutters stopped. In her typical, New England drawl, she then burst into Judy's room with a series of reprimands and supportive anecdotes. "Oh deah, you rally are in a bad way, ahn't you?" Kate offered Judy room and board at her place, where the patient could regain her strength and recuperate. Judy, grateful for the offer, was too terrified to accept. "Relaxing" with Kate surely would include swimming, jogging, and various other tough love rejuvenation tactics. Judy preferred to mope and enjoy the pitiful windfall of sympathy. Yet, Judy loved and respected Kate and felt truly victorious that one of Hollywood's biggest angels had been sent to help her. However, she was soon offered another consoling shoulder, which she did not find as appealing. During prayer at church, Jane Russell believed that she had been sent a divine message to reach out to Judy in her plight. So, she made a telephone call. Judy answered, at which point Jane went into Psalm 23: "The Lord is my shepherd..." Judy, who-- despite evidence to the contrary-- was in no mood to face her maker, quickly and embarrassingly interrupted with a "Thank you" and abruptly hung up. Perhaps at her next prayer session Jane offered up an "Our Father, return to sender."

Talk about "V for Victory..." Jane in her Sunday best.

NOW, THAT'S FUNNY: Part V

CAST AWAYS: Part VII

Rita Hayworth throws herself into the bullring and takes

down Tyrone Power in Blood and Sand.

Blood and Quicksand


In the Golden Era, the battle of Stars vs. the Studios was a constantly waged and painstakingly contained one. A star could use his or her box-office power to get away with a lot of things that the top dogs would otherwise refer to as "deviant behavior," but the moguls too had ways of getting their performers to toe the line. One method was "career threat." When a celebrity got too pushy or started to go too far, another, younger actor would be presented-- one who was almost a double of the alleged offender. This was the studio's way of saying: "Go ahead. Misbehave. There are plenty of people waiting to take your place." This ominous warning would often cause whatever diva was having a tantrum to back down. It was but one of many games in the dog-eat-dog world of Hollywood, where biting the hand that feeds was the appetizer de rigueur. Victims and villains were hard to tell apart: moguls thought that they were betrayed by the childish, narcissistic stars they had helped to create, and stars thought that they were abused, overworked, and under-appreciated by the greedy men behind the metaphorical curtain. In such an environment, if you weren't a business mastermind, it was often hard to keep your head above water. Suffice it to say, there were rarely winners, and mostly losers.

Carole Landis (left) was one of the many who played the game and lost, though her complete victimization by the system is not up for debate. An actress who was very far from the accepted cinematic Drama Queen, Carole was selfless, friendly, and hard-working. This did not, however, leave her free from punishment. Just being a woman in Hollywood was burden enough on its own. When Carole was signed at Twentieth-Century Fox, she quickly became accustomed to this fact. Early in her career, her beauty, singing talent, and natural charisma in front of the camera made her a prime pawn of actress intimidation. Low on the totem pole, Carole wasn't immediately given leading roles, for her box-office power hadn't been tested. Thus, her presence was used to intimidate other actresses-- whom she resembled in some respect-- and keep them in line. Alice Faye and Betty Grable were two unenthusiastic recipients of this maneuver. Her presence reminded them of their own career vulnerability. Carole, of course, was innocent of these studio machinations, and merely used whatever opportunity she had to better her standing and hone her acting skills. Slowly, with the help of the publicity machine and the public's growing attentions, Carole found her popularity rising. She gained a little position and started using it. Thus, she in turn found herself being equally intimidated by other actresses, some of whom snagged plum roles right out from under her.

A favorite beauty that Zanuck loved to use against Carole was Rita Hayworth (right), who was signed at rival studio Columbia Pictures. Zanuck's disdain for Carole had nothing to do with her professionalism and everything to do with her refusal to go to bed with him. After an initial affair, Carole put her foot down and claimed her independence, refusing to be further manipulated or taken advantage of. Zanuck thereafter went about trying to destroy her career, finding that nursing a bruised ego was more important than cashing in on a viable, talented asset. When a remake of Blood and Sand was presented to Fox for production, Carole was a front-runner for the role of Dona Sol, and she wanted it badly. But, instead of giving Carole a rich part that she could really sink her teeth into, not to mention one that could help to further her career, Zanuck paid Harry Cohn five times Rita Hayworth's salary to borrow her on loan-out for the role. He would commit the exact same crime when My Gal Sal was filmed, though Carole was allowed to remain in this picture. However, that time around she was forced to play a minor role beneath her stature, still under the starring Rita Hayworth. Rita, like Carole, was not guilty of any malevolence. In fact, the two had a lot in common, and were simply sweet women stuck in a rotten game. Today, it is hard to imagine anyone else beside Rita playing the seductive and heartless Dona Sol opposite Tyrone Power's toreador, but with Carole's equal talent and sex appeal, it makes one yearn for what could have been had she landed the part. The reason for the final outcome had less to do with perfect casting, and more to do with the fact that-- between the two of them-- the sensitive Rita was more apt to do as she was told. Carole??? She had less of a problem speaking her mind.


Love Me or Leave Me? Given the option...

Speaking of feisty women and toreadors, Hollywood's favorite She-Wolf, Ava Gardner, didn't take too kindly to orders. She too had had her fill of harsh studio treatment, and after playing nice for many years, she was no longer in the mood to sit back and do as she was told. After an arduous shoot on The Barefoot Contessa and an enduring, tumultuous marriage to Frank Sinatra, Ava now found herself in the hospital suffering severe pangs from kidney stones. MGM ordered her back to work starting on Love Me or Leave Me, but Ava was having none of it. For starters, they were ignoring her illness, claiming that she was "faking it," which ticked her off. Then, they offered her a part in a biopic musical (about the life of Ruth Etting) in which her voice would certainly be dubbed, which ticked her off more. After the humiliation of singing her heart out in Show Boat (left) only to have her voice replaced by Annette Warren, Ava was not about to go through an embarrassing repetition. She refused, mostly because she didn't like lip-syncing and looking like "a goddamn goldfish." At her wit's end emotionally and physically, she said "hell no" and headed for Europe, leaving the way free and clear for Doris Day, for whom co-star James Cagney had been enthusiastically rallying. Doris was known up to now as a pretty, ever-smiling songstress, but this role allowed her to indulge in her underutilized talents. The depth and pain she gave to her interpretation opened a lot of eyes, though she would rarely get this serious again. She soon after hit her stride in romantic comedies opposite the likes of Rock Hudson. As for Ava, she preferred Spain... and its bullfighters.

James Cagney fought to have Doris Day star opposite him in 

Love Me or Leave Me. He chose a perfect sparring partner, and the duo

 produced some poignant and painful scenes together.

Opportunity Always Rings Twice

The hot and heavy film noir masterpiece The Postman Always Rings Twice, whose success depended very much upon the chemistry of its leading characters, could have been a very different film. Originally, Joel McCrea was offered the role of Frank Chambers. However, Joel was always very astute about his career and his star persona, and he turned the role down, not thinking himself right for it. So, the offer was given to the darker, more rugged John Garfield, who was ecstatic at the opportunity. Unfortunately, just as filming was about to begin, WWII came roaring onto the scene, and John backed out of the film to fight overseas. Then, John was refused entree into the service because of his heart condition. Deeply upset, he felt that he had missed out on two golden opportunities: the role of a lifetime and the chance of a lifetime to serve his country. Luckily, MGM offered him the role again, and this time Chambers was his. This was a fortunate result. The steamy connection between John and Lana Turner (together, right) remains one of the most romantic and dangerous cinematic couplings of all time. Becoming thick thieves and pals behind the scenes helped them to create a trusting and relaxed environment, which left them free to explode on the screen. Joel McCrea could certainly hold his own with the ladies, but his boy-next-door, "aw' shucks" persona did not have the same edge nor sexual dynamism of Garfield. John would recall this film as one of his favorites, and his partnership with Lana did not end when the filming stopped: they remained lifelong friends.


Queen Kong???

When Merian C. Cooper embarked on his now iconic adventure film, King Kong, he had a clear vision. From the outlandish story to the bold and fascinating new special effects that he intended to use, he was determined to create an incredible new world for his viewers. However, he was also aware that making a film that starred a huge, stop-motion monkey was going to be a hard one for audiences to buy. He needed to give viewers an emotional connection, one which would allow them to suspend their disbelief and get swept up into the unimaginable universe which he had invited them. The key was in casting the right girl to play Kong's captive/daughter/love interest, Ann Darrow. The actress would need to be able to relay sincere reactions and emotions, ranging from feminine sensitivity to abject fear. Merian needed an unparalleled beauty, both inside and out, to kill his beast. He found it in Fay Wray, (left) who seemed born for the role by name alone, as her horrified shrieks provided a vast amount of the film's resulting soundtrack. When Merian first offered her the part, he told her very little other than that she would be starring opposite the "tallest, darkest leading man in Hollywood." Fay's heart, which was all aflutter at the prospect of working with Cary Grant, was quickly palpitating for other reasons when she learned the truth! Her part in King Kong remains her most famous performance, which has kept her very much alive in the public consciousness. This is fortunate for her, since the role almost when to Dorothy Jordan...or Jean Harlow! Jean's version certainly would have been interesting and perhaps a bit more provocative, though it would be hard to imagine a sweet and sexy Jean screaming at an ape for an hour. With her demeanor, they probably would have hunkered down and played a hand of cards after the first 5 minutes... All the better for Merian's decision: he needed a girl who could scream, not seduce!

A match made in Movie heaven. Fay's probably missing Cary about now...

CAST AWAYS: Part VII

PERSONAL NOTE: YouTube Killed the Movie Star

Marilyn Monroe: The last movie star and the only performer

who could inspire a 52-foot replica of herself in Time Square.

I'm calm, okay? But... has the world gone mad?!?! Too often of late, I have gone to the movies, more out of habit than out of actual inclination, only to be disappointed. Dismally. Do I care about what I'm watching? No. Am I interested in what's happening? No. Do I relate to the actors on the screen? No, no, no. There is much flash, but little substance. Much "pretty," but no gritty. Recycled stories and themes and modus operandi have left me feeling like Malcolm MaDowell in A Clockwork Orange, with wires holding my eyes open while a series of the usual images plays on a loop: fire, tits, and spaceships. Riveting. It seems ironic that in the days since we liberated ourselves from the manufacturing mania of the Studio System, our films, stories, and celebrities seem to be more contrived, convoluted, and schmaltzy than ever. How did this happen, and why God why do we keep continuing the madness instead of nipping it in the bud? Pardon me while I ruminate:

The movies are based upon one thing: communication. As an early art form, the excitement of cinema was its availability. Unlike the Mona Lisa, a piece of legendary art that sits forlornly at the Louvre in Paris-- where sadly the majority of the world will never go-- the movies are not, nor have they ever been, elusive. Every class, every color, every creed, every language in every region of the world had access to a moving piece of the human discussion. For a nickel (Man, those were the days), even the most impoverished American could afford a seat in a world that offered limitless possibilities and continuous entertainment. As a nation, as a species, we were all invited to bask in our dreams, which the movies taught us that we all shared. Cinema thus became the great unifier--a small innovation of science that slowly grew into a medium through which art could recreate man in the flickering image of himself.

Man's first Trip to the Moon in 1902.

We chose early on those few reappearing faces that we would trust with such a responsibility-- those who did it better than anyone else and spoke to us and for us with an ease we could depend on and luxuriate in. And they were real people, just like us-- most of whom were inexperienced nobodies simply looking for a job and willing to make buffoons of themselves for the latest quack invention. So, out of nameless faces were born Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, Lillian and Dorothy Gish, William S. Hart, and Rin Tin Tin. For a decade or so, we tinkered with the camera until we developed ways to tell compelling and cohesive stories. D.W. Griffith, Tod Browning, and King Vidor were but a few of the pioneers guiding us to an authentic and emotional world. But always, there was an underlying truth. As the studios developed and moguls started building corporations out of the little art-form-that-could, things changed. The system was manipulated but still remained grand. With the talkie revolution, we latched onto newer stars, manufactured though they may be-- less real than those with whom we began. Hollywood's world became a little more glamorous. But, while we got to lavish in the splendor of the movie musical or the beauty of Ann Sheridan (right), still there was a gravity beneath the facade. While the publicity boys cranked out fake stories about the histories and present lives of a new breed of star, we were able to forgive the inaccurate polish of the film magazine covers, because we knew, once again, that the stars were just like us. Though, perhaps a little bit bigger and a little bit better. The performances we saw on the screen too echoed our own sentiments, apprehensions, and angers. Watching Clark Gable or James Cagney elbow their way through their film scripts as tough guys, bruisers, and sometimes overgrown children, permitted a mass of trampled on and confused people to exhale in a universal catharsis.

As WWII waged on, films, particularly those coming from MGM, started to become a little too predictable-- a little too sweet, a little too perfect. While, during the war years, these films served their purpose, a post-war return to normalcy required film personalities who better resembled the normal, average American. The pristine image of the nuclear family and the whistling down the apple blossomed streets of Andy Hardy weren't going to cut it anymore. Once again, we cried out for realism. Our prayers were answered by the Method actor: Marlon Brando, Montgomery Clift, Kim Hunter, Maureen Stapleton, Eli Wallach, Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward, (both left) etc, etc, etc. The rise of the "true" actor over the "movie star" came right at the collapse of the studio system and acted as a bridge to carry us over into a new generation of cinema; a new generation of human interpretation. Suddenly, a great divide between old-Hollywood and new-Hollywood took shape. The raw ferocity of the modern actor, devoted to telling the Truth, the whole Truth, and nothing but the Truth, had to contend with the much adored yet fading alumni of the nostalgic studio era. Those who were most beloved could make it over the hurdle, either because they were naturally ahead of their time in terms of characterization-- like Katharine Hepburn or Gary Cooper-- or because they were willing to unlearn their old tricks for the new game of authenticity, like Marilyn Monroe.

Marilyn Monroe is the last great movie star. The biggest movie star. She represents both the heights of studio produced star power and the transition to the actor star. She stands too as the greatest sacrifice of such an alteration, falling into the strange and indescribable black abyss between the "movie personality" and the "true artist." Though there were large names and memorable faces to follow hers, Marilyn alone stands as our great Christ symbol: she paid the price of stardom and sacrificed herself for our love and respect. What we responded to in Marilyn was not just her beauty but her genuineness. When people describe her as being likable for her vulnerability or her innocence, what they are truly referring to is her humanity. We loved her because she was larger than life and real-- a goddess you could reach out and touch. Marilyn's sadness was somehow always palpable, always present (as seen right). Whereas I am always in awe of the way Rita Hayworth could draw the shade and hide her inner sorrow from her screen performances, Marilyn could not do the same. Initially, she made a concerted effort to mask her complex nature behind her star-making doe-eyed stares, the sensuous movements of her mouth, or her infamous walk, but despite this, little Norma Jean was always there. Later, she used her personal torments and fears, the things that she had originally fought to disguise, to deepen her acting and her performances. She became the star who could act, and our love of her only increased when the little girl she had kept masked behind her caricatured performances was let loose into more complicated and interesting roles. The full-fledged, unadulterated, massively contrived, and absolutely magnificent movie star, thus, died when she did.

And where are we now? We never truly re-embraced the movie star. The Method actor film identity pretty well carried itself through the 60s, 70s, and 80s. The personified bridges of John Garfield and Marilyn led to Brando and Clift, to De Niro and Streep (in Sophie's Choice, left). Bold films, soul-searching work, and socially provocative filmmaking enjoyed a hey-day. There were always the little token candy films, but they were overshadowed by Baby Doll, The Graduate, Taxi Driver, One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest, etc. In a society undergoing such turmoil as HUAC, the Vietnam War, the Korean War, and the Kent State shootings, there were plenty of questions to ask, plenty of statements to make, and plenty of Hell to raise. Our movies were reflections of our own rebellion, our own quest for truth, deliverance, and maybe even peace-- learning to love, or learning to fight. Then, under the overly optimistic period of the 80s and the 90s, we were at peace enough in ourselves to let go of this angst. Again, we shunned truth and started asking for, at long last, a respite: entertainment. Thus the birth of the action star-- Tom Cruise, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Harrison Ford-- the comedy star-- Tom Hanks, Meg Ryan, Julia Roberts-- and the provocative star-- William Hurt, Michael Douglas, Kathleen Turner, etc. There was a bonus, because not only were these names and faces huge, inspiring us and taking us on journeys of imagination and heart, but the majority of them could act. Win-Win, as they say.

Now, as these names and faces age and our stars become relics or shocking jokes-- ah, Mel, why'd ya do it?-- we are left in a kind of artistic limbo. Predicting the next societal trend on the tried and true taste cycle of authenticity-glamour-authenticity-glamour, it appears that we are due for another bout of authenticity. Our solution? Reality Television. Our fault as a creative society is that we have failed to find a new way to push the envelope. How much better can acting get than what it has become? Can you beat Marlon? No, but you can find him in Daniel Day-Lewis. Aesthetically we are at a stalemate as well. How many new ways can you find to blow something up? Not many. The car chase was doomed after Steve McQueen rocked our world in Bullitt. Our solution to our thumb-twiddling in conjunction with the corporate "more is more" mentality is to just make... more: more of the same things that make money and more of everything in general. More graphics, more special effects, more sex, bigger guns, thinner women, bigger boobs, etc. (I mean, don't even get me started on that topic. The mere fact that a woman's body has become little more than an apology, tits on sticks if you will, is enough to make me rant on in a blog marathon). More, more, more. Forgive me Avatar fans, but though the movie had its merits, it was in the end just a giant visual experiment. Like too many films today, art was the excuse and not the agenda. It was a mind-blowing aesthetic achievement with a green story tagged on. But what else could Cameron do? He literally had to create a new world because this one is tired. How else could he expand on old methods? We're stuck my friends. Stuck.

Avatar: box-office bonanza starring... technology.

Thus, we have no one to look up to. So many faces, so many names, and none of them stick. No one matters. There are too many venues! This isn't the silent era: one theater in town and one or two releases a week, presenting a minimal chance at seeing a familiar face on the screen. This is YouTube, and NetFlix, and reality TV, and every schmo with a camera making a movie and posting it online. "Movies" are everywhere and made by everyone. Some angst ridden teen can post a ranting monologue about their day and how much homework "sucks" and get 5 million hits. We live in a world where someone named Snookie, Snookie for Chrissakes, gets more press than rising stars like Olivia Wilde or Andrew Garfield. In effect, modern narcissism has killed the movie star. We don't want to worship anyone, because we want to be worshipped. And we can be. Got a camera on your Mac? Record yourself, upload, done. You can sit back and watch yourself all day. Lucky you. Lucky universe. And don't even get me started on Facebook. Geez. I mean, I'm as guilty as anyone, uploading pictures, updating my status, but does anyone really care where I am at this second? Am I that important? Maybe I should Twitter that I'm eating a muffin right now. That's sure to impact a lot of lives. How important can one person be? And if I see one more teenage girl holding her camera at arms length and taking a picture of herself in sexy face, I'm going to scream. Or punch her. (Again, win-win). Don't worry sweetie, you're profile pic is super hot. Now, can you put your vanity away long enough to read a book? We are sick. As a society, as an industry, we're sick. If The Social Network-- the only socially significant movie made this year-- doesn't win the Academy Award for Best Picture then, well, I don't know what. I will probably tear my eyes out like Oedipus and throw myself down the Santa Monica steps.

Of course, this modern self-absorption all stems from insecurity. In comparing ourselves with the stars we (used to) adore, we fall short. We're too short, in fact; too fat, too ordinary. We feel compelled to become the images we see; to make the two-dimensional image in the mirror reflect the two-dimensional images on the magazine rack. Newsflash: that makes you two-dimensional too. Pretty, but pretty lifeless. When did it became a crime to be a human being? Aging is criminal. Flaws are criminal. We want to be stars! And guess what, now we are. We've turned the cameras around on ourselves to capture the purest brand of realism, feeding our insatiable need for glamour by becoming our own glamour-pusses. But everyone can't be a star, for the very idea makes such a thing obsolete, which leaves us with one conclusion: there are none. Not even the ones on TV or in the movies. There is no idolatry. There are occassional adolescent crushes, (Twilight, right) but there is no life in the movies, only death-- the decay of a once proud frontier. We continue perpetuating the issue instead of diagnosing the disease and curing it. I don't even go to the movies anymore because I want to. I go out of habit. Me. The lover of all things celluloid. Things are bad, people. Bad. Movies aren't magic anymore; they're manic, because studios are too desperate to sell, and we're so desperate we'll buy anything.

I used to think that movies were things of beauty. Now they're just things. This isn't about wanting to return to the perfect illusion/delusion of the studio days, but moreso to reconnect with the integrity of the human race. Nothing is being said anymore, because we have nothing to rebel against, rally for, fight for. Perhaps we're too safe. Our economic "depression" is nothing in comparison to the depression of the '30s. The dark, tormented characters that once reflected our own paranoid and conflicted natures are not present in today's cinema. Our ongoing "war" overseas is not one that unifies the community nor is it one that anyone seems to comprehend. There is no finite goal-- stop Hitler and his madness!-- and a call to arms is likewise vacant in movie theaters. In essence, it seems that nothing is really going on, and what is going on no one understands. So the questions is, is there too much chaos to sift through and we've given up, or are we actually sitting pretty and have no need to communicate the same angst as our forefathers and mothers? The suffragist movement, segregation, and genocide are at least hypothetically problems of the past. We're more concerned with waistlines, cup sizes, and the accumulation of stuff. If cinema is a reflection of its current society, it is no wonder that today projects a mish mash of blah blah blah. We're brain dead. We're in serious need of a wake-up call. It's literally raining dead birds on us, but meh... whatevs. The result of this is our need to invent cataclysmic conflicts via ad nauseum zombie movies, alien invasion movies, or the invasive 3D movies of late (barf aka please make this gimmick stop). We are desperate to be shaken up before our intellects forever pay the forfeit. Why not take this confusing and deceptively unproblematic time to push ourselves artistically? Why read US Magazine when you can read poetry? Why write smut when you can write prose? Why rehash the usual visual stimuli when you can provide an accurate description of our current world? Have we truly run out of things to say?

All I can say is, I'm sad. And I must admit that I am scared too. This Hollywood is not the same one I signed up for nearly six years ago when I made the voyage from Cincinnati to Los Angeles. Something has changed. I don't think we should have to sacrifice beauty, nor controversy, nor conversation to make a buck, particularly when the, I'm sorry, but "crap" I see being made doesn't compel me in the slightest to throw down $12 for a movie ticket. And, oh boy, trying to be an actress in this industry right now is like trying to swim in the Sahara. We're worth more than this. So, what are we afraid of? If Hollywood knew what was good for it, it would take itself apart brick by brick and start over. Return to the simplicity of the human heart, the human soul, and human nature in general. I feel like the Hollywood Wendell Berry, and it says alot when someone like me would rather churn butter than go to the damn theater. We're trying too hard. You don't have to search for intrigue; you don't have to use a lot of flash to gain attention. Today's directors are making a mistake. They aren't so much filmmakers as they are master manipulators, working out their own fantasies and obsessions on the screen, thus committing the ultimate betrayal: instead of holding a mirror up to society, they hold one up to their own egos. Insightful directors with distinct visions and voice-- the Coen Brothers, Quentin Tarantino, and Danny Boyle-- are too few and far between. Self-absorption has killed unity. Has killed community. Not only are we cut off from our own humanity-- apologizing for ourselves with plastic surgery-- but we're cut off from each other-- texting and not speaking. How do we expect the movies to talk to us if we can't even talk to each other?

In Kill Bill, Quentin Tarantino shows his love of film by paying tribute to and 

expanding upon multiple genres, such as Japanese Samurai films, 

Westerns, and even Anime.  

I don't know how the future generation will evolve and grow, how the industry will change in the coming years, but I pray for a renaissance. I hope to one day go to the theater and find myself so moved by what I see that I start applauding as the credits roll. Maybe I can clap myself back to life like Tinker Bell. Maybe we all can. While celebrity is a killer, it also serves a purpose. Our film and our stars didn't just give us something to look up to or aspire to, but they taught us to relate-- to look outside ourselves and find the beauty in others. I was not alive when Marilyn was. But I still miss her. And I'm angry that she's gone because, in some ways, I feel that the things that killed her are the very things currently controlling us. Excess. Politics. Desperation. Corruption. Abuse. Bull sh*t. Instead of drowning in pity for our departed martyrs, we should recognize the things that ended them. We should find a way to make an old thing new. We will never run out of stories, so let's stop telling the same ones over and over again. Let's stop selling ourselves short. Or selling ourselves period. Is this a completely outlandish concept? Am I alone? Am I the only person at the parade who notices that the Emperor isn't wearing any clothes? And who the Hell do I text "STOP" to get out of here?

A rock and a hard place: Marilyn is bookended by history's King of the Studio

 era, Clark Gable, and the Prince of the new Method, Monty Clift, in The Misfits.

PERSONAL NOTE: YouTube Killed the Movie Star