Monday, November 23, 2009

1956 AND THEREABOUTS

Over at StinkyLulu’s, the latest Supporting Actress Smackdown throws a spotlight on 1956. Reviewing the nominated performances for that year, Lulu and cohorts make some interesting observations - as always -then rebestow the trophy on the lady who stirs up the warmest Smackdown reaction. As it happens, the Academy’s roster that year is one of my least favourites. Virtually all chosen from movies I simply don’t like. The bloated GIANT, lofty reputation inexplicably intact, sits firmly near the top of my “I don’t-get-it” list . THE BAD SEED I find stagey and overstated. BABY DOLL tries to shock but tends to bore. And as for WRITTEN ON THE WIND, well, my appreciation for Douglas Sirk is fairly limited. The first 30 minutes or so of LA HABANERA make a pretty compelling showcase for glamorous Nazi-era superstar Zarah Leander. I also like certain elements of HAS ANYBODY SEEN MY GAL and ALL THAT HEAVEN ALLOWS. And I’m glad Sirk’s work was there to provide a template for Todd Haynes’ brilliant FAR FROM HEAVEN. But that’s about it. I’ll take Haynes. You can have Sirk . Certainly you’re welcome to WRITTEN ON THE WIND, a picture that shoves buckets of soapsuds down people’s throats with the inevitable result – bad taste on a massive scale. The ’56 nominees were Mercedes McCambridge (GIANT), Patty McCormack and Eileen Heckart (THE BAD SEED), Mildred Dunnock (BABY DOLL) and Dorothy Malone (WRITTEN ON THE WIND). With the exception of Heckart (I just don’t dig her – ever), I’ve enjoyed all these ladies immensely elsewhere. But these particular performances I’d never have nominated. I was about seven when they first came out. And since I was already movie-crazy, they were certainly on my radar. But they were all pretty much marketed as “Adults Only” fare. And I didn’t get to see any of them till years later. When I eventually did, my reaction to all of them was more or less the same - “Is that all there is?”
My movie memories from 1956 are vivid – but revolve around an entirely different batch of films. I recall that
my classroom – probably my whole (Catholic) school - was dutifully marched off to the Capitol Theatre to see THE TEN COMMANDMENTS. Now, if there was ever a movie that gave my generation solid bang for the buck, it was DeMille’s gaudy biblical blitzkrieg. I can still see that unique onscreen prologue, the director himself emerging from behind an imposing curtain, then parceling out words with a sonorous God-like gravity. In those days, DeMille, Hitchcock and (Uncle Walt) Disney were the Holy Trinity of showmen. Expert self- promoters all, they specialized in delivering what the public craved (having already convinced audiences exactly what it was they did crave). DeMille’s TEN COMMANDMENTS preamble set viewers up for something colossal. And darn it if the picture didn’t deliver the goods. We kids filed out of the theatre thunderstruck and sated, newly minted into walking Mount Sinai tablets. Prepared to spread the word -not God’s, but DeMille’s. An army of mini-pitchmen with a single message : “This you’ve gotta see!” I remember being scandalized when my parents went to the film one evening and professed to be royally bored by the whole thing. I believe my Dad slept through most of it. I just couldn’t process their reaction. I’ve seen THE TEN COMMANDMENTS many times over the years and it still strikes me as an astonishingly well- assembled entertainment juggernaut. Somehow a battery of screenwriters cobbled together material from the five Books of Moses, the histories of Philo and Josephus, two or three religious potboilers and – for all I know- a couple of verses of “Skip to My Lou”, teasing it all into a perfect pulp poetry script – cohesive and quotable. As when Pharaoh, pooh-poohing a possible slave rebellion, intones “I measure my enemies by their swords, not by their chains.” As a movie Moses, Heston - with or without his prince’s lock – is right on the money. Brynner, Baxter and Hardwicke – all at the top of their respective games – savour the dialogue, soothing it along or spitting it out in a kind of actorly ecstasy. No other biblical epic ever got it quite this right. Elmer Bernstein’s score, for instance, grabs you by the shoulderblades from the get-go. Erupting with a regal boil under that giddily insane initial image of the Paramount mountain doubling as a blood-red Mount Sinai. And then there’s all that pre-CGI spectacle – the massive under-construction Treasure City , the Exodus, the panoramic launching of Pharaoh’s war chariots and – of course - the whiz-bang parting of the Red Sea – all calculated to leave audiences limp with glee. Over the years I find my initial reaction hasn’t really changed that much. Loved it then. Love it now.

A similarly towering movie memory of mine from ’56 centers on another cinematic slice of antiquity. I prefer my peplum Jesus-free. And as a kid I was a Greek mythology junkie. So when a massive billboard dominating our town’s main street began trumpeting the imminent arrival of Warner Brothers’ HELEN OF TROY, I was practically doing cartwheels. I couldn’t wait. Everything I wanted from a movie seemed to be encapsulated on that billboard. Massive city walls, a kick-ass Trojan horse, clashing armies and a face that looked as if it really could launch a thousand ships. As in the case of The DeMille film, when I finally got to see the picture I was 100% satisfied. I saw it over and over. First-run, second-run and beyond. Rossana Podesta and Jack(Jacques) Sernas were suddenly my favorite screen team, temporarily sidelining Abbott & Costello. Even now when I hear the names Helen and Paris, theirs are the faces I see. I found myself reading everything I could about the movie and its stars. What I didn’t find out, I just made up. I remember telling my grandmother that they’d held a world-wide beauty contest and Rossana Podesta had been unanimously certified as the world’s most beautiful woman – the only one worthy of playing Helen of Troy. Don’t know if my grandmother believed me. But she seemed to go along with it for my sake. Fabricator I might be - but I was her little fabricator. I can remember staring into the window at Franchi’s (half confectionery, half barbershop) at their single copy of the Dell classic comic book of HELEN OF TROY, with its enticing cover-shot of Rossana Podesta in purple. Ten cents. But it was ten cents I didn’t have. I’d already spent my allowance so I begged and cajoled my mother to advance me next week’s. She said no and wouldn’t budge. And that Holy Grail of a comic book disappeared from Franchi’s window a day or two later, destined for the home of some undeserving so-and-so who I'm sure didn't want it as much as I did. This Dell movie classic bobbed around in my consciousness one way or the other for decades afterwards.
Till I finally snagged one at a comics convention when I was in my late 20’s. The lack of a dime in 1956 had kept the prize in Franchi’s window out of my grasp for all those years but - in the end  -I got my mitts on it.
In the summer of 1956 my parents took me along on a trip to Duluth. And I nearly had a seizure when I spotted a movie theatre that was playing the next Podesta film - SANTIAGO, a Warnercolor opus that teamed her with another of my favourites, Alan Ladd. I’d already heard about it. But it hadn’t reached our neck of the woods yet. I remember another bout of pleading and wheedling. Please. Please. Please. Can’t we go in and watch it? For whatever reason, it was no go. And I had to wait till it finally showed up in my Canadian hometown some weeks later. But see it I did, love it I did – and this time – with ten cents in my pocket just when I needed it most - I even managed to get my hands on the Dell movie classic edition. Guess I just assumed there’d be an endless series of Rossana Podesta movies in the days and years to come. So I was pretty disappointed when she just dropped off the radar. Seems after a short sojourn in Hollywood she simply went back to Europe. Continuing her film career - but in foreign-language movies far from the Hollywood spotlight. The Sophia Loren level of stardom she’d seemed destined for never materialized. For one thing, during the 60’s she worked almost exclusively with her husband Mario Vicario, a minor director. He kept her busy – but in nondescript vehicles, few of which ever seemed to wash up on this side of the ocean. It’s a crying shame she never worked with Fellini or Antonioni or Visconti. Never fully explored the artistic potential she clearly possessed. She and Vicario divorced years later but by that time her her film career was nearing its end. And after co-starring with another legendary Italian actress, Alida Valli in a warmly reviewed drama called SEGRETI SEGRETI, she quietly retreated from the spotlight, leaving on a grace note. In 1979 I had an unexpected opportunity to meet Rossana Podesta. And to say this childhood heroine of mine lived up to my expectations is sheer understatement. Still gorgeous, she turned out to be a kind, charismatic lady – warm and generous. And still fully capable, I’d imagine, of launching at least a thousand ships. Not too long ago I learned that Rossana Podesta’s now the mate of Walter Bonatti, a famous Italian mountaineer/journalist. As romantic a figure in his own right as she is in hers. What’s more, the relationship seems to be working. They’ve been together for more than 25 years. Sometimes travelling, sometimes living quietly in a lovely rustic home in bucolic Dubino, Italy. A happy fate for the beautiful lady who –as Helen of Troy - made so many hearts beat faster in 1956.

And speaking of 1956. that brings us back to the Supporting Actress Smackdown. Though I don’t care for any of the five performances nominated in ‘56, I do think there were a number of award-worthy turns that went unacknowledged that year. Debbie Reynolds, for instance, gave what I’d say was the performance of
her career in Paddy Chayefsky’s well-oiled Bronx drama THE CATERED AFFAIR. She concentrated on dialing down her trademark exuberance and did it to terrific effect. Known then for her work in candy-floss musicals, she was probably excited to be in a prestigious drama. But – truth be told - the producers were lucky to have her. She interacted beautifully in a distinguished ensemble, elevating every one of her scenes with a stripped-down but compassionate approach. Playing a working-class girl who just wants to marry fiancĂ© Rod Taylor on the quiet and get on with her life. But finds herself sucked into her mother’s plans for a lollapalooza of a wedding that threatens to leave the family bankrupt and battling. Bette Davis plays the mother and what she lacks in Bronx authenticity, she more than makes up for in sheer unadulterated watchability. And Reynolds is especially good in her scenes with Bette. Expressing frustrated affection and mounting panic with subtle conviction, staking an equal claim to audience attention even when Bette’s operating full-tilt.

My old favourite THE TEN COMMANDMENTS didn’t chalk up any acting nominations. But I think a number of the participants were certainly nomination-worthy. A totally invested Nina Foch shows what a
first-class actress can do in a peripheral part. As Bithia, the Egyptian princess who finds a baby in the bullrushes, she never showboats. But she’s always totally in character, starting as a young widow and progressing through the years from sadness to joy, from anger to panic, from agony to resignation. And her make-up’s good too. She shares a lot of her scenes with Judith Anderson, playing her head slave, Memnet. Anderson opts for a kind of commanding subordination and explores the territory with reptilian resourcefulness. I’m not always onboard with Anderson in other films. I’m no Mrs. Danvers fan, for instance. But when she’s on target, she’s something to see. Think LAURA or THE FURIES. In THE TEN COMMANDMENTS she pitches her effects at just the right
 level, I think. A woman whose instinct for survival evaporates under the heat of her own obsessive caste-consciousness. She just can’t shake the memory of that Levite cloth. And her inability to let things lie leads to her downfall (literally). One of my favourite moments in the film arrives when Foch and Anderson spot Heston and Baxter canoodling on a staircase. Ever the grumbler, Anderson can’t resist a jab. ‘Now the flame you lighted burns close to the throne.” Foch’s response is golden. Not even looking at her, but with the eloquent flutter of a jet black fan in her direction, she instantly sheds her usual warmth uttering a steely, “Your tongue will dig your grave, Memnet.”All on its own that scene makes me feel quite comfortable recommending retroactive nominations for both ladies.

One of ‘56’s unsung joys – and a feast for actress lovers - is the wry western THE KING AND 4 QUEENS, with Clark Gable and a passle of feisty women all angling to get their hands on some hidden outlaw gold. Every one of the female roles in the film is sharply crafted. Eleanor Parker – in the last of her peak performances - bristles with a sexy caginess. Jo Van Fleet’s commanding as ever. Sara Shane rings a few decorously spiky changes in the girl next door, while professional birdbrain Barbara Nichols carries on with screechy expertise. But my favourite of the ladies is Jean Willes. She’s Ruby, a no-nonsense tigress with
 an accent that makes you think she just rolled in on the last wagon train from Puerto Rico. Which should be hard to swallow but isn’t because Willes’ vocal inflections are such spicy fun. It’s easy to picture Ruby in a killer cat-fight with Rita Moreno in WEST SIDE STORY. She’s a man-eater with a stripped-down philosophy. Men want sex. She’s out to see they get it. She likes it too –especially if it’s garnished with a dollop of outlaw loot. Willes bites into the role with a deadpan fury – a low-rent Maria Felix who’s just as much dangerous fun as the real thing. She knows the ways to make her man purr. But just let him look at another woman and somebody’s liable to wind up with a shiv in their ribs. Willes had been on the scene since the 40’s, a resourceful all-purpose contract player. And in the 50’s a regular and welcome fixture at Saturday matinees. Tough but beautiful. Perhaps most memorable in JUNGLE JIM AND THE FORBIDDEN LAND(1952) as a scheming pith-helmeted villainess who gives the Wicked Queen in SNOW WHITE a run for her money. She stirs up plenty of mischief till finally getting thrown over a cliff by one of the Forbidden Land’s Missing Links. To thunderously cathartic Saturday Matinee applause, I might add, because Jean Willes made the character so much fun to hate. She performed regularly on television – always displaying professionalism plus that little something extra that made you remember her with pleasure. Stardom eluded her. But she plugged on. Landing in an A-picture with Gable, Willes made the most of the opportunity. Managing to find the meat in the role , then making a memorable meal of it. Memorable enough, I think, to add her name to the list of supporting actress nominees in ’56.

But my trophy that year would’ve gone to another hard-boiled B-movie icon of the era.
Adele Jergens was the ne plus ultra of brass-plated blonde glamour girls. Stunning, statuesque – she could’ve done duty as a carved figurehead on the prow of a ship. With an Olympian quality that distinguished her from the rest of the underworld blondes. Her floozies were authoritative, her strippers headliners. Even her voice was commanding. And she knew how to use it to make a man feel like a big shot or a worm. If she didn’t exactly create the tough blonde prototype she certainly refined it to perfection. Onscreen, Adele Jergens operated as arm candy of the most imposing sort, the arm generally belonging to a mobster. Flashy clothes, bracelets up to her elbows, fifty bucks for the powder room. These were her hallmarks. Status, disreputable but profitable – not romance – was generally the keynote of her onscreen relationships. When any gangster, shady promoter or con artist wanted to convey the fact that business was booming, Jergens existed as the perfect accessory. The living equivalent of a flashy car.
She’d first come to prominence as Miss World’s Fairest ( New York World’s Fair, 1939). Then paraded over to Broadway for a season or two as a showgirl. A brief gig as Gypsy Rose Lee’s understudy suggested that Jergens’ future didn’t lie in dewy ingĂ©nue roles. On the West Coast, a stock contract at Fox led only to bits, but Columbia signed her in ’44 , placing her first in an Irene Dunne-Charles Boyer comedy called TOGETHER AGAIN (a great picture by the way), as a stunningly groomed stripper who always keeps her hat on. Fan mail started arriving and Columbia began making plans for their new acquisition. She starred with Cornel Wilde in an elaborate Arabian Nights vehicle A THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS – shot in eye-popping 40’s Technicolor. Seen today, the color and Jergens’ drop-dead glamour are practically the only things the picture has going for it. Otherwise, it focuses relentlessly on bad comedy with Phil Silvers mangling scene after scene with his mugging. Still, in ’45 audiences turned up in big numbers. Trouble was, when it came to glamour girls, Columbia pretty much concentrated their resources on their one true superstar, Rita Hayworth. The studio’s few big vehicles tended to go to her; the other girls usually spent their time shuttling from one B-picture to another. Which is where Adele Jergens wound up. THE WOMAN FROM TANGIER, WHEN A GIRL’S BEAUTIFUL, SLIGHTLY FRENCH – and other titles just as obscure. The fact that she was good in these quickies didn’t seem to get her any closer to stardom. When Rita couldn’t do femme fatale duty in the noirish DEAD RECKONING opposite Humphrey Bogart, it looked as if Adele’s moment might’ve come at last. But in the end the studio borrowed Lizabeth Scott to do the honors. Jergens’ questionable consolation prize? A couple of scenes in Rita Hayworth’s latest big-budget musical, DOWN TO EARTH. This is the opulent stinker where Rita plays the Greek goddess Terpsichore descended to earth to save Larry Parks’ floundering Broadway show. And it’s every bit as stupid as it sounds. Jergens is cast as the temperamental star Rita replaces. Trouble is the little we get to see of Adele onstage is a lot more diverting than the pretentious Parthenon claptrap Rita serves up. The picture’s a kind of horribly misconceived precursor of THE BAND WAGON. With Hayworth eventually abandoning the high-falutin’ stuff for the good of the show – and doing it Broadway-style. Except what’s presented here as Broadway pizzaz is also lousy – a kind of stumblebum version of Agnes DeMille set to a score that ought’ve been strangled at birth. It all constitutes an awful waste of the awesome Rita, leaving Jergens’ brief musical sequence (vocals dubbed by a young Kay Starr) and her attendant temper tantrum the film’s only claim to actual entertainment value.
Rita was the reigning love goddess of the 40's.
A year after DOWN TO EARTH . Adele co-starred with future 50’s love goddess Marilyn Monroe
In a quickie called LADIES OF THE CHORUS. Considering Monroe’s enduring status, I’m always surprised this picture isn’t more talked about. It’s the first big part MM ever had – and she’s charming in it. It’s like seeing one of those garden-fresh Norma Jean Baker photos from the 40’s suddenly come to life. The script is Simple Simon stuff, probably whipped off a few hours before the cameras started cranking. But top-billed Adele and wide-eyed Marilyn are both good company for an hour. The two play mother and daughter burlesque queens – which sounds a lot kinkier than it plays, believe me. Considering the film’s utter lack of anything that could be construed as raunchy, they might as well be mother and daughter stenographers. The fact is, though, that Adele, barely out of her twenties herself, was playing the mother of an actress in her early twenties. Which may reflect Jergens’ singular lack of ego. Or maybe the fact that her status at the studio was so precarious she took whatever was offered without a murmur. Certainly Columbia couldn’t have been too concerned about her image if they were willing to rush her into “mature” parts so soon. Whatever the case, both Adele and Marilyn played their roles with ease and precision. Even the songs were better than the twaddle on offer in DOWN TO EARTH. Both ladies got to perform a little dandy called “Every Baby Needs a Da Da Daddy” and did it up brown. Whatever, Jergens was freelancing by the end of the 40’s. By which time she’d honed her Juke Joint Jezebel persona to perfection. Hers was the blueprint others copied, but seldom equalled. Unfortunately, it was not the kind of character Hollywood was writing leads for. She was always on the sidelines, frequently up to no good - but sometimes just spitting out withering one-liners to put punks in their places. And she inevitably looked good doing it. One of Jergens’ specialties (and nobody did it better) involved scenarios where she had to coax something out of some hapless buffoon. Huntz Hall, say, or – even better – Lou Costello. In ABBOTT & COSTELLO MEET THE INVISIBLE MAN(1951), she’s gangster’s moll, Boots. Assigned to convince babe-in-the-woods Lou (mistaken for a prizefighter) to throw a match. She first vamps him at a nightclub, hilarious as she alternately coos over Costello and gives Abbott the deep freeze. “I live at the Ritz-Carlton ,” she purrs invitingly to Lou. “So do I” pipes up Bud. Jergens shoots a quick dirty look in his direction and says “I hope you like your room”. Ouch! Later, having lured Lou up to her suite, she sidles up to him in a black negligee and -needless to say – reducing him to silly putty doesn’t take long. But the interplay’s marvelous, with Lou babbling and blundering, while Jergens alternates her come-ons with sublimely exasperated side-glances that say “give me strength!”.
I also love her in AARON SLICK FROM PUNKIN CRICK, a breezy 1952 musical commentators seldom mention except to dump on it. I’m super-fond of the picture myself. Most of it’s filmed in the open air, a nice change from those misguided attempts Hollywood frequently made to reproduce the outdoors on a soundstage. Dinah Shore and Alan Young lead the cast as neighboring farmer/sweethearts. Doris Day and Donald O’Connor would’ve been sensational. But Shore and Young do quite nicely, thank you. None of the songs were hits. But they’re all good – and presented with plenty of zip. Veteran Minerva Urecal, usually an
 old vinegar-puss, has her best-ever role as Shore’s BFF. The old gal even gets to join Dinah in a song ,and pulls it off with aplomb. Singer Robert Merrill and Adele play city slickers trying to hoodwink the innocent pair out of their land and money. The whole thing’s set in the horse-and-buggy era, with the turn-of-the-century glad-rags setting Jergens’ figure off to a tee. As the Shore and King characters –protected by their own sheer gormlessness - unwittingly evade one scheme after another, Jergens conducts what amounts to a master-class in slow burns. Further aggravated by nagging suspicions that boyfriend Merrill’s just a little too attracted to sunny Shore. Adele nets a few hefty fish-out-of-water laughs as she fights to maintain some dignity during a round of farmyard misadventures. Trudging through the muck in her finery, she’s set upon by a pack of hostile chickens. And her mood’s only further soured by Dinah’s cheery observation, “Must be the shiny buckles on your shoes.”
It’s worth mentioning that Adele bears a striking resemblance to another actress who flourished at the same time. That would be Virginia Mayo, who also arrived in movies in the early 40’s. She, however, was the lucky recipient of a big buildup from Samuel Goldwyn, who gave her leads (frequently opposite Danny Kaye) in a string of splashy color vehicles. They were all box-office hits, establishing Mayo as a sizable name. Later, at Warner Brothers, she sustained the momentum through much of the 50’s. Mayo and Jergens looked so much alike they could have been sisters. Some pretty seasoned movie fans still have trouble telling them apart. And though film-makers went to some lengths to soften the image, Mayo was generally at her best playing the kind of hard-boiled, well-enamelled blondes that were Adele Jergens’ specialty. But while Mayo worked opposite big names like Gregory Peck, Alan Ladd, Bob Hope and James Cagney, Jergens scratched around for a living, often in precarious B’s like RADAR SECRET SERVICE, FIREMAN SAVE MY CHILD and BLUES BUSTERS(with the Bowery Boys). Which isn’t to say she wasn’t her usual striking self in all of them. But as Mayo moved from one plush vehicle to the next, Jergens had to be content with scraps. The finest performance Mayo ever gave was in William Wyler’s THE BEST YEARS OUR LIVES – as Dana Andrews’ floozie of a wife, only satisfied when she’s rubbing shoulders with the low-lives at Jackie’s Hot Spot. Jergens could’ve done that role to a golden turn. Maybe not better than Mayo (who was admittedly terrific) but surely just as well. I always felt it would’ve been only natural for Adele Jergens to harbour at least a modicum of resentment towards Virginia Mayo. Surely she’d have been ecstatic to land just one of Mayo’s innumerable palmy assignments. And considering that onscreen each had such an effective line in hard-edged dames, I’d have thought if they ever met, it might well have been daggers at dawn. Turns out I was all wrong. Apparently Jergens and Mayo were bosom buddies – and remained so all their lives -long after their film careers were over and done with. Instead of seeing themselves as rivals, they apparently hit it off - genuine kindred souls. Certainly they seemed to have identical tastes in grooming - both projecting the same hard platinum gleam. What’s more, while most of Hollywood’s onscreen good girls seemed to change husbands like they changed hairstyles, Jergens and Mayo each married once – and for keeps. They may have played calculating vixens in the movies. But apparently – in real life – they were nice women who lived long and relatively happy lives with husbands who loved them. Both ladies chose macho actors as mates. For Mayo it was burly Michael O’Shea. For Jergens, Glenn Langan, a slab of prime beefcake who spent a few palmy years at Fox as onscreen consort to some of that studio’s tastiest leading ladies (Gene Tierney, Jeanne Crain, Linda Darnell). Langan eventually left the movies and became a fairly successful businessmen. As I said, Jergens and Mayo remained close over the years. I have an image in my head of the two of them – glamorous peas in a pod - poised to enter some swanky nightspot together. They synchronize compacts - a little dab here, a little dab there – pause for a nod of mirror-imaged mutual approval , then sweep in to rock the room.
Maverick film-maker Roger Corman was just getting started in the mid-50’s, producing and directing shoestring quickies, then finding ways to get them into theatres. An expert at wringing the last gasp of value out of every dollar, he built a lean, efficient little no-frills movie-making operation. While the major studios sweated buckets of red ink, Corman – canny, resourceful and tireless –churned out the kind of cheap but exploitable product that kept drive-in owners and their audiences hollering for more. Gunslingers, baby face killers, dragstrips and devil worshippers – Corman tried them all and tried them often. A string of cut-rate sci-fi titles yielded especially tasty profits. In typical 50’s style, the posters promised shocks and sensations the films themselves stopped well short of delivering. Which isn’t to say Roger Corman’s stripped-down little programmers didn’t have their pleasures. For one thing, Corman had an eye for talent and was an expert at roping interesting actors into his projects. Sometimes these actors were (at least hopefully) on the way up. But more often they were veterans on the way down – performers the majors studios regarded as used up. Their commercial heydays may have passed , but years of experience had sharpened both their expertise and adaptability. The kind of performers who could hit their marks and get it right on the first take. Dorothy Malone, who’d definitely turned heads as a Warner Brothers contractee in the late 40’s seemed to be fading when Corman signed her for a pair of mini-budgeters in 1954. THE FAST AND THE FURIOUS, a ramshackle race-car opus, had a particularly shot-on-the-fly feeling to it. But Malone was terrific. And just as good in the Corman western that followed (FIVE GUNS WEST). Somebody must have noticed. Because within a year or so, she was Hollywood’s newest Golden Girl , sweeping up to the podium to collect an Oscar for the plushly produced WRITTEN ON THE WIND. Corman, meanwhile, was still working at breakneck pace – turning out, among other things, a post-apocalyptic sci-fi-er called  DAY THE WORLD ENDED. This was no 2012 by any stretch of the imagination. Black and white, shot on scruffy-looking sets with a few quick forays around Griffith Park, it was pure guerrilla film-making. But the script has a clunky immediacy. And the cast is excellent. Headed by Richard Denning, who’s always been a favourite of mine. Evergreen charm, Lustre-creme hair, reassuring good-guy aura and a silverlode of a speaking voice. There’s a lot of things I hate about 1958’s AN AFFAIR TO REMEMBER. But one aspect that particularly sticks in my craw - how on earth could Deborah Kerr have possibly dumped him for smug Cary Grant? 
Anyway, DAY THE WORLD ENDED has scientist Paul Birch and daughter Lori Nelson holed up in their isolated rural bunglalow after some sort of massive nuclear event. Outside, most of the world’s population seems to be either dead or mutating into nasty bargain basement monsters. Seems Birch, having predicted something of this sort all along, has organized enough provisions and precautions(???) to see him and Nelson through the worst of it. Gradually, however, they’re joined by a rag-tag assortment of stragglers, who (so far) seem to seem to have escaped the worst effects of the nuclear haymaker. Cooped up together, everybody’s soon on everybody else’s nerves, with tempers flying and provisions dwindling.Among those gathered – hunky archaeologist Denning, old prospector Raymond Hatton (and his mule) And best of all, barging and griping their way onto the scene in a top-down convertible, come small-time hood Touch Connors and his flashy peroxide blonde girl friend. Connors was an up-and-comer who eventually morphed into TV star Mike Connors (“Mannix”). He’s in the groove here, mean and antsy, complete with itchy libido and itchier trigger finger. The woman with him? It’s our Adele. And here – in this hastily thrown together set-up – she gives the performance of her life. Her name’s Ruby - and she’s lost none of her caustic edge. Still able to deliver a put-down that’s the psychic equivalent of a well-placed knee to the groin.But Ruby’s older now – probably pushing forty. Nowadays any woman with sufficient amounts of disposable income, vanity and motivation can stave off middle age till she’s a pensioner. Back in the 50’s, things were different. If you were forty, nobody took you for twenty. And there weren’t any pills or potions back then potent enough to permanently dispel that sinking feeling that the party was basically over. Especially if – like Ruby – you were a stripper who’d seen better days. From here on in, the good times were something you might occasionally glimpse in the rear-view mirror. Ruby’s still feisty – but her headlining days are over. No more belle of the ball. Her much younger boyfriend sees her as a meal-ticket. And even on those terms, it’s getting harder to hang on to him. Plus – of course – there’s that little matter of a nuclear holocaust hanging over her head. Jergens puts her well-oiled prototype into play. But here it’s only a jumping-off point. The budget’s miniscule, the shooting pace hectic . But the pressure seems to inspire her – and though the context may be shaky, the role’s pretty sizable. Picking up on the energy level around her, Jergens doesn’t falter, gradually exploring facets of her screen character she’d never really exposed before. When Ruby first drops anchor in her new surroundings - a jolt of tawdry, tough-as-nails glamour- it’s clear she’s a little past her sell-by date. Squeezed into a strapless floral number. Clutching a bedraggled fur stole. And fixing her makeup – just in case. Looking for all the world like a weary dime- a- dance gal sizing up the latest batch of suckers. She’s no shrinking violet – nor is boyfriend Connors, who’s soon waving a pistol at anyone who looks at him sideways. For her part, Ruby doesn’t raise any objections. This is how most of the men she knows generally operate. What’s fun to watch are the gradual changes the situation starts to work in her familiar persona. She remains flashy, of course – an enjoyably crass visual counterpoint to her surroundings. It’s a hoot watching her lean against a fireplace in a flared, terraced hacienda-style skirt while Paul Birch reads Bible passages aloud. Inconspicuous just isn’t her style. But instead of crumbling under the pressure of the situation, Ruby starts to blossom a bit. Initially she’s no fan of daisy-fresh Lori Nelson (having caught Connors leering in the girl’s direction). But Nelson’s unencumbered niceness eventually wears down her defences and the two become unlikely buddies. Nelson in a sundress holding a watering can, Jergens inevitably gaudy (at one point she hauls out the top that should’ve gone with that Mexican mariachi skirt; it’s an explosion of cascading off-the-shoulder ruffles and she pairs it with a tartan semi-kilt). But, as I said, the girls are soon thick as thieves. Even donning bathing suits for a dip in a nearby pond (about as advisable, I’d have thought, as a picnic at Chernobyl) But it does give the two of them a chance for some splashy bonding. Hearing a few twigs crack on the shore, Nelson gets all nervous Nellie about possible mutant interlopers. To which Jergens, ever the pragmatic exhibitionist, responds good-naturedly, “Oh, it’s probably one of the men. Boys will be boys.” Ruby’s good-hearted side continues to assert itself in a budding friendship with old Pete, the prospector. They sneak out back regularly for small-talk and a few guzzles of home-made moonshine. She even smuggles
 out sugar for his mule. Ruby gradually realizes that the square-shooting and resourceful Denning and Birch are much better human beings than her boyfriend. But she never quite lets go of the idea that she and Connors can make a go of it. She’s hooked on him. When Birch suggests that it’s up to Denning and Nelson to start procreating ( fresh start, new world), Jergens’ latent maternal instincts kick into action. She starts pitching the idea to a singularly unimpressed Connors, and gets some touching mileage out of the line, “we won’t tell him his old lady was a striptease artist”. I wouldn’t be surprised if Corman expanded Jergens role when he got a load of just how much she was bringing to the table. Her performance climaxes with a scene that really gives her the scope to go full out. One night, having sampled a little too much of Pete’s moonshine, her hair whipped into some sort of jerry-built side-sweep, Jergens slaps a brassy Pete Condoli record onto the phonograph and decides to give everybody a sample of her “act”. What starts out as a blowsy semi-joke quickly gains intensity as Jergens convincingly bumps and grinds her way around the room. Describing her glory days – and reliving them. Her eyes glaze over; her voice thickens as she surrenders to a kind of carnal fervor. The body’s in motion, but the mind’s faraway. “When I’d come on, they’d start shoutin’ and whistlin’ ... and after awhile all I could hear was their breathin’”. It’s a painfully intimate, painfully public moment. The music’s blasting, Adele’s transfigured. And suddenly – at its height - the spell’s shattered. She dissolves into sobs and collapses. Her show is over. It’s a terrific piece of acting, a marvelous, poignant demonstration of the depth and power of Adele Jergens’ talents. It’s likely Corman just focused the camera on her for this scene and let her rip. Two minutes of shatteringly inspired acting. Whatever she was channelling, the result was the kind of moment actors dream of. I can pretty much bet nobody on the Academy nominating committee even mentioned her name that year. They probably wouldn’t have been caught dead watching  DAY THE WORLD ENDED. It’s their loss. ‘Cause in retrospect, none of the actual supporting nominees that year came anywhere near matching the quality of her work in that scene. Adele Jergens – showgirl, trouper, gilt-edged icon and – for my money – BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS OF 1956.

Tuesday, July 07, 2009

OH RIGHT, THAT LONG-LOST LIST OF 20

Months ago, in response to some (now) dimly remembered on-line tag, I began an alphabetical list of my twenty favorite film actresses. The ones who, for whatever reasons - charm, beauty, warmth or simply the fact that I liked the cut of their jib – had meant and continued to mean the most to me. The list was fully formed – and hasn’t changed. But I only managed to post mini-tributes to the first half-dozen. Then just filed the project under P for procrastinate and let it ride. Hopefully I’ll eventually build up enough steam in my kettle to write a little about each of these ladies. ‘Cause for every one of them – year after year – I continue to feel the kind of proprietary fondness one might exhibit for daughters or sweethearts, mixed, of course, with a kind of comfortably nostalgic movie fan awe. But for now – and for the record – here are all twenty names.

1. JEAN BROOKS
2. JUDY CANOVA
3. MAHIMA CHAUDHARY
4. PEGGY CUMMINS
5. ARLENE DAHL
6. JUDY GARLAND
7. KATHRYN GRAYSON
8. MARY BETH HUGHES
9. JOI LANSING
10. IRIS MEREDITH
11. NELL O’DAY
12. HELEN PARRISH
13. ROSSANA PODESTA
14. JANE POWELL
15. CONSTANCE SMITH
16. GENE TIERNEY
17. HELEN WALKER
18. FANNIE WARD
19. ESTHER WILLIAMS
20. LORETTA YOUNG

Monday, April 27, 2009

THE CLASS OF '59

It’s a good time to head over to StinkyLulu's ‘cause the Supporting Actress nominees of 1959 are currently strutting their stuff there. Though most of these performances have their moments, this is by no means one of my favorite rosters. Only one of the five would’ve made my own list of nominees that year. But Lulu’s decision to spotlight ’59 in this month’s Smackdown got me looking back at some of my favorite un-nominated turns from exactly fifty years ago.

Shelley Winters got a nod (and in fact won the trophy) for her accomplished work in THE DIARY OF ANNE FRANK. But I remembered reacting more strongly to Gusti Huber and Diane Baker, who played Anne’s mother and sister. When I re-watched the picture a couple of weeks ago, those positive memories were reinforced. Huber’s a pro to her fingertips, doing such solid work building her character on the sidelines that when her spotlight moments arrive they’re fully infused with the detailed humanity she’s been quietly accumulating all along. Baker, a lovely actress who never quite achieved the heights she seemed headed for, downplays her beauty here, going instead for a restrained display of selflessness, achieved at a cost her character never quite puts into words. It’s distinctive work – achingly touching – and in a role that could’ve been lost in the shuffle. Of course the film’s over-riding impact comes not so much from the performances as from the crushing sadness of the real Anne’s fate.

I first saw SUDDENLY LAST SUMMER in a movie theatre in the 1960’s. One-half of a double bill that promised considerably more hold-onto-your-hats titillation than it delivered. Even so, like most (I suppose) I was buffaloed by sheer star power (Taylor,Clift,Hepburn,Tennessee Williams) into thinking I was watching pretty serious stuff. A screening in the 80’s severely diminished most of my memories, especially the ones involving Hepburn’s poison ivy matriarch. But that time out, Mercedes McCambridge caught my attention. Her Nervous Nellie act, fawning and scraping, afraid of her own shadow and even more afraid of Hepburn’s, seemed a nice bit of playing against type. Over the years, when I’ve thought of deserving nominees from ’59, McCambridge’s name has always popped up in my mind. After watching the movie again this month, I find my estimation of SUDDENLY LAST SUMMER continues to plummet. McCambridge now seems unnecessarily cartoonish in her first couple of scenes. I think she reins it in a bit later on – and I suppose I got more acclimatized to it as the movie wore on. In the end, her contribution seems okay. But –sorry, Mercedes – no soup for you – and no nomination. As for Hepburn, her antics now look preposterous. A geriatric Ophelia bobbing along on a stream of unbridled mannerisms. If it’s true that she and director Mankiewicz battled bitterly over her interpretation of the part, I’d love to know which one of them prevailed in the end. Because what’s onscreen reflects very little credit on either. Ultimately SUDDENLY LAST SUMMER is a pint-sized tempest in a teapot. Shocked at itself, certainly, but very unlikely to startle anybody else. Like that highly touted white bathing suit they keep telling us is transparent, despite clear visual evidence to the contrary.

The elegantly horrific LES YEUX SANS VISAGE (EYES WITHOUT A FACE) probably wasn’t eligible for Oscars in ’59. I don’t believe it saw the light of day in America till around ’62. And then it was tossed into drive-ins – truncated, masticated, badly dubbed and saddled with the distinctly inelegant title THE HORROR CHAMBER OF DR. FAUSTUS. But certainly Alida Valli’s supporting work in the original version was a singular pleasure. Valli (fondly remembered from THE THIRD MAN and THE PARADINE CASE) was one of those essential continental actresses who (like Simone Signoret) seemed to convey fathomless depths of experience, feeling, passion etc. Literally throbbing with the potential for delight, destruction and self-destruction. This time out she’s the obsessively loyal assistant of a dour scientist. Said man of science is determined to repair the face of his daughter (disfigured in a car accident) no matter the cost. Seems his plan requires beautiful young girls for facial transplant purposes. And Valli’s the one that rounds up these unwitting subjects. She roams the city as a respectable lady d’un certain age, offering to help gullible young lookers find suitable accomodation. She’s smooth, soothing, authoritative and extremely persuasive. Once she’s got the potential tenants to the professor’s out-of-the-way chateau, they soon find out first and last month’s rent are likely to be one and the same – with the terms a good deal stiffer than they’d bargained for. Valli’s performance is by no means the film’s only pleasure. But she plays her enigmatic card to memorably hypnotic effect.
In the end, though, none of the above would quite make the cut for me in ’59. ‘Cause there were five other ladies who - for my money -created even greater impressions that year.

SUSAN KOHNER in "Imitation of Life"
Kohner’s the only one of the five actual nominees who’d also appear on my own list. And this in a Ross Hunter soap opera – wax fruit under glass with conspicuous attention paid to cocktail gowns, jewellery and stale women’s picture cliches. Lana Turner’s the centerpiece here. And Hunter’s swat team follows the boss’s usual list of idiotic priorities, vigilantly keeping the moths away from Lana’s furs, but apparently allowing them full access to the script. Turner plays Lora Meredith, Broadway’s greatest actress. Naturally they daren’t show much of Lana’s onstage emoting, wisely (and hilariously) restricting her triumphs to curtain calls and flower-bedecked dressing rooms. She also vascillates uninterestingly between a number of stuffed-shirt suitors (one of whom is John Gavin – who gave much the same performance eight years later in THOROUGHLY MODERN MILLIE, except that time he called it comedy). But the real interest in IMITATION OF LIFE comes from the picture’s sub-plot. Sarah Jane ( the daughter of Lora’s black housekeeper) is light-skinned enough to pass for white and determines to do just that. In other words, Sarah Jane - operating in racially repressive 50's America - is setting herself up for some very real dilemmas. What’s more Susan Kohner (who’s playing her) is faced with the challenge of making the performance work in a screenplay padded with piffle i.e. Lana’s penny ante problems. At some point, Kohner must have taken a deep breath and just decided to put it all on the line. Her Sarah Jane is selfish, angry, peevish and recklessly determined to find a way out. And – for all her bad behaviour – believable and sympathetic too, because she succeeds in communicating honest-to-goodness pain . Pride and shame locked in mortal combat. It’s quite an accomplishment for a young actress. She does benefit from a strong chemistry with Juanita Moore (cast as her mother,Annie). Moore’s a fine actress but - like most of the picture’s characters – Annie’s mission’s to make Sarah Jane stifle her feelings. And though that may make everyone else in the picture more comfortable it won’t solve Sarah Jane’s problems. She wants the same kind of life and privileges she sees white girls enjoying. Girls who aren’t as pretty, as smart or as flat-out hungry as she is. Sarah’s playing with fire. She knows it. She’s also willing to risk it. The girl has the additional bad luck to be raised alongside America’s Sweetheart Sandra Dee, a shiny blonde magnet for privileges and prom invitations. What’s more, Dee doesn’t even have the decency to be a bitch about it. Basically her character’s an eternally supportive Melanie to Kohner’s thwarted Scarlett. Aside from fighting the world around her, Sarah Jane also has to wrestle with her own feelings of guilt over what she’s doing to her mother. She goes on the run. But everywhere Sarah Jane sets up shop, Mom eventually shows up to blow the whistle. Annie may urge her to be true to herself but in the end Sarah Jane’s got so many forces pulling and pushing her, she can hardly be expected to know what being true to herself even means. She just wants to live a little. Susan Kohner hits all the right notes – angry, nasty, desperate, guilty – all the while deeply, deeply frustrated at being painted into a corner by implacable societal forces . As I said, Juanita Moore’s a marvelous actress but the aura of saintliness imposed on her character puts limits on just how effective (and credible) she can be. Sarah Jane’s whole thing is about crossing limits. And Kohner goes for broke.

THELMA RITTER in "A Hole in the Head"
Ritter actually was one of the five Supporting Actress nominees in ’59. But not for this picture. Academy members singled out her contribution to the box-office juggernaut PILLOW TALK (another
plastic bauble from the Ross Hunter assembly line). Now, who doesn’t love Thelma Ritter? Certainly the Academy nominated her frequently – but seldom for the right performances. PILLOW TALK is a case in point. The picture itself is painfully smirking nonsense. It may have elevated the already world-famous Doris Day to stratospheric heights of popularity. But it hardly did justice to her talents. Neither Rock Hudson nor Tony Randall ever get within a mile of a genuine laugh. And Ritter – the great Ritter – is reduced to the level of a running gag, merely juggling binges and hangovers. The material she’s given isn’t funny – and even Ritter’s formidable gifts can’t turn dog turds into diamonds. Still, it must be pointed out, the picture wowed them in ’59. So go figure. Far less successful was the Frank Sinatra comedy A HOLE IN THE HEAD. As a film it was no great shakes. But certainly a cut above PILLOW TALK. What it did have in its favour was one of Ritter’s best performances, playing Sinatra’s wise-cracking, cynical but warm-hearted sister-in-law. During her career she was often asked to perform duty as a sort of solo scene saver, a lone Saint Bernard dispatched to rescue floundering co-stars from their own shortcomings. A HOLE IN THE HEAD gives her the opportunity to indulge in team-work of the highest order, with Edward G.Robinson, no less, cast as her irascible ragtrade husband. I’ve seen Robinson play comedy before. Very well in John Ford’s THE WHOLE TOWN’S TALKING. Not so much in A SLIGHT CASE OF MURDER and BROTHER ORCHID. But with Ritter beside him he raises his game substantially. The old school, put-that-in-your-pipe bickering between the two is 24 karat gold. Screenwriter Arnold Schulman seems to have responded to the Ritter-Robinson chemistry too. Because the dialogue he gives them (and there’s plenty of it) is all much better stuff than the rest of the cast has to settle for. By this time, of course, both Ritter and Robinson were veterans – what they didn’t know about performing probably wasn’t worth knowing. Here they get to toss the ball back and forth with world-class elan – two pros at the top of their respective games. Inspired by the presence of his scene partner, Robinson even scores silent movie sized bellylaughs out of repeated encounters with a recalcitrant armchair, all, of course, under Ritter’s "enough already" gaze. A HOLE IN THE HEAD may sag when these two are off-screen. But as soon as they’re back, there’s nowhere else you’d want to be.

CONSTANCE FORD in "A Summer Place"
A SUMMER PLACE was (like IMITATION OF LIFE) a soap opera mega-hit in ’59. Airy outdoor photography and Max Steiner’s time-capsule of a theme song helped elevate it above the level of similar Ross Hunter efforts. Another asset was the presence of serenely accomplished Dorothy McGuire (instead of Lana Turner) in the female lead. Two of IMITATION OF LIFE’s players also popped up in A SUMMER PLACE – Troy Donahue and Sandra Dee. Now giving Donahue more screen time didn’t add a whit to his non-existent appeal. But the Sandra Dee of the 50’s was pretty darn endearing. A recent re-viewing of her debut UNTIL THEY SAIL reconfirmed glowing memories of that performance. She more than holds her own in a star-heavy cast (Jean Simmons,Paul Newman,Joan Fontaine,Piper Laurie). Even serving up a none too authentic but undeniably charming stab at a New Zealand accent. A couple of years later she’s a real delight in an Audie Murphy quasi-western, THE WILD AND THE INNOCENT. Dee has an excellent confrontation scene in IMITATION OF LIFE, briefly shaking Lana out of her torpor. And she’s a decided asset in A SUMMER PLACE, where she (mainly) rises above the dialogue’s unintentionally amusing pussyfooting. The one-two punch of IMITATION OF LIFE and A SUMMER PLACE catapulted her into the Box Office Top Ten. But the 60’s failed to deliver on her early promise, consigning her to awful Gidget and Tammy movies (where sad to say she sank to the level of the material) plus other claptrap comedies. Who knows? Maybe youth played too big a part in her appeal. And maybe she really did grow less interesting as she got older. But it was nice to see her beautifully and touchingly portrayed by Kate Bosworth in the otherwise snooze-worthy Bobby Darin biopic BEYOND THE SEA. Bosworth captured so much of what Dee – at her best - radiated that a Kate Bosworth nomination wouldn’t have been out of order in 2004. Certainly it would’ve been a nice tip of the hat to Dee herself. But I digress. The performance I mean to spotlight is the one given by Constance Ford, a formidable presence despite the relatively few film appearances she made. In A SUMMER PLACE, Ford plays a monster mother – sexually repressed, social-climbing, back-stabbing, money-grubbing – an all-round pain-in-the-ass. Having fooled Richard Egan into marrying her, she considers her sexual duty done once they’ve had a child (Dee) and immediately cancels hubby’s bedroom privileges. When Dee becomes a teenager Momma guards her daughter’s virginity like a rottweiler, intent on saving her for a "suitable" marriage. Of course, since Momma’s bigoted against every possible group (even the Swedes), "suitable" candidates are few and far between. Included in the army of the unsuitable is Troy Donahue, the puffy-faced himbo Dee develops "feelings" for. For every obstacle Ford faces, she marshals a new set of dirty tricks to combat it. Eventually, of course, she’s committed to a scorched earth policy unlikely to leave a tree or a co-star standing. You’ve got to see the sequence where she literally hurls Dee into a fully decorated Christmas tree, toppling them both. The camera loved Ford (not in the way it loved, say, Bo Derek) but rather in the sense that it just couldn’t help but pick up on the powerful and complicated aura she emanated. Sometimes a concentrated malignant force, sometimes an emotional bull in a china shop. But always recognizably – sometimes startlingly – real. Ford’s voice – a seemingly blunt instrument she wielded like a precision tool - added considerably to the over-all impact. I’ve always thought of her as the second member of an acting triumvirate. Three women who shared a bond - physically, temperamentally and artistically. First of the trio would be Shelley Winters. Like Winters, Ford could be reasonably attractive – but in a kind of down-to-earth way that stubbornly resisted any efforts to Max Factorize her into Grace Kelly. And like Winters, Ford had a brief sylph-like stage early on, imposed no doubt at great cost. Eventually she let her waistline expand – and as she did so came into the full range of her talents. Again like Winters, Ford also seemed basically proletarian. If her character was rich in a movie, she’d probably married into it. Ford and Winters were both awfully good at playing women determined to crash (whatever they perceived as) society. Expert whiners. Yet they could also intimidate without even raising their voices. And if they did raise them – you’d better batten down the hatches. They were sometimes given caricatures to play – but with the right motivation (and both were usually pretty motivated) – always knew how to inject a jolt of the Real McCoy into their work. Certainly in A SUMMER PLACE, Ford elicits unexpected sympathy when we see her cowed by her own mother – a far less interesting virago, but obviously the one who made her what she is. For whatever reason, Ford focused mainly on television and stage roles. For years she was a fixture on daytime soaps, wreaking matriarchal havoc five days a week to the delight of loyal afternoon audiences. But for film fans, A SUMMER PLACE remains Ford’s finest hour. The third member of the triumvirate, by the way, would be Shirley Knight. Physically, she was cut from the same cloth as the other two. And much of what could be said about their abilities applied to her as well. She probably was a more comfortable fit in society roles than the other two. But she could match them in power, talent and charisma. And as far as I know she’s still doing great work. Knight was terrific in STUART SAVES HIS FAMILY in the 90’s – and I’ve watched her acquit herself beautifully in a number of television roles over the last decade. Someone even told me she’s in PAUL BLART: MALL COP, a movie I suspect could benefit considerably from even the smallest part of Knight's expertise . Shelley Winters won her first Oscar for her ’59 work. At the same time Ford was wowing audiences in A SUMMER PLACE. And Knight was already at work on THE DARK AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS, the film that would bring her the first of her Academy nominations. For this triumvirate 1959 was a very good year.

Delbert Mann’s MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, written by Paddy Chayevsky, is a total departure from Ross Hunter land, deliberately deglamourized, photographed largely on real New York locations in stark black and white and alive with the influences of neo-realism and Method acting. The story follows a widower in his late 50’s who devotes most of his time and energy to running a small New York garment factory. Outside of work, life’s a dreary, circumscribed routine; his spinster sister looks after his home; he pays regular visits to his grown-up daughter and her family. Then suddenly – unexpectedly - he finds himself falling in love with Betty, a twenty-something girl in his office.When she actually seems to be responding, his life turns upside down. Ultimately family, friends and his own insecurities turn the whole thing into an emotional bonfire. The film stars Fredric March and Kim Novak, two actors who’d both been spectacularly good and spectacularly bad in the past. Here – in their sole teaming – they’re sensational. March hits all the right notes as a good man watching his life wind down, facing a sudden, life-altering upheaval that brings everything – good and bad – to the surface. It’s probably his best-ever screen work, which is saying something. Novak’s Betty is an insecure young woman, with a failed marriage behind her. She’s living with her manipulative mother and has little reason to trust the world – especially the men in it. Novak’s at her best in roles like this – shy, emotionally isolated young women to whom beauty’s more burden than blessing. For her, too, MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT represents a career highlight. Possibly topped a year later by her work in STRANGERS WHEN WE MEET (a marginally lesser film) but an even greater achievement for Novak performance-wise. She’s genuinely heart-breaking in it. MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT offers her at the crest of her personal golden age, giving the third of four consecutive knock-out performances ( the first two triumphs being VERTIGO and BELL BOOK AND CANDLE). The sadness of Kim Novak’s screen sirens shines across the decades with a glow that wasn’t fully appreciated at the time but now seems unmistakable. But good as they are, March and Novak don’t monopolize the acting honors. I don’t know if I’ve seen any pictures with as many nomination-worthy performances packed into them. ( A LETTER TO THREE WIVES and CAGED come to mind). But MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT has every single acting category covered. Martin Balsam, a performer I can usually take or leave, is rousingly effective as March’s son-in-law, a man who’s got his work cut out just trying to catch his wife’s attention.
And Albert Dekker’s a revelation playing March’s loud-mouthed business associate, regaling unwilling audiences with dirty jokes about his (supposed) sexploits with a string of bimbos, ultimately confessing and confronting the emptiness of his existence. Dekker’s movie career went back to the 30’s but this work tops anything he’d ever done before. So there you are - four (deserved) nominations already – Actor, Actress plus two Supporting Actor nods . And we haven’t even gotten to Supporting Actress yet. Here MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT supplies two more worthy candidates.
BETTY WALKER was apparently a busy comedienne. Night-clubs, radio and television seem to have been her regular venues. In the 60’s she contributed to the popular comedy LP ‘You Don’t Have to be Jewish". Outside of this picture her filmography doesn’t add up to a hill of beans. But she takes her one scene in MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT and runs with it. I’d remembered the performance (though not the name) for several decades just based on one long ago viewing of the picture. Catching up with it again this year I saw why she'd made such an indelible impression. The manner and voice are unique. Doro Merande on tranquilizers doesn’t begin to tell the story. And no director could’ve said, "Betty, do it this way". She simply has some eccentric beat-of-a-different-drummer energy all her own. Put her in front of a camera and let her go. Perhaps if she’d made a lot of movies we’d have gotten used to her style. As it is, she comes on, makes jaws drop, then leaves. She’s Mrs. Neiman, a robotic widow the family presents as a suitable match for March. She’s trotted into his bedroom, no less. As he’s changing clothes. At which point she starts spouting a series of tonelessly insinuating non-sequiturs, all the time eyeing the man, looking for all the world as if she’s holding an open gamesack and trying to hypnotize him into it. March is completely thrown for a loop by this close-talking personal space invader. Imagine a decrepit Devil Girl from Mars suddenly materializing in your room while you’re trying to dress. And no amount of polite hinting will get her the hell out again. It’s a mesmerizing bit – certainly shorter than any nominated performance I’ve ever seen. Measured in seconds but – believe me – Walker makes every one of those seconds count.
March’s daughter Lillian is played - to perfection - by JOAN COPELAND. And this is the performance I think should’ve taken the trophy home in ’59. Lillian's a lifetime daddy’s girl , carelessly confident of her position as apple of her father’s eye. But the liaison with Novak threatens the exclusivity of that relationship and Lillian ‘s eventually willing to do pretty much anything to derail it. She slowly crosses the line from supportive to controlling, so caught up in the conflict she hardly notices her own marriage slipping down the drain. It’s a treat to watch Copeland explore and expand the character, revealing facets that can barely have existed in the script. And it doesn't hurt that she's got the look - and the sense of passionate urgency - that characterized Judy Garland in the 60's. Moviemakers were crazy not to use Joan Copeland more. But few seem to have done much to lure her away from her first love, the stage. I’ve only seen her twice. And both times the earth moved. Here, serving up an impressive concoction of warmth, pleading and bullying. And in 1977’s ROSELAND where she’s unforgettable as the older woman keeping desperate tabs on dance partner/gigolo Christopher Walken. It’s a picture with as many lows as highs. But these two are magnificent. Walken should’ve picked up his first Oscar for ROSELAND (a year before DEER HUNTER). And as in MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, Copeland is sublime - a wonderful Method-inspired actress, with a gift for bringing truth to her lines and inspiration to her co-stars. In real life she was the sister of playwright Arthur Miller. And( though not as famous) was - at her own craft – every bit as accomplished.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

MARCH 17TH





It would be appropriate to get pleasantly embroiled in something Irish today And as it happens I did my duty this morning - quite without realizing it – by sending away for a book called ACTING IRISH IN HOLLYWOOD by Ruth Barton. A compendium of bio/career assessments on Irish-born actors who found some degree of fame and fortune in American movies. Though it includes high- profilers like Richard Harris, Maureen O’Hara and Colin Farrell, the drawing card for me was the chapter devoted to one of my personal favorites, the elusive Constance Smith. A Limerick-born beauty who won a movie-star lookalike contest in the late 40’s (her resemblance was to Hedy Lamarr), and leap-frogged into films, first in Britain (initially one scene in Richard Attenborough’s BRIGHTON ROCK where the Lamarr lookalike thing was exploited to brief but stunning effect) then Hollywood. She got to me the first time I saw her. Dark Hair, alabaster skin, a lovely voice , which along with her general air of graceful melancholy, managed to convey a great deal more than her scripts generally supplied. And I’ve always been surprised that stardom eluded her. She was a 20th Century Fox contractee – installed on the same casting merry-go-round as Debra Paget, Audrey Dalton and Jean Peters. But by the mid-50’s she’d left America, drifting into a European Dolce Vita phase that found her more prominent in tawdry tabloid stories than on movie screens. I’d gleaned a few details about her sad, tumultuous life over the years. But this book promises to fill in a lot of the blanks – with, hopefully, some appreciation for the special qualities she brought to her roles. Smith played opposite an interesting assortment of leading men – Richard Widmark, Dan Dailey, Cornel Wilde, Jack Palance and Richard Conte, among others. Today she’s hardly remembered. But watch her in MAN IN THE ATTIC, standing at the foot of a staircase charmingly introducing herself to Jack Palance and see if you aren’t just as enthralled as he is.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

OSCAR OVERSIGHTS



The Oscars are almost upon us. So expect the usual grumbling about the broadcast. The ratings will probably go down again. Let’s face it. In this age of infinite home entertainment options, that’s what network TV ratings do. This year they’re promising a face-lift of sorts for the program. But, inevitably, what excites some will have others snoozing. My idea of "something special" at the Oscars would be watching Joan Fontaine and Olivia deHavilland smoke a peace pipe, then follow it up with a celebratory jig. Others may want the broadcast retooled as a mega-segment of the Jerry Springer Show, with tables and four letter words hurtlng through trailer-park windows. But whether they turn it into a hip-hop summit meeting, a Star Trek convention or a UFC cage match between Star Jones and Gordon Ramsay, I’ll be glued to my set. ‘Cause it’s the Oscars. And they’re still going to be handing out those lasciviously coveted trophies . Still celebrating some kind of continuity – a glamorously moss- encrusted through-line - between Hollywood’s past and cinema’s future. For this year’s shindig they’ve enlisted dapper Broadway and film charmer Hugh Jackman to host, with movie-musical veteran Bill Condon co-producing. So I’m expecting a kind of Earl Carroll Vanities of 2009. Which – while it may have some grasping for their remotes - is just fine and dandy with me.
As for who gets the acting awards – which, of course, are the big ones – well, the results never please everybody. That’s the nature of elections. And the Academy’s convoluted multi-tier nominating system, a kind of unholy mix of advanced trigonometry and pick-up sticks – inevitably leaves out some worthy contenders. After all, there are only five spots per category – and usually a surfeit of deserving performances. Which brings me to the main order of business:

CONSPICUOUS OSCAR OMISSIONS OF THE 2000’s (my choice, of course)

Here are 40 names and performances from the past decade that – IMHO – ought to have had Oscar nominations attached to them . They didn’t quite make it to the party but all of them – I think – still deserve a retroactive round of Oscar season love.

2000
Actress:
GILLIAN ANDERSON "The House of Mirth"
ASHLEY JUDD "Eye of the Beholder"
Supporting Actress:
LUPE ONTIVEROS "Chuck and Buck"

2001
Actor:
EWAN MacGREGOR "Moulin Rouge"
Actress:
AUDREY TAUTOU "Amelie"
Supporting Actor:
JUDE LAW "A.I. Artificial Intelligence"
Supporting Actress:
MARY McDONNELL "Donnie Darko"
EMILY WATSON "Gosford Park"

2002
Actor:
RICHARD GERE "Unfaithful"
Actress:
JENNIFER ANISTON "The Good Girl"
CATHERINE KEENER "Lovely and Amazing"
Supporting Actor:
VIGGO MORTENSEN "The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers"
DENNIS QUAID "Far From Heaven"

2003
Actress:
MEG RYAN "In the Cut"
Supporting Actor:
PRASHANT NARAYAN "Waisa Bhi Hota Hai Part II"
GEOFFREY RUSH "Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl"

2004
Actor:
CHRISTIAN BALE "The Machinist"
GAEL GARCIA BERNAL "Bad Education"
COLIN FARRELL "A Home at the End of the World"
Supporting Actress:
KATE BOSWORTH "Beyond the Sea"
SISSY SPACECK "A Home at the End of the World"

2005
Actress:
GRETCHEN MOL "The Notorious Bettie Page"
Supporting Actor:
TERRENCE HOWARD "Crash"
MICKEY ROURKE "Sin City"
Supporting Actress:
GONG LI "Memoirs of a Geisha"
TARAJI P.HENSON "Hustle and Flow"

2006
Supporting Actor:
GAEL GARCIA BERNAL "Babel"
Supporting Actress:
SEEMA BISWAS "Water"

2007
Actor:
EMILE HIRSCH "Into the Wild"
JOSH BROLIN "No Country for Old Men"
PHILIP SEYMOUR HOFFMAN "The Savages"
JAMES McAVOY "Atonement"
Supporting Actor:
PHILIP BOSCO "The Savages"
ED HARRIS "Gone Baby Gone"
Supporting Actress:
PATRICIA CLARKSON "Lars and the Real Girl"
JENNIFER GARNER "Juno"

2008
Actor: JEAN-CLAUDE VAN DAMME "JCVD"
Actress: KRISTIN SCOTT THOMAS "I’ve Loved You So Long"
Supporting Actor: JAVIER BARDEM "Vicky Cristina Barcelona"
Supporting Actress: DEBRA WINGER "Rachel Getting Married"

Thursday, January 22, 2009

MY TWENTY: PART TWO

My list, it seems, will be appearing in a trickle rather than a torrent. But to the five names already fondly noted I now add one more:

JUDY GARLAND
Judy Garland’s presence on any list of entertainment bests or favorites hardly needs to be defended. Her permanent spot high on the A-list of show business icons is what you might call unassailable. And given my tastes, proclivities - whatever – when I have to name the greatest entertainer of all time, it’s not gonna be Bob Dylan or Doug E. Fresh. It’s gonna be Judy. Case closed. Once she’d embarked on her historic career as a concert performer, she was often compared to Al Jolson. A comparison I always thought did her a disservice (even if it was meant as praise).Though it’s a matter of record that both electrified audiences, I’ve never ever warmed to Jolson. Even aside from the (now) cringe-inducing reliance on black-face, he’s always bugged me with his preening, overbearing schtick. Smarmy. Smug. Unctuous. Abrasive. Manic and relentless. Deeply in love with his own bombast –and frighteningly naked in his need to be the sole focus of attention. But there’s not an ounce of sincerity – or warmth - on any positive emotional level. No matter how energetic his attack, how ringing his diction or how raging his self-adoration. Judy Garland presented a decidedly different image. She both projected and transcended ego. It was possible to feel both awestruck and complicit in a Garland performance. Where Jolson demanded that you sit back flabbergasted, Garland held you in a kind of embrace. She was the show business equivalent of a perfect storm. The focal point for an amazing convergence of qualities. Vulnerability. Sensitivity. Power. Razor-sharp wit, much of it self-deprecating. Instincts that allowed her to create a stunning sense of spontanaiety. Add to it that incandescent face, with its beguiling arrangement of features - above all, those huge expressive liquid eyes. And – of course - the tender, nervous energy that made her seem just that much more alive than anyone around her. She was an amazing, intuitive actress. And as a singer, in a class by herself. That voice, with its throbbing power could switch from jubilation to intimacy on a dime. Her rhythmic instincts were prodigious. And, of course, to say she knew what to do with a lyric is like saying Shakespeare knew what to do with a pen. In the space of a line or two, she could break your heart – and restore it.
Of all her films, MEET ME IN ST.LOUIS is probably her most profoundly perfect vehicle. It’s an ensemble piece. Yet Judy never shone brighter. Because, unlike Jolson, who – in films – always conveyed the feeling that other peoples’ lines were barely endurable nuisances, she knew how to share a scene – thriving on the interplay with her co-stars and coaxing the best from her partners. It’s a generous talent. And that generous spirit is what lights up all the other facets of her art. Making her the best of the best. Of course, it’s wonderful that she was at MGM just when the Freed unit was creating movie musical history. But that history would have had considerably less luster without Judy Garland. She had some great vehicles. THE PIRATE from 1948 is probably the most intoxicating hothouse flower the studio ever produced. But even when the scripts were weak, Judy could be counted on to bring some degree of greatness to the proceedings. For instance, TILL THE CLOUDS ROLL BY, the cloying Jerome Kern biopic from ‘46. Stuffed with stars, songs and sanctimonious pronouncements from Robert Walker and Van Heflin. Judy pops up for 15 or 20 minutes in the middle, playing Broadway legend Marilyn Miller . A couple of songs, a smidgen of dialogue and she’s gone. But for as long as she’s there TILL THE CLOUDS ROLL BY is 24 karat gold. Her final film performances were among her best. She responded brilliantly to director John Cassavetes in A CHILD IS WAITING(1962) And I love her last film, I COULD GO ON SINGING(1963). A wonderful gift for her audiences. The script gives us a look into the life of a singer just like Judy Garland. Except, of course, that nobody else is just like Judy Garland. There is and always will be only one. Her big emotional scene with Dirk Bogarde near the end contains some really magnificent acting. And – perhaps most memorable of all - the moments when she’s preparing to go onstage, building her own momentum and excitement, willing herself to deliver that legendary two hours of "pow!". Her Carnegie Hall and Palladium concerts were never filmed. This footage makes us feel we’re there beside her.
Judy Garland sent her laser beams (pink and amber, no doubt) up to snowy northern Ontario to find me when I was still a child. I don’t quite know how or when I first capitulated. I recall seeing THE WIZARD OF OZ at the Royal Theatre in the mid-50’s. But from that experience what dazzled me most then was the hallucinogenic redness of those ruby slippers. I must have seen a couple of her films on television. Whatever the case, by the time I was 12, I had two of her LP’s (Garland at the Grove and Judy!That’s Entertainment!), knew every note of each of them and was happily in thrall. I remember excitedly cutting out clippings about the amazing comeback tour that would eventually culminate in her triumphant Carnegie Hall concert. And I can still recall walking miles along the railroad tracks to the next town to pick up my feverishly anticipated copy of JUDY AT CARNEGIE HALL on the Saturday morning it arrived.. No one I knew cared two pins about her. But - unerringly - Judy found me and spoke to me in a language I didn’t even realize I knew. Just as she inevitably found others in other small towns. A few years later I was off to the big city – with a sensibilty partly shaped by my Judy Garland experience. She helped so many of us realize where we wanted to be. Someplace else. And soon I was. For good.