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?

MENTAL MONTAGE: Screen Star Life Savers

One of cinema's favorite heroes, John Wayne, saves the day and rides off 

into the sunset with Natalie Wood and Jeffrey Hunter in The Searchers.

We often come to worship our film heroes with very little impetus. Our great admiration is born of a strange combination of respect and envy. Whatever it is that draws us to our favorite movie star-- her glamour and class, his strength and swagger-- one has to admit that the resulting awe is comparatively ridiculous in the wider scheme of things. Especially coming on the heels of the recent ten year anniversary of the Twin Towers devastation, where innocent citizens lost their lives and even more brave men and women in the police force and fire department risked their lives to try to save them, the vanity of screen hero adoration seems a bit shameful. Movie stars are just people after all... But our need to both hold them up and tear them down remains perhaps the most fascinating thing about the great facade that is Hollywood. Our love for them is always there, for whatever reason, and in the end it is our gratitude for the personal sacrificing of their souls on the silver screen that demands our steadfast devotion. Their work, therefore, is to be commended. Yet, there are some stars who have proved above and beyond their contemporaries that they deserve the title of "Hero" not for their outstanding cinematic efforts, but for the actions they performed behind the scenes. In these moments, when appearing at their most human and most brave, certain men and women have done more than enrich the public heart through entertainment; they have even saved lives.

Ginger Roger's (left) adherence to the controversial religion of Christian Science may have raised a few cynical eyebrows in her lifetime, and still in ours, but whatever the outside opinion, her faith served her well throughout her many years. Perhaps beyond anything else, it was Ginger's own core strength that made her so sturdy and reliable when those around her needed someone to lean on. Heaven knows, she certainly nursed more than one husband through a peculiar ailment and made a believer out of him. One can only imagine that mantras like "Every problem has a solution," and "This too shall pass," continually played in Ginger's head. She never seemed to lose her composure under pressure or give in to feelings of defeat or depression. If something had to be done, in her hands, one could trust that it would be done. This incomprehensible resilience would come in handy to many but to one woman in particular. When traveling in Rio (of course) with husband of the time Jacques Bergerac, Ginger would come into the acquaintance of upcoming actress Elaine Stewart. The two hit it off right away, so Ginger was deeply upset when she learned from the morning paper that Elaine had been taken seriously ill with acute appendicitis and was being hospitalized. It was even more shocking to her when a strange Brazilian gentleman informed her that Elaine had been asking for her in particular. After all, Ginger had only just met the girl and was far from being a close friend or family member. Nonetheless, despite being perplexed, Ginger went to Elaine, who in her frail condition seemed to be hanging on by a thread. Undeterred, Ginger leaned in and whispered to Elaine to stay positive and maintain a grateful heart. She encouraged her to stare at the ceiling and fill it with thoughts of all that Elaine was thankful for in her life, hoping to encourage her to have the will to live. After offering more words of faith, Ginger departed from the slightly alleviated patient. The next day, Ginger returned, and the very shocked doctor explained that Elaine had almost completely recuperated. It turns out that Ginger had made her previous visit during a very critical hour. Had Elaine not made it past that very hour, she would have died. It was Ginger's words that had carried her through. Elaine thenceforward considered Ginger to be her guardian angel.

Veronica Lake (right), despite her now well known feisty demeanor, was also a bashful and easily intimidated ingenue when she was just starting out in the business. Never fully certain that she wanted to be an actress, she already felt like an outsider when making the rounds as an extra with the other more obviously ambitious girls. Yet, Ronni was no shrinking violet, and she held her own and stayed true to who she was when thrown into the melting pot of hopeful young starlets. She certainly never thought she would make it big, but she was grateful when she was given opportunities in the business, and her discerning myopic eye easily zeroed in on people that she found to be truly helpful to her or genuinely hardworking and talented on their own. One such man who impressed her and won her respect was director John Farrow who worked with Ronni on Sorority House. Though "worked with" is probably too strong a phrase, since the two had little contact. Nonetheless, when she wrapped, Veronica decided to give John a token of her esteem- a Catholic medal. John was stunned, probably not having noticed the small girl amongst the other lovelies, but he accepted the gift willingly. Years later, the two would reunite, at which point Veronica was one of Hollywood's favorite sexpots. She didn't remember her small act of kindness to John, but he certainly did. He told her that the medal she had gifted him had actually saved his life. While fighting in WWII, he had been shot, but the medal had stopped the bullet! It turned out that a small act of kindness had gone a long way, and the pipsqueak beauty had become a savior to the war-weathered filmmaker.

Lon Chaney (left) was considered a silent saint to many. While he remained a mysterious man in the press, those who knew and worked with him were often touched by his far-reaching generosity and selflessness. A man of integrity, he could easily sniff out the like quality in others, and such people could always count on him for a hand in desperate times. His equal empathy for the underdog also created in him a sort of unexpected avenger. He always stuck up for his leading ladies when he felt they were being mistreated or manhandled, as Loretta Young and Joan Crawford could attest. But, he expected no gratitude for these acts. He simply stepped in, performed a selfless act, and then seemed to slip out again like a ghost. This was a characteristic always present in him, it seems, for examples of it can be found long before he ever reached stardom and started concocting his public persona. Sometime around 1915, when Lon was still struggling to get any work he could get his hands on, he like many had to take the the Pacific Electric cars up to the studios. On one particular day, there was a serious accident when a truck ran right into two of the rail cars. As a result, the truck passenger's left leg was severed. Without any hesitation, Lon, who was riding on one of the cars, ripped the shirt from his very body to help bandage and stop the bleeding of the injured man, who certainly would have died had it not been for the timely help. During a period of history when actors were frowned upon and ostracized in the early Hollywood community, this small act of heroism helped to change more than a few minds. For now, a nameless actor was a hero to one man, but in time he would be a great hero to many.

One of Moviedom's favorite onscreen couples was too one of Hollywood's best pair of friends. Montgomery Clift and Elizabeth Taylor became thick as thieves during the filming of A Place in the Sun (right), and while Liz may have preferred an offscreen romance as well, Monty's sexual preferences relegated their relationship to a platonic one. (Though rumor has it they did have a game or two of tonsil hockey). The pairing made sense. As two of the most beautiful people to ever grace the silver screen, they simply looked good together, and the deep and abiding love and respect that they had for each other endured until the end of Monty's life. Even Richard Burton was jealous of it. While the pals' union was prematurely severed with Monty's death, things were almost brought to an even more abrupt end much sooner. After attending a late night party at Liz's, with the likes of Rock Hudson and Liz's (at the time) husband Michael Wilding, a very tired and perhaps a little lubricated Monty jumped into his car to make the trek home. Another of Monty's lifelong friends, Kevin McCarthy, was ahead of him in his own car, leading the way down the hill to make sure that Monty got home ok. In his rear view mirror, Kevin witnessed Monty lose control of his vehicle and run straight into a telephone pole. 

Monty filming Raintree County with Liz post-crash.

As quickly as he could, Kevin raced back up to Liz's house for help, and immediately Elizabeth rushed down the hill to her friend, who lay beneath the dashboard, unconscious, his face half torn off, and covered in blood. Realizing that he was choking, she jammed her hand down his throat to remove his obstructing knocked out teeth, clearing his air passage and saving his life. Rock joined in, helping to pull Monty from the car as they awaited the ambulance. Liz insisted on riding to the hospital with her battered friend. Thanks to her, Monty did not die that night crumpled up in his car. He even gave her his two front teeth as souvenirs! However, he would suffer the consequences of the wreck for his remaining days. His handsome visage was irreparably marred, and the physical pain he experienced led to an even further dependence on chemical substitutes for alleviation. So, while this wreck didn't directly kill him, it helped to end his life further down the line. At this point in time, Liz was not willing to let him go. Had she always had him under her wing, perhaps she could have saved him in the long run. After Liz's own passing this past March, one hopes that the two are finally together again.

MENTAL MONTAGE: Screen Star Life Savers

BITS OF COINCIDENCE: Part Five

Has Anybody Seen... James Dean???

It is commonly accepted that James Dean appeared in only three films. Accepted, but untrue. One of James's first big breaks came when he was featured in the film Has Anybody Seen My Gal (left)? A bit part, his big screen moment amounted to him ordering a sundae from Charles Coburn. Hardly groundbreaking... In fact, after Dean's death, the film's star, Piper Laurie, had no idea that she had even been in a film with the late, great James Dean until it was pointed out to her. However, the film's other star, Rock Hudson, would remember Dean when they were cast together once more in Giant. Rock was not amused at the reunion, and (despite gossip to the contrary), he and James did not get along. Mutually threatened by the other's presence, Rock and James rarely conversed and constantly competed for the attention of Elizabeth Taylor, a friend to both. Perhaps it was a simple clash of egos; perhaps the more congenial Rock simply couldn't get around James's idiosyncratic behavior. But, perhaps Rock was a little jealous of the fact that the runt, bit player he once towered over had grown exponentially in popularity since Has Anybody Seen My Gal, and was now stealing scenes from him to boot!

James also did a lot of television work, which isn't popularly recalled. His television debut came via an Easter special-- "The Family Theater: Hill Number One" (right). In it, he played John the Apostle. His first professional part on film and he was cast opposite both struggling actors and seasoned thespians alike, including Raymond Burr, Ruth Hussey, Roddy McDowall, Gene Lockhart, and Leif Erickson. A struggling nobody at the time, his fame would surpass them all within 4 years when he made Elia Kazan's classic East of Eden. But, he did get some notice at the time. His first foray into film acting also spawned his first small fan club, whose meetings he gladly attended! After all, the boy loved attention...

After her days in the Hollywood limelight had faded, which was just fine with her, Jean Arthur (left) had some intermittent bouts teaching dramatics. One gig found her at Vassar in the spring of 1968 as co-instructor with Clint Atkinson. The odd-ball lady's teaching skills were often reported as sub-par, but her students normally fell under her spell nonetheless-- that is, after they realized who she was. In the days before Cable, DVDs, and Netflix, becoming familiar with celebrities of the glory days was not as easy as it is in present society. In fact, it seemed at times that Jean herself had forgotten her stature. The once famous screwball queen of Mr. Deeds Goes to Town no longer saw herself as anyone of import, and she  always remained humbled by other performers. Never recognizing her own talents, it wasn't uncommon for her to become tongue tied around someone she found truly gifted. For example, she once went to one of the plays Atkinson directed, "Miss Julie," and was so blown away by the lead female's performance that she forgot her own status and gushed: "It was just like watching a movie star!" It was a prophetic moment, for the young drama major Meryl Streep went onto a very healthy and groundbreaking cinematic career.

Meryl, as she appeared in her Vassar days.

Jean wasn't the only one responsible for accidentally spotting one of Hollywood's predestined diamonds in the rough. In 1944, actor Ronald Reagan (right in Knute Rockne All American) was already dabbling in politics and matters of state when he was made a Lieutenant of the army's First Motion Picture Unit. Coincidentally, he had the idea to boost the war effort by sending photographers out to take pictures of women doing their part for battle. As such, photographer Corporal David Conover was sent to Radioplane at the Glendale Metropolitan Airport to photograph pretty girls hard at work a la Rosie the Riveter. Conover was particularly taken with one beauty, whom his camera truly seemed to favor. After the pictures were printed, it was clear that the rest of America favored her too. Before she knew it, she was working steadily as a model for Emmeline Snively. Soon after changing her name from Norma Jeane Dougherty to Marilyn Monroe, and getting a divorce, she would work her tail off in the film biz and become a famous movie star. I wonder if she ever thanked ol' Ron for the boost?

This Norma Jeane had a long way to go before
she became Marilyn Monroe.

Harpo Marx adored children. The product of a large family himself, it was only natural that the Marx boy with the biggest heart would want a huge brood of his own. He and wife Susan Fleming would eventually adopt four children, all of whom worshipped their Pops, who was more of a child than they were most of the time. George Burns, a good friend, was so moved by Harpo's paternal penchants that he asked why he felt the need to have so many kids? Harpo responded-- with actual speech-- that his dream was to leave the house in the morning and have a smiling face waving to him from every window. I guess he was one kid short, because when shooting Horse Feathers in 1932, he became completely enchanted with a young actress who was ambling about the set with her mother. Though a very pretty little girl, Harpo mostly admired her spunk and unique talent, particularly because it was presented in such a small package. He offered to adopt the sweet pipsqueak for $50,000-- probably in jest, but with Harpo you never know. Shirley Temple decline the offer and stayed with her biological parents. Whoda thunkit? She could have been Shirley Marx-- part of the act!  But then, she was probably too mature for the rest of that gang.

Shirley feeds her belly, while Harpo feeds her ego.

There's no business like show business and no business so tough. It certainly helps to have a few people on your side, especially when it's family. However, the delightful singing trio of The Andrews Sisters-- Maxine, Patty, and Laverne (right)-- still had to overcome the same hurdles, despite having each other to lean on. Their one-two-three punch wasn't as original a gimmick as they'd hoped either. When staying in Chicago, it just so happened that another triplet of singing sisters were staying at the same hotel. At first, despite the age difference between the two sets, there was a little rivalry. Maxine used to rush to the building's rehearsal space in the morning to secure it for her sisters and lock the other intruders out. However, the ice was broken when the youngest member of the other group, nicknamed "Babe," asked to listen to the Andrews rehearse. Unable to say "No" to the adorable little girl, the sisters agreed. After singing awhile, they in turn asked Babe to offer up a song. When Frances Gumm opened her mouth and belted out "Bill" like nobody's business, the Andrews girls were left with their mouths hanging open. Maxine was so moved, she cried! Immediately, the  rivalry between the Andrews Sisters and The Gumm Drops disappeared and they became fast friends and allies. The Gumms would soon disband, but Judy Garland's voice had no problem going solo.

The Gumm Drops: Mary Jane, "Jimmie," and Judy.

And finally, in recognition of a recent royal wedding: Powerhouse actresses Olivia De Havilland and Grace Kelly were not formally acquainted in 1955. Divided by a generation gap, Grace was but one of the younger actresses in Hollywood who was taking on roles that would have once gone to diva extraordinaire Olivia. There were no hard feelings. Olivia was happily married to husband number two, Pierre Galante, and excited about her new life in France (happy coupled pictured left). However, she hadn't completely waved goodbye to Hollywood and was still active in the biz. Pierre used this to his advantage when, as movie editor of Paris-Match Magazine, he was looking for a good scoop in the featured Cannes Film Festival article. Knowing that Grace had been wooed to the event, he decided to use the aid of his wife, luckily a fellow actress, to arrange a fantastic story: "Hollywood Princess Grace Kelly meets Prince Rainier III of Monaco!" With Olivia as his co-conspirator, the duo offered to show Grace around Monaco, and "oh, by the way," introduce her to the Prince. Grace, who was actually quite bashful, begrudgingly agreed, and Pierre set up the meeting. However, there were scheduling conflicts, and after both parties finally settled on a decent time, Rainier still kept them waiting while running late from another engagement. Luckily, Olivia was there to keep Grace occupied with conversation. Had she not held her, Grace probably would have shrugged her shoulders and returned to the festival. Luckily, just as Grace was rising to leave, Rainier appeared, and offered her a tour of the palace, which she had already seen but out of kindness perused again. Afterward, Grace mildly reported to Olivia: "Well, he's very charming." Mission accomplished. The captured pictures were a sensation and the article was a hit. Little did Olivia and Pierre know that they had not only scored a scoop but had too shot the arrow of love.

Kate and William who??? Grace and Prince Rainier are wed just shy

of a year after their first meeting, thanks to O de H.

BITS OF COINCIDENCE: Part Five

PERSONAL NOTE: Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?

James Dean represents the salt of the earth and the bitter pill 

of the American struggle in Giant.

I didn't always understand the Western. It seemed too select, too geared toward a certain demographic, too cliched... In the modern day of Political Correctness, watching the token battles of Cowboys vs. Indians seemed a bit silly to say the least. I was never exposed to these films, thus my curiosity and appreciation for the genre remained dormant for several years, while I studied Noir, Musicals, Horror, etc. With a little prodding from Armando Jose Prats, (a man under whom I had the privilege of studying at the good ol' University of KY and author of Invisible Natives: Myth and Identity in the American Western), my eyes were finally opened to the beauties of the Western and its many versions of the American epic. Perhaps more than any other type of cinema, the Western epitomizes, glorifies, and translates the core of Americana, while other branches of the artistic medium are left to merely dissect its mutations. At long last, I "get" the Western, and having been awarded this second sight, I have too suffered a painful repercussion, for I witness in current society a compete dearth of like films. The recent remake of True Grit by the Coen Brothers, which was widely hailed and popularly ignored, and my recent reevaluation of James Dean's last film, Giant, made me start asking questions about this filmic fiasco. As such, pardon the following tangent:

The Western is no longer comprehensible to modern audiences. Why? Because the Western by default investigates and poeticizes the American Frontier. Today, it seems like such a thing doesn't even exist, nor is it fathomable that it ever did. For those of us who came of age in the silver spoon era of the Internet, technology has become our frontier. We adventure and explore realms of megabytes, gigabytes, iPhones, iPads, faster connections, more RAM, etc, etc, etc. Our experience of human evolution is inseparable from the Computer's metamorphosis. I remember my family's first Apple computer. The thing was slow as Hell and black & white. Today, I can watch a living color movie on the Blackberry I hold in my hand. In this era, which is not about land, roads, or even outer space, our final realm of conquest is unseen to the naked eye. We travel on highways of signals and waves. We cannot make a physical pilgrimage across the microchips we depend upon; we travel only mentally. It is because of this that our appreciation of the Western has suffered. (Gary Cooper and Mary Brian in The Virginian, left)

In the filmic terrain of the wild west, land is everything (as in The Massacre, right). Americana, the masculine identity, the establishment of country, and family roots are always dissected. This represents the very establishment of our country: people making a great and daring move to the unknown, staking their claim, and creating a foundation upon which to build a life. Land, the earth, and the eternal struggle of claiming it and building upon it: that was what the West was all about. Sadly, the treatment of the American Indian was rarely portrayed with accuracy-- somehow, when history was brought to life in technicolor, the Native who had been kicked off his land was the bully, and the white man with the steel toe boots was the innocent victim. (This philosophy was later brilliantly mocked in Little Big Man). However, the ideals, if not the facts, remain in tact. Today's civilization does not face the same challenges as the frontiersman. In the beginning, we built up and out, and now that we've hit the roof on physical structure, we're downsizing. 

Strange as it sounds, Tron Legacy (left) is one of the only films that has accurately portrayed this alteration. Tron is a Cyber-Western. Because man can no longer build out literally, so he must build inwardly in the landscapes of cyberspace. An alternate universe and dimension is created in Tron-- a new America produced by Jeff Bridges's very God-like figurehead. A pure people-- natives-- is being wiped out by an invading new breed of computer-generated beings-- foreign invaders-- when a renegade outsider/cowboy saunters into town. He journeys in the name of his father to inherit the burden of the land that he made. He arrives, in the quest of his roots, to better know himself. While there is no dual at dawn with pistols, there is an electronic Circus Maximus battle with Frisbee... thingies. There are no horses, but there are magic wands that turn into motorbikes. This film was, thus, our first adventure into our new mythical, technological frontier. In a surprising sort of way, it represents our generation's Star Wars in that it has opened up a new universe for us to play in. After all, with nowhere else to go on planet earth, the only realm left for expansion seems to be that of imagination.

But does this new mutation possess the same heart and depth of its predecessor, the true American Western? The films that made heroes of John Wayne (right in Stagecoach), Gary Cooper, and Alan Ladd, were not sleek, streamlined, and pumping with adrenaline. They were dirty, gritty, violent, and brimming with an integrity that both survived and was born of these factors. Man and God, God and Country... These were things worth fighting for, which too seems like an insane proposition considering the pagan society we live in presently, where our golden idols of pop stars and green tea smoothies have eclipsed any prospect of a "higher power." If God does exist at all, he cannot exist in this America. The heavy fabric of smog, cell phone signals, and radio waves make it impossible for him to penetrate our world. And besides, we're not looking to the heavens above for guidance when we have Google. In the previously expansive continent of the unknown, America demanded His participation far more. Modern faith interprets the old faith of the Western, thus, with cynicism.

This snobbery is a shame, for Westerns are a reflection of our very nature. The society in which we currently live is unarguably the ancestor of the pioneer society. Before racism was explored in Spike Lee's Do the Right Thing, John Wayne portrayed early American prejudice in The Searchers. Before gang warfare became synonymous with inner-city life, it was graphically detailed in the violent, survivalistic camaraderie of The Wild Bunch (left). While people continue to bicker back and forth about politics-- left wing, right wing, who's right, who's wrong-- they sometimes forget that at one point there were no "wings" at all; that our entire political system, government, and right to a free life was not born in a day. This subject too is showcased in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, where structure, order, and bravery overcome lawlessness and subjugation; where man's ability to govern himself and escape oppression reveals itself in the establishment of government.

Giant is a film that reflects all of these qualities. While it is not remembered as the pinnacle Dean film, an honor that belongs to Rebel Without a Cause, it is just as important to our cinematic history and just as indicative of our cultural history. The small town of Marfa, and indeed the whole state of Texas, was not initially keen on the idea of this famous novel being turned into a movie. They felt that Edna Ferber's account of their lifestyle was negative and accusatory. However, director George Stevens used his charm to convey to the locals that he was dedicated to telling their own story, a faithful and true depiction of country life and morality, and not a glamorized Hollywood concoction. His diligent striving for this authenticity is one of the many contributing factors that has allowed Giant to maintain its classic stature. Stevens asked locals to teach his actors how to speak with the proper Texan twang, he used them as advisers on farm life, and many of these small town people served as Extras in the big Hollywood film. Most particularly, the Marfa community embraced James Dean, who probably spent more time with the cowboys, who taught him to ride and lasso, than he did with the rest of his cast. He studied their accents until his original Indiana drawl was drawn out into the bashful and broken Southern dialect of the tragic hero Jett Rink.

The film's themes were universal: racism, interracial romance, honor, wealth, roots, gender roles, family, and above all land. Cowboy and rodeo man Bob Hinkle was proud to refer to his new friend Jimmy (left) as a "good ol' boy," and it was because of his instruction that James so adeptly stole one famous scene from powerhouse actor Rock Hudson: while Jordan Benedict (Rock) tries to outwit Jett (Jimmy) from a piece of land, offering him money instead, Jett barely listens, playing all the while with a piece of rope. He then stands, performs a little trick in which he ties a knot in mid-air, politely refuses the dough, keeps his land, and exits with his now notorious Jett Rink wave. This, to the locals, was Texas: a simple man, building himself up from nothing, who knew that there was more value and dignity in the soil beneath his feet than in all of the money in the world. Of course, the opposing forces of Jett and Jordan are later inverted. After Jett strikes oil, his greed and need for power, his desire to one-up Jordan (the man who had it all: the land, the money, and the woman of his dreams), destroys him, while the older Jordan unlearns his old prejudices, adapts to the changing times, and finds true honor inside himself after he witnesses the fruits of his labor maturing into a different generation of life-- one that he still loves, because it is of his blood.

Another important moment comes from Elizabeth Taylor, who takes one of the first feminist stances in Western cinema history when she defies her own stereotype (right with Rock). From the beginning, her culture and forward-thinking politics combat her new husband Jordan's old-fashioned ways. It is she who enters the ghettos of the Mexican laborers; it is she who talks to her servants as equals. It is she who too stands up against a crowd of smoking men, whose conversation she would like to share. After she is insulted by them, told not to worry her "pretty, little head" about politics, she snaps back. "You mean my pretty, empty head, don't you!?" (Only Bette Davis can match Liz in her bitchy retorts). Liz as Leslie Benedict too represents the eternal mother, one who not only nurtures her children's wishes, even when they digress from old traditions, but embraces Jett and his need to better himself, and indeed envelopes the whole community as it struggles to thrive. Giant, in cinematic history, thus remains a giant, for not only does it explore old American themes, but it expands upon them, breaks them, and translates them to future generations. We recognize the battles of our forefathers while honoring them with change. We evolve, yet maintain our roots.

This is what is lacking today. There are no roots. There is no history. Every day is brand new. Thus, there is no room for the Cowboy. His struggles are forgotten, and his battles of saddle and spur are, in turn, received as visual gibberish. He is as mythic as Zeus on Mt. Olympus. In the old West, the cowboy was God, even when sitting and smoking in his little shack, watching the sun rise and fall, or riding off into the sunset. He had what we do not, which is an America of the earth, not an America at the push of a button. Though the cowboy is the figure that will forever represent the heart of America, he exists today as the mysterious foreigner who does not fit into modern movies. Today, we are concerned with action; yesterday, man was defined by his actions.

Shane (Alan Ladd) has trouble leaving behind little Joey.

 Shane perhaps best epitomizes the last hurrah of the cowboy, with Alan Ladd's Shane riding into town, bringing with him a history of violence, yet an honor and a dignity that shakes up and alters local life. His brief presence forever changes the land he has set foot upon. But, at the end, he must leave. He must bow his head and ride away, for he has nothing more to teach. What is done with the knowledge he has left behind is up to those who remain. He rides off into the distance to new territory, but perhaps more symbolically to Heaven. His disappearance leaves behind a vacancy, a curiosity. Was he a man, or was he a ghost? Whatever the case, he stands as the spirit of America, a land that, like the Lost City of Atlantis, can only be visited in the movies.

PERSONAL NOTE: Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?