I never really understood nor appreciated Davis’s greatness as an actress until I watched her performance recently in ‘Dark Victory.’

For those who’ve never seen it, ‘Dark Victory’ centers entirely around the Davis character Judith Traherne and the manner in which she copes with her certain and imminent death from a brain tumor.

To me, Davis had been a very eccentric woman more than a great artist — one who, with turned-down lips, had an eternal chip on her shoulder. At any moment, Davis might snap your head off in the most histrionic manner possible before anyone who simply happened to be present, making you feel smaller, more useless and pathetic than last year’s want ad.

I crossed paths with Davis for a very brief instant on stage in New York when she was the one to hand me my Tony Award for a performance in John Hopkins’ play, ‘Find Your Way Home.’

Perhaps that “chip” she seemed to carry was, in some way, a central part of her character. I really don’t know nor can I say that for certain about her, never having had the intimidating privilege of working with Davis. That, however, could not diminish the enormously powerful size of her acting. Like Katharine Hepburn, with whom I did work, she was larger than any corner of a so-called ordinary life.

What brought me around to being not just impressed – Davis, like Hepburn, has always been impressive – but moved by her in the film ‘Dark Victory?’

I learned, I believe, the terms Davis set for herself in life.

I have a profoundly strong hunch that Davis had a great deal to do with the shaping of that role in ‘Victory,’ both its meaning and its very dialogue. The power of that script for me came from the two main but starkly contrasting ways her character chose to deal with the unremitting and imminent presence of death in her life.

It wasn’t so much the classic denial of death for her but a raging temper tantrum at everything around herself — fury at most of humanity’s good fortune and rage over her own bad luck. No one could perform that half of the drama better than Davis!

Not even Hepburn.

The other alternative, of course, and one I hadn’t thought Davis capable of, was a profound joy and gratitude for every additional second of life she could beg, borrow or steal for herself. It was then I knew how great she had been as an artist.

It was the ecstasy with which she hurled herself into what was left of her life, sustaining its bliss until the very end — a joy in life rarely seen in a Davis film role. The moment when her character begins to go blind was beautifully written, with her initially unaware of what was happening at all, while we in the audience and Geraldine Fitzgerald are agonizingly confronted with the truth of the situation. Dramatic irony at its most powerful, this realization was one of the most powerfully bittersweet moments that I have ever seen in the theater or movies or can so swiftly and emotionally recall.

Why “sweet” as well as “bitter”? Her character’s tribute to what she thinks of as only the setting sun still leaves me savoring such moments in life through tears.

One always startling fact of great performances by both Davis and Hepburn is the oceanic momentum both could drive an entire movie with. If anything defines a great actor or actress, it is that momentum he or she establishes which can carry many audiences through the inevitably more boring parts of a drama or comedy.

One female performance that has recently reminded me of the Hepburn/Davis powerhouse size is Dianne Wiest’s “Actress” in ‘Bullets Over Broadway.’ For me, Wiest’s Helen Sinclair seemed to be a diva-sized replica of the great Stella Adler, whom I did know and love. Nothing in Wiest’s Helen Sinclair was over the top. As Stella Adler herself taught her students, “When Checkov’s Masha of Three Sisters looks at the sky and speaks of such a huge part of the Universe, it is not ‘The sky.’ It is ‘THE SKAAAAAAHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!’”

Since ‘Dark Victory’ is, indeed, a Davis tour de force, there are no boring moments. The very end of the film is a particularly Davis brand of ‘Victory.’

This is, in Shakespearean vernacular, “not for all markets.”

The now-legendary Davis pride and self-respect are boiling over in her ‘Dark Victory’ decision to let her husband run off to New York City on business when she’s certain of being close to death. In retrospect, I, as George Brent’s role of husband, would have been furious at such a selfish and vainglorious decision to die so bereft of his love and comfort.

That, however, was, at least in the eyes of Davis’s fans, a quintessentially Davis thing to do.

As I said, you took and take the likes of Hepburn, Davis, Adler and Wiest on their terms and not your own. If you can’t, find yourself a minor talent and bore us to death.

As Davis once replied to the bitter comments of a fellow actor on a television film, one starring a much younger but very well-known actress, “Her name’s above the title! She needs all the help she can get!”

—–

Oscar season approaches, which means that once again it’s time for the annual cry of … There-Are-No-Good-Roles-For-Women! Maybe “cry” isn’t the best word. ”Whine” is more suitable — from a self-inflicted wound. Here’s a taste of this year’s first-whine from a Hollywood Reporter story titled: Shallow Pool for Oscar’s Actress Contenders:

How shallow is the pool? Some are talking about performances such as Sandra Bullock’s in the feel-good film “The Blind Side

The lack of depth has led to a slew of awards-season chatter, from the expected downplaying — all categories are cyclical — to blanket explanations about studios making fewer awards movies in general. …

But it also highlights that, for all the strides made by the women behind the camera, the women in front of them can still be subject to the old prejudices. Indeed, the more cynical in town — including at least one actress awards-contender — say that the director and actress trends are hardly a coincidence. Many female directors, they argue, can feel pressure to cast a preponderance of strong male leads to negate the perception that theirs is a female-oriented film.

The article is simply wrong on one very important point. These aren’t “old prejudices,” these are new prejudices.

Back in the bad old studio days when a handful of Republican men ran everything, women ruled. Well, maybe not “ruled,” but they were a steady force at the box office because those Republican men spent millions grooming girls into movie stars and building A-pictures around them. (And for a while, Rita Hayworth did rule Columbia.)

At one time or another, Bette Davis, Katherine Hepburn, Barbara Stanwyck, Olivia De Havilland, Jean Harlow, Mae West, Joan Crawford, Norma Shearer, Janet Gaynor, Mae West, Claudette Colbert, Ginger Rogers, Myrna Loy, Alice Faye, Judy Garland, Ingrid Bergman, Bette Grable, Esther Williams, Marilyn Monroe, Grace Kelly and many, many others worked as regularly and earned nearly as much success (and sometimes more) as their male counterparts in all kinds of films, including big-budget prestige pictures that put many butts in many seats. At one time or another, each was was a stand-alone movie star and many enjoyed long legendary careers.

Did a paternalistic and sometimes sexist system force these women to fight for decent roles in-between casting couch wrestling sessions? Of course, but anyone who wants to argue something’s changed should drop me an email inquiring about a bridge for sale.

But the real story is just how many of those fights were won allowing these immortals to leave behind a wealth of films loaded with strong, dignified, feminine performances that will live for as long as there’s civilization. And what won those sometimes historic battles wasn’t some sense of entitlement over ”fairness.” These women were as tough as they were talented. 

So what changed?

Well, you tell me.

Forty years ago the left started their takeover of the film industry. Now that they own it fully there are more women in executive positions than ever before, and yet most every year you can hear the scrape of a barrel bottom when Oscar nominations are announced.

Sounds to me like some sensitivity training is in order.

But it’s really about the free market. Women don’t draw like they once did and you can trace the reason for that to the roles and the actresses themselves. Somewhere along the line, ”acting like men” became confused with strength, and nudity and sex with romance. Other than a natural charisma and a dab of talent, the secret to stardom is retaining enough sense of mystery to allow audiences to project what they want on you, and nothing breaks that spell quicker than the literal and figurative baring of the ass. 

On the big screen, as in real life, it’s hard to respect someone you’ve just seen tramp around cussing like R. Lee Ermey in “Full Metal Jacket.” For the men in the audience, the illusion is shattered (lust fades, love lasts forever) … for the women, they can no longer relate. Offscreen, no one likes a loudmouth trashing who you are and what you believe in. You can sum the whole problem up in a word … ”class.”

But in the true spirit of socialism, present-day Hollywood’s solution is not an attempt to rebuild the female movie star but to foster equality through the dragging down of the male star.

The death of the movie star is no longer just a “woman’s problem.” Narcissism is an equal-opportunity affliction and without those sexist, paternalistic conservative studio bosses to look out for their shared interests, both male and female stars have worked overtime to deconstruct themselves in the eyes of the public. And so…

…today the chickens and roosters are coming home to roost.

“[John Ford] was the only one of the Hollywood directors who fought who did not forget his men.”

– Captain Mark Armistead, USN –

Thus quotes Joseph McBride in his masterful biography Searching for John Ford, at the head of the chapter dealing with the director’s wartime activities. It is usually seen as lamentable when a genius is pulled from the practice of his art for any extended period, but here we must make a special allowance. As filmmaker Lindsay Anderson (1923-1994) explains in his essential critical volume About John Ford (which, like the McBride book, should be sitting proudly and dog-eared on the bookshelf of every conservative film fan): “War service took Ford away from the making of films for some three years when his powers were at their height. One would regret this interruption more had it not led directly to the making of a masterpiece.”

The masterpiece of which he speaks is a 1945 war film called They Were Expendable, and if you are a conservative who has never seen it, then you have denied yourself one of the most moving and achingly poetic expressions of your worldview ever put to celluloid.

They Were Expendable was made in the Fall of 1944, while most of the people portrayed in the story were still rotting in Japanese POW camps, if indeed they weren’t already dead. Just like our modern foes, the Japanese mocked the Geneva Conventions throughout World War II, and by the end some 40% of the POWs in their care had been executed, starved, or died of disease in their camps. This is compared to Europe, where only 1% of American POWs in German camps died. The events the film depicts took place in early 1942 when, in the wake of Pearl Harbor, tens of thousands of Americans found themselves trapped in the Philippines and facing a fearsome Japanese invasion. The enemy bombed them with impunity, destroying their bases and leaving them with only four planes and an assortment of tiny boats. Supplies and morale dwindled into oblivion as, rather than be evacuated, they were ordered to hold their positions as long as possible against — and eventually be killed or captured by — an overwhelming enemy who was infamous for torturing and murdering prisoners.

How these Americans (and Filipinos) comported themselves as they were gobbled up by the Japanese war machine, buying time with their lives so that General MacArthur could escape the clutches of the enemy and prepare a counter-assault, is the focus of the film. And yet it is like no other war film ever made. Its long running time (two hours, sixteen minutes) allows us to linger on scene after scene of doomed men and women slowly losing their grip on their homes, their jobs, their culture, and each other. Under Ford’s direction, the movie rises above mere plot — battles, strategies — to become something much greater: the cinematic ennobling of an entire people, their way of life, their code of honor, and their selfless sacrifice. Lindsay Anderson would later declare it his single favorite film from his single favorite director, noting the presence of “image after image of conscious dignity” depicting a “love of brotherhood, loyalty,” and “the spirit of endurance that can wring victory from defeat.”

What prompts someone to make a movie like this? To throw away all of the Hollywood clichés, to indeed ignore the enemy entirely (the Japanese are only seen from afar via their planes and ships) and instead reach for something more vital: the very bedrock of our connection with country and culture? It’s so personal a picture that any essay has to be as much about the life and times of its maker as about the film itself — the two are intertwined too deeply to ignore. We thus turn away from They Were Expendable for a spell, and drift backward in time to the life of the director many call the greatest in motion picture history.

For John Ford (1894–1973), serving with the Navy during World War II was much more than boilerplate Hollywood patriotism. He was no green recruit, hastily enlisting in the wake of Pearl Harbor to toss on a uniform for the very first time. Growing up on the coast of Maine where he met many sailors, from an early age he was entranced by the discipline, hard ways, and exaltation of duty inherent in military life. During High School he applied to the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis, and was devastated when he failed the entrance exam. In 1918, as a twenty-three-year-old fledgling director in Hollywood, he again tried to serve, this time volunteering as an aerial combat photographer. Bad eyesight ensured he flunked the physical, and numerous attempts to circumvent that ruling came to naught.

Despite these failures, he never gave up, making many military films throughout the ’20s and ’30s and taking every opportunity to schmooze with the Navy brass brought on as technical advisers. Finally, as a forty-year-old in 1934, and despite bad eyes once again causing him to fail the physical, enough strings were pulled by his Navy buddies to get him into the U.S. Naval Reserve. Given the rank of Lieutenant Commander, he was charged with creating “a course in naval photography; its uses, tactical, historical, and propaganda,” studying “infra-red and other super-sensitive films and complimentary filters as to their efficacy on sea and in the air, particularly in tropical waters” and “working intensely in an effort to collect photographic and camouflage information likely to be of value to the Navy.”

He also began spying for the Navy on a semi-formal basis during frequent trips of drunken carousing down the western coast of Mexico on his yacht, the Araner. With friends like John Wayne, Henry Fonda, and Ward Bond in tow, Ford made observations of the coastline and filed detailed reports on Japanese ships and suspicious “sailors” in the area. These made their way to Navy intelligence, netting him several citations.

In 1940, with friends in the military telling him that America’s eventual entry into the war was all but assured, Ford attempted to establish an official Naval photographic unit that could not only use their skills to directly aid the front-line troops in the fight ahead (in the form of reconnaissance, mapping terrain, et cetera) but also help fight the nasty propaganda war that was already brewing between patriotic Americans and growing cells of anti-American Leftists who were becoming increasingly vocal in the media and Hollywood. The proposal he sent to his superiors reads today as if it was clipped from Big Hollywood’s own mission statement:

Radio, newspapers, motion pictures blast contrary ideas back and forth. . . A series of films which show factually the power of the American Navy is bound to give a psychological lift to the whole nation. Let them see the rigors of training; the skill of execution in maneuvers. . . our morale purpose is to show that a Democracy can and must create a greater fighting machine, in spirit and being, than a dictator power.

Unfortunately, Ford was pressing up against a lumbering, asleep-at-the-wheel Navy, the same one that would allow the Japanese to surprise its fleet at Pearl the very next year. With numerous agencies like the Signal Corps protecting their film-making/photographic turf against the interloper, Ford watched his proposals vanish into the gaping maws of military bureaucracy. The sense that namby-pamby Hollywood civilians would have little to contribute to an honest war effort might have played a part as well. As much as Ford liked being a Navy man, the endless red tape and politics were sources of constant aggravation, and he often lashed out at his superiors to a degree that would have landed anyone else in the brig. An oft-told story has it that, when asked by an officer what Hollywood landlubbers liked to do for amusement after making a movie, Ford cheerfully replied, “We all get on a bus and go down to San Diego and f*** Navy wives.”

Undeterred by being ignored, Ford decided to proceed unofficially, confident that someday soon the talent of Hollywood would be called upon, and that he would be ready. He began enlisting men from the rank-and-file of Hollywood film crews — cinematographers, grips, editors. He borrowed prop guns and uniforms from the Fox costume department, and set up impromptu military film classes on unused soundstages. There his Hollywood recruits learned from experts like the Oscar-winning cinematographer Gregg Toland (The Grapes of Wrath, Citizen Kane, et al.) about cameras they would use during a war, how to shoot in all lighting conditions, and how to develop film in the field if need be. They also were drilled in the basics of military life by Jack Pennick, a member of Ford’s regular acting troupe who happened to be an expert on military history and rules.

The rest of Tinseltown, and the skeptical Navy brass, began jokingly referring to this motley crew as “John Ford’s Navy.” And yet, by the time he was through, over a hundred of his Hollywood trainees had joined the active service or reserves, ready for a war they knew was coming.

After Pearl Harbor, with the Navy in shock and disarray, Ford finally found his long-sought benefactor. William “Wild Bill” Donovan was in the process of setting up the OSS — the Office of Strategic Services, the precursor to today’s CIA — and Ford’s moxie, skills, and penchant for skirting the bureaucracy was just what he was looking for. Soon the director had brought his Hollywood gang under the official auspices of the OSS as “The Field Photographic Branch,” and it wasn’t long before they were filming reconnaissance, troop movements, and full-on battles all over the world.

At forty-seven years of age, after three decades of trying, John Ford was finally a soldier.

Ford served without pay, traveling across the globe and dodging enemy bombers and U-Boats to fulfill his duties as head of Field Photo. Iceland… Panama… North Africa… West Africa… Cuba… Australia… Ceylon… China… India…. Burma…. Saudi Arabia… Brazil… France. Ford filmed potential base locations, assessed the security of existing sites, captured now-historic battles on film, often in color, and coordinated the movements and missions of his men, thirteen of whom were killed in action. For these efforts, he was promoted to Captain on April 3, 1944. In later years he would state that — although he was the recipient of many of the highest awards in the film industry, including several Oscars — he was most proud of having earned his Small Arms Expert’s medal in the Navy.

John Ford had a knack for showing up in interesting places. He was on the deck of the USS Hornet, deep in enemy waters, when the famous Doolittle raid lifted off for Japan, his camera recording the historic moment for posterity. He was at Normandy on June 6, 1944, capturing rare footage of D-Day as it unfolded. He first (and last!) parachute jump occurred behind enemy lines in Burma on a secret OSS mission, with Ford terrified and murmuring Hail Marys all the way down because, a mere few days before, he had filmed a cargo drop and watched as chute after chute failed to open and the boxes smashed into the unforgiving earth.

Someone else who was scared was Ford’s wife, Mary, who only saw her husband on several brief occasions during the years he was off to war. She was from a Navy family herself and understood the sacrifices involved, but that didn’t make it any easier. One extant letter has Ford gently chiding her, “Ma, you can’t call up long distance just when you’re blue and lonesome. It’s just too damned expensive. We’ve really got to adjust — not financially necessarily, but mentally.” Lonely and bored, she wrote back to her husband that she felt guilty for not doing anything herself for the war effort while he was away fighting. One stateside friend wrote to Ford that his wife was, “pretty miserable just sitting on a hilltop worrying about you and waiting for you to come home.”

Eventually, Mary found some solace in volunteering her time at the now-legendary Hollywood Canteen, the star-studded entertainment hangout for servicemen passing through Los Angeles, where GIs could be served dinner by movie stars and dance the night away with popular starlets to the tunes of world-famous big bands. Mary threw herself into kitchen work there, and quickly became Vice President of the Canteen’s board. Her letters during this time reveal that she helped stars like Bob Hope and Bette Davis fight off a coven of Hollywood Commies, who were trying to get the military MPs (charged with keeping order in the Canteen) booted out, so they could then begin using the venue for staging and promoting leftist propaganda unimpeded.

Ford’s relationship with his wife wasn’t perfect — he was a notorious alcoholic, and one who had flirted with his share of Hollywood actresses during the early years, most notably Katharine Hepburn. But his wife had closed her ears to the gossip and never wavered from his side, vowing to remain “Mrs. John Ford until I die.” They had been married almost twenty-five years, raised two kids, and had overcome problems that would have doomed a lesser marriage. “I pray to God it will soon be over,” he wrote to her in another letter, “so we can live our life together with our children and grandchildren. . . God bless and love you Mary darling — I’m tough to live with — heaven knows & Hollywood didn’t help — Irish & genius don’t mix well but you know you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.”

By the end of John Ford’s life, he had been married for fifty-three years.

Next Saturday in For Conservative Movie Lovers, we continue our look at John Ford’s war years, and address his Oscar-winning WWII documentary The Battle of Midway (1942).

FURTHER READING and VIEWING

Searching for John Ford: A Life by Joseph McBride: Without question the bible for John Ford fans. Ford is lucky in that most of the biographies written about him have been pretty good. But McBride’s masterwork — the culmination of three decades of intense research — towers above them all. Heavily drawn upon whenever I write or think about Ford, it is a must-read for all conservative film fans.

John Ford’s Sex Hygiene (1940): A footnote to Ford’s war career, mentioned here solely for the benefit of the morbidly curious. Only for the strong of stomach (and not safe for work). Actor Charles Trowbridge (later to play Admiral Blackwell in They Were Expendable) narrates and stars in this still-ghastly training film, which fully accomplished its goal of scaring the hell out of millions of randy enlisted men. In graphic, venereal diseased detail, young recruits are shown the perils of fooling around with ’dem dirty wemmins in their off-hours. At one point during the production of this little documentary Daryl Zanuck, the head of Twentieth-Century Fox, burst in on Ford interviewing a guy glistening with disgusting sores and declared, “He don’t scare me — send him to makeup!” When asked to comment on the film years later, Ford quipped, “I looked at it and threw up.”

Sex Hygiene Part I at YouTube | Sex Hygiene Part II at YouTube (again, it’s thoroughly gross, and there’s lots of medical full-frontal male nudity — you have been warned.)

The Hollywood Canteen is an idea that could and should be resurrected today, but do you dare take a peek at the modern incarnation of The Hollywood Canteen? One featuring not patriotic movie stars serving our troops, but pampered, puerile celebrities like Paris Hilton and Marilyn Manson being feted by armies of vapid Hollywood wannabes? Steel yourself against massive disappointment and check it out.

Hedy Lamarr’s perfectly arched eyebrows emphasize her symmetrical features. Considered the most beautiful woman in Hollywood, Lamarr was also incredibly bright, co-inventing, in 1941, a “frequency-hopping device that now serves as the basis for modern spread-spectrum communication technology.” That quote is grabbed from Wikipedia. I have absolutely no idea what it means, but darn, I’m impressed. Anyhoo. Married six times, Lamarr gained and lost several fortunes. After her career was over she was arrested on shoplifting charges.

Screening movies from Hollywood’s Golden Age, I’ve noticed an interesting trend—in eyebrows.

During the early days of silent films, female stars appeared pretty normal. Which is to say, eyebrows were lightly plucked, but retained a recognizably human configuration.

But the Flapper Age of the 1920’s, a time of huge social upheaval in America, ushered in severely plucked eyebrows, styles that were eventually refined into Baroque loops and harsh anorexic gashes.

A close friend, a brilliant cultural observer, wrote to me with this fascinating bit of cultural information:

Flappers were the first group of women outside of prostitutes to shave their legs and armpits. They changed the world, depilation-wise.

Narrow eyebrows seem to have come into fashion as Hollywood, and society in general, turned away from the Nineteenth Century ideal of the woman with the hourglass figure to the starved creature of the modern age.

Plucked eyebrows reached their apotheosis in the 30’s as whip-thin Art Deco was all the rage. Eyebrows in Hollywood evolved into extra fine lines that seemed drawn by Dexedrine fueled designers.

Studio stylists regularly shaved the eyebrows of the vulnerable young actresses being groomed for stardom, but after a few shavings the eyebrows of the chosen Pygmalions failed to grow back. Thus, several generations of Hollywood stars lacked eyebrows and their faces became blank canvasses for the powerful studio stylists.

The clash between the reality of her true self with the manufactured Hollywood image was deeply alienating for many young women, most of them uneducated teenagers from hard scrabble childhoods. No wonder Lana Turner wryly commented on her seven disastrous marriages: “The problem is that men marry Lana Turner—and wake up next to me.”

Let’s go to the visuals:

Jean Harlow had narrow, deep-set eyes—difficult to photograph—and so along with false eyelashes like shelves, studio stylists inscribed eyebrows, like soaring roman arches, to create the illusion of rounder, wider eyes. Harlow suffered to maintain her bombshell image. So toxic was the dye used for her platinum blond hair that it finally started falling out in clumps—like a chemotherapy patient—and she was forced to wear wigs for extended periods.

Carole Lombard had a lovely forehead, cheekbones like blades, and her eyebrows—low slashes—were etched in order to draw attention to those patrician features. In January, 1942, on a national tour selling U.S. War bonds, Lombard, one of the most beloved figures in Hollywood, was killed in a plane crash, making her one of America’s first casualties of World War II.

Clara Bow’s drooping eyebrows seem to echo her emotional instability—she was probably bi-polar. Her mother, an occasional prostitute, twice tried to murder Bow when she was just a child. Her father repeatedly raped young Clara after Bow’s mother was confined to a mental institution. Clara Bow was one of Hollywood’s greatest natural actresses, but her important body of work is barely recognized and a “nothing”—so said the great George Cukor—like Louise Brooks is built into a cultural and movie icon. We have the French—what a shocker—to thank for initiating this bit of historical lunacy.

Marlene Dietrich, monstrously self-absorbed, positioned a full length mirror beside the camera to keep an eye on her reflection. Dietrich understood her own image, and worked hard at refining the mystery and glamor that characterized her fame. Dietrich wielded her beauty like a sexual totalitarian, seducing scores of men and women with frightening self-assurance. When John Wayne rebuffed her advances she flew into a rage calling Wayne a “stupid American cowboy.”

Marion Davies started out as a teenage Ziegfeld Girl. Posing in the elaborate costumes, Davies looked fresh and lovely, and the severe stutter that plagued her, was rendered unimportant. In Hollywood, her all-American looks gave way to various make-up extremes. Here, Davie’s eyebrows seem to be crawling down her cheek bones. One of the kindest, most generous women in Hollywood, Orson Welles admitted that in his cruel portrayal of supremely untalented Susan Alexander in Citizen Kane, 1941, he did Davies, a hugely gifted comedienne, “a dirty.”

Garbo’s eyes were probably her best feature and her eyebrows draw attention to her hypnotic gaze. Garbo was most effective in close-up, that’s what her fans best remember and fetishize. In medium and long shot, Garbo is often noticeably uncomfortable—she had a tendency to slouch—and her attempts to control her klutziness results in some awkward moments. Take a look at her performance in Grand Hotel, 1932. She plays a ballerina, but she’s a dancer with two left feet.

Bette Davis hated Hollywood’s emphasis on beauty, but even she submitted to extreme plucking. Later in her career at Warner Bros., when she had clout, and didn’t hesitate to use it, Davis let her eyebrows grow in and she reconstituted her own image with an iron fist. Eventually, Davis refused to pose for the studio glamor portraits.

Known in her later career for thick as mink eyebrows, Joan Crawford actually started out with the harshly plucked Flapper look. Watching Crawford in close-up can be an eerie experience: those saucer eyes never blink and her unyielding stare burns a hole through the silver screen.

Anna May Wong was Hollywood’s first and greatest Chinese star—though she was born and raised in Los Angeles. The studios carefully constructed her image as an Oriental femme fatale using the full Hollywood arsenal of hair styles, wardrobe, props and barely there eyebrows. Catch her in the pre-code Shanghai Express, 1932, in which she plays a slinky courtesan. Anna May Wong blows Marlene Dietrich off the screen by remaining Buddha-still in contrast to Dietrich’s Rococo poses. A natural leading lady, beautiful and talented, Anna May’s movie career was severely hampered by the Motion Picture Code where portrayals of miscegenation were forbidden.

Alice Faye is barely remembered today, but, for a few years, she was a huge singing star for Twentieth Century Fox. Not conventionally beautiful, rather the cute girl next door, the studio imposed on Faye a glamorous image that just didn’t fit. When her film career sputtered, Faye moved into radio starring in a successful show with her husband, band leader Phil Harris.

Joan Marsh was the daughter of the great, pioneering Hollywood cinematographer Charles Rosher and as such, she knew something about the primacy of image. This offspring of Hollywood gained positive attention as a child actress in Mary Pickford’s delightful Daddy Long Legs, 1919. There’s something silkily feline about Marsh in this iconic George Hurrell portrait. Her darting eyebrows draw attention to her flowing river of hair. Marsh never gained leading lady status, she was primarily a feature and day player—her continuous battles with weight are just heartbreaking. Marsh retired from the screen in 1944. In later years, she managed a stationary shop on Ojai, California.

Now, let’s skip forward to 1956, eyebrows are back, bigger and badder than ever:

It looks like two caterpillars have taken up residence over Audrey Hepburn’s eyes. Hepburn was lovely, a charming actress who projected intelligence and vulnerability. She was a class act, but never a star who caused men to walk distractedly into walls. Her carefully constructed image—boyish hair, boyish figure, and he-man eyebrows—short circuited the traditional Hollywood look.

And finally, the greatest eyebrows in Hollywood history.

Julie Newmar gained fame as Catwoman, “the purrfect villainess,” from the Batman TV series, her episodes running from 1966-67. Newmar’s mother, Helen Jesmer, was one of Ziegfeld’s most stunning girls. Newmar wrote the introduction to the ravishing volume, Jazz Age Beauties, in which Jesmer appears along with dozens of other Ziegfeld girls. Next time you watch Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, 1954, feast your eyes on the unbelievably leggy and wasp waisted Newmar as Dorcus, one of the abducted brides.

For more great visuals of notable Hollywood eyebrows, head on over to Starlet Showcase.

Copyright © Robert J. Avrech

I also found these quotes from Ms. Fox:

“I don’t want to have to go on talk shows and pull out every single S.A.T. word I’ve ever learned, to prove, like, ‘Take me seriously, I am intelligent, I can speak.’ I don’t want to have to do that. I resent having to prove that I’m not a retard.”

And…

“Women are expected to be conformist automatons in L.A. but in Britain you can be more yourself and people will take you on face value.”

Far be it from me to point out that the base audience for “Transformers” is young males in Middle America, the same men that Fox condemns to a robot apocalypse.  I doubt the bi-coastal elites from Beverly Hills to the Upper West Side will be waiting in line for the midnight showing of Michael Bay’s latest opus.  Alienating your core audience is never a good idea.  Perhaps Ms. Fox holds an associate’s degree from the Timothy Geithner School of Business Management.

Fox asserts that she is “not a retard” and that she bucks the system by not being a “conformist.”  Is it bad for me to call foul on both points?

I learned something a long time ago.  Back in my fraternity days at USC (oops, man, did I just give the Huffington Post ammo?… A USC FRAT BOY!!!!!!  No wonder…) I noticed how the guys who constantly bragged about their sexual prowess really didn’t do too well.  The guys who were discrete, never bragged, never felt the need to prove anything, had a steady stream of attractive dates and girlfriends. The braggarts would spend their weekends regaling in tales of three ways and sex with strippers while drinking forty-ouncers and challenging each other to games of “Street Fighter” on the Super NES.

The same goes for intelligence.  When you feel compelled to tell the world how smart you are, how intellectual your positions are, how deep your education runs, the sad truth is that you probably aren’t that bright.

Megan Fox is a panderer.  She trashes Middle America to the British Press.  She wears “Star Wars” T-shirts to make Fan Boys drool, then calls those Fan Boys “retards” to the hipsters in Silver Lake.  She talks up her intelligence and non-conformity…. by making stupid, conformist statements.

Lauren Bacall made this observation about Hollywood: “When I first went into pictures, women absolutely ran the show. Bette Davis practically owned Warner Brothers.”  Bacall doesn’t know many of the stars of today. “They’re all too self-involved, y’know? And they’re so unaware of what goes on anywhere else.”

Hmmmm…is there any way that we can draw a parallel between the rise of “correct” thought in Hollywood as evidenced by self-absorbed automatons like Megan Fox and the observation that Hollywood used to be BETTER for women?  Is it, perhaps, that whiny divas who parrot talking points to look cool, who lack independent thought and rely on their good looks instead of honing their craft, have made Hollywood WORSE for women?  That may be a stretch.  Maybe I need some self-professed smart person to help me make that argument.

Bacall, Bette Davis, Katherine Hepburn, Joan Crawford…these women are legends.  Not just because they are superior, gifted actresses, but because you can feel their presence, their intellect, their “moxie” in every thing they did.

As a reformed frat guy I can tell you…these women had “balls!”

I have a friend.  An actress.  The one pictured above that you might not recognize.  Her resume is similar to Fox’s, before her lucky break in “Transformers.”  This actress is not an automaton.  Her politics are a unique blend of feminism, social liberalism, libertarianism, and hawkish neo-conservatism.  She has a business degree from BYU, although she’s never mentioned it to anyone to further her “smart” credentials.  When she walks into a party she doesn’t instantly turn the conversation into a discourse on her sexual habits a la Ms. Fox, nor does she sit by and let a comment about that “fascist George Bush” go by without a rebuttal.

Yet while Megan Fox was busy being pampered on the set of “Transformers,” this actress worked with me on the direct to video knock-off movie “Transmorphers.”  While Megan Fox sat in her trailer waiting for make-up, this actress did her own make-up, then stood outside in the freezing rain for 12 hours in an old junkyard near Topanga.  While Megan Fox pocketed hundreds of thousands of dollars, this actress got paid $50 a day.  No complaints.  No crying.  Just smiles and hard work.

Yes, Megan Fox, women in Hollywood still face issues and obstacles.  But not in the way that you think.  While you are gaming the system, being part of the problem and not the solution, others are advancing the cause despite you.

I know a couple of other actresses like my friend.  They feel alienated, blacklisted, and closed off.  Not because they are as attractive as Megan Fox and people can’t get past their looks.  Not solely because of the male stranglehold on Hollywood.  They feel out of place because they have “balls.”

And the last thing you want to be in the tolerant world of Hollywood is a woman with “balls.”

Megan Fox is clearly lacking a pair.

It’s in the walk.

Think of Mae West, hands caressing her Rubenesque hips, head tilted, not just sauntering, but oozing forward, the exaggerated female.

Elbows cocked and angled at his hips, moving with concentrated energy, Jimmy Cagney looks like a coiled spring about to explode.

Joan Crawford, leading with her linebacker shoulders, like a tank on the battlefield, determined, dangerous, unstoppable.

Spine rigid, arms glued to his side, plum straight steps—no motion in the hips or shoulders—eyes nailed to the distant horizon, Henry Fonda’s walk is a combination of cool reserve and righteous indignation.

Bette Davis, nervously wringing her hands—William Wyler once threatened to chain them down—as she paces back and forth in her pathologically unstable world.

Rapid fire mincing steps, hips and shoulders swaying, Marilyn Monroe is the archetype of the sexually charged woman, and yet simultaneously a little girl who is innocent of her immense power.

And then there is John Wayne.

His walk is odd.

Distinctive, but odd.

It’s a complex, disorienting, and ultimately elegant forward propulsion: long manly strides, elbows bent and poised—like a boxer locked into position—a distinctly feminine swooshing of the hips, and a pronounced case of pigeon toe.

Was Duke’s walk natural?

Or was it part of the John Wayne image, a carefully constructed bit of acting business?

Harry Carey, Jr., in his fascinating memoir, Company of Heroes: My Life as an Actor in the John Ford Stock Company, provides invaluable and deeply private insights into the famous John Wayne walk.

First, Harry Carey, Jr. sketches in some background on John Wayne’s intimate relationship with the great character actor Paul Fix (1901–1983) Carey’s father-in-law:

…Paul Fix had almost as much to do with Duke’s success as a screen actor as did John Ford. Paul Fix literally taught John Wayne what John Wayne knew about acting. He was the man who gave Duke his first insight into forming the mold which was to be his persona. Most people give Uncle Jack [John Ford] the credit for this, but the first man to put the John Wayne image into John Wayne’s head was Paul Fix.

Carey, Jr. discusses the early days, the B westerns, and journeyman actor John Wayne’s stage appearance that turned disastrous:

Paul first worked as an actor with Duke in those early westerns. In those days, Paul had a sort of slinky, haunted look about him, like a man who might steal or lie, so of course he was usually cast as a heavy; not the head honcho, though, the sly henchman. He played a lot of gangsters, along with Sheldon Leonard or Barton MacLane. Paul was very serious about acting, and he wrote many plays. He was always putting them on in the little theaters around Hollywood. He cast Duke in one of them, but Duke was so frightened of live theater that he overdosed on booze and made a total ass out of himself. His wife, Josephine [Alicia Saenz], was so furious she screamed from the audience, “You’re a bum—a drunken bum!” What a night in the theater! Little did they know that they were looking at the man who was to become the biggest movie star of all time.

Harry Carey, Jr. reveals how Paul Fix worked behind the scenes as an acting coach to John Wayne during the most important film of Duke’s career.

Duke used to tell Paul that he felt awkward in front of the camera. He said he didn’t know what to do with his hands; that he didn’t feel natural. Not too many years later, Duke got his big break when John Ford cast him as “The Ringo Kid” in Stagecoach. Duke was overwhelmed by this good news but paralyzed with fear that he wouldn’t be able to carry it off. He went to Paul for help. Without John Ford’s knowledge. Duke went to Paul’s house every night to go over the next day’s work while they were shooting in town.

Private and not so private acting coaches are not unusual in Hollywood. Montgomery Clift was so dependent on his acting coach Mira Rostova, that he put her on salary while shooting some of his most famous films. And much to the chagrin of his directors and co-stars, Clift, after every take, would anxiously look to Rostova—not the director—for approval or disapproval of his line readings.

“Not unlike Marilyn Monroe’s walk.”

And now Carey fills us in on the birth of the legendary John Wayne walk:

Because Duke was kind of heavy-footed and used to trudge more than walk, Paul told Duke to point his toes when he walked, and the “John Wayne walk” was born. Try it yourself. Take a step and point your toe, like you’re stabbing it into the ground—left foot, right foot. Your shoulders automatically move back and forth, and the hips follow, not unlike Marilyn Monroe’s walk. When Duke first did it, it was ballsey as hell. As the Wayne legend began to form, the walk became more pronounced. Rio Bravo or any of the “Rios” are good examples.

Hollywood stardom is a mysterious thing. In the days when the studio system dominated, the moguls consciously searched for the key to a players potential image. And then, once identified, the studio system—at its best, an incredible make-over machine—created, polished and ruthlessly exploited that star’s specific persona.

No wonder L.B. Mayer alternately broke down in rage and tears when he discovered that Andy Hardy/Mickey Rooney ran off in the middle of the night and married the young and sexy Ava Gardner. Mayer was terrified that the public would reject the incredibly profitable Andy Rooney series—innocence and apple pie—when they realized that small town, all American Andy/Mickey was actually something of a dog, hooking up with a hot 17-year old actress—not to mention a host of chorus girls, hookers and vulnerable starlets.

With Clark Gable it gradually became clear to the executives at MGM that he was a man’s man, possessed of a humorous glint in his eye that turned women to jelly. For Jean Arthur it was her sandpaper voice and hesitant delivery that conveyed a woman desperate for control, but on the edge of a melt down. Jean Harlow was perfect as the sexy, vulnerable, wise-cracking tootsie who didn’t take herself too seriously.

But since the demise of the studio system, Hollywood stardom has morphed into an eerie kind of tabloid celebrity. Movie stars no longer have an identifiable movie persona, in fact most work hard at subverting a fixed image. They take pride in grabbing movie roles that go against type. Contemporary actors want to prove that they have range, that they are versatile. Hence, absent a fixed address, the post-modern actor is, with rare exceptions, fated to be excluded from the pantheon of Hollywood immortals.

For John Wayne, after a long Hollywood apprenticeship, his stardom was defined and exquisitely refined as a particular kind of rugged American individual; a man, no matter how conflicted, who recognized the difference between good and evil—and strode across the silver screen like a colossus.

Copyright © Robert J. Avrech

Remember when Hollywood celebrities flocked across the globe to entertain and support American troops? Remember when Hollywood—as a community—denounced tyrants, Jew-haters, and mass murderers?

Joan Crawford as Miss Liberty

My father was a Rabbi, a Chaplain in the 42nd Division during World War II and the Korean War. He often told me just how much the troops loved and respected their Hollywood supporters.

Here’s just a brief sampler of what Hollywood patriotism once looked like.

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In February 1954, on her honeymoon in Japan with Joe DiMaggio, Marilyn Monroe took time off and traveled to Korea to entertain the troops. Monroe appeared on stage wearing skimpy outfits in freezing temperatures. The men adored her. She performed ten shows in four days, in front of audiences that totaled more than 100,000 soldiers and Marines.

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Marilyn performs Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.

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Dinah Shore, a hugely popular singer, traveled with USO tours throughout Europe. During one of her tours she met actor George Montgomery. They married in 1943. Soon after the wedding, Montgomery entered active service.

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In the late 1930’s Nazi agents approached Marlene Dietrich and asked her to return to Germany. She flatly turned them down. Dietrich was one of the first celebrities to raise war bonds. She entertained troops on the front lines in dozens of USO shows. Dietrich hated the Nazis and often spoke out against anti-Semitism. Here, she’s autographing the cast of Earl E. McFarland at U.S. hospital in Belgium 1944.

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Carole Landis probably logged more miles than any other actress in Hollywood during WWII entertaining American troops. She wrote a book about her experiences, Four Jills in a Jeep. Tragically, this generous but deeply unhappy young woman committed suicide in 1948 while carrying on a desperate affair with the married actor Rex Harrison—a notorious womanizer.

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Bob Hope, friend to GI’s, entertains American servicemen at the airstrip in Munda, New Georgia, an island in the central Solomons, on Oct. 31, 1944. Hope’s commitment to America’s troops brought him into four wars: World War II, the Korean War, Viet Nam and the Persian Gulf War. When on tour the great comedian usually performed in Army fatigues. A 1997 act of Congress signed by President Clinton named Bob Hope an “Honorary Veteran.”

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Carole Lombard raised millions of dollars selling war bonds. Tragically, she died in an airplane crash on January 15, 1942, after completing an eight-hour sales drive in Indiana in which she raised $2,017,513 in bonds . She was anxious to reunite with Clark Gable; they had only been married for three years. The last thing she said to him was: “You better get yourself into this man’s army.”

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Following Lombard’s death, deeply depressed and drinking too much, Gable rallied and asked MGM to release him from his contract. He joined the U.S. Army Air Forces. Most of Gable’s friends believed that Hollywood’s greatest leading man was seeking death. Far too old for active service, Gable worked hard to earn his stripes. Gable trained with and accompanied the 351st Heavy Bomb Group as head of a 6-man motion picture unit making a gunnery training film. Gable flew five combat missions in B17’s. In one mission over Germany he was almost killed when a German 20mm shell exploded through the plane’s floor and ripped the heel from one of Gable’s flight boots. Adolf Hitler offered a million dollar bounty to anyone who captured Gable and brought him back to Germany as a POW. Gable was Hitler’s favorite actor. Gable left the Army Air Forces with the rank of Major.

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Jimmy Stewart was a B-24 pilot in World War Two and flew twenty missions over Europe. Stewart ended the war as a command pilot and stayed in the Air Force Reserves until 1968, when he retired as a Brigadier General.

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The Hollywood Canteen, 1451 Cahuenga Boulevard in Hollywood, California was open from October 3, 1942 until the end of World War II. The club offered food and entertainment for American servicemen. The founders of the Canteen were Bette Davis, John Garfield and composer Jules Stein. All costs and labor for The Hollywood Canteen were donated by the various Hollywood guilds and unions.

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In the Hollywood Canteen, Bette Davis ladles out food for American servicemen. Davis devoted enormous amounts of time to the Canteen and served as its President. When funds ran low, she reached into her own pocketbook to cover expenses. Glamorous stars like Olivia De Havilland, Edward G. Robinson, Hedy Lamarr, Frank Sinatra, Dorothy Lamour, Cary Grant, Lauren Bacall, Randolph Scott and hundreds of others, volunteered to wait on tables, cook in the kitchen and clean up. Notable by their absence in the Hollywood Canteen were three great stars: Jimmy Cagney, Greta Garbo and Charlie Chaplin. In 1944, Warner Bros. produced a star-studded film—a revue really—about the Hollywood Canteen. When the Canteen closed its doors in November 1945, it had hosted almost three million servicemen.

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Never Forget

Copyright © Robert J. Avrech

5pm PST - Dark Victory (1939) – A flighty heiress discovers inner strength when she develops a brain tumor. Cast: Bette Davis, George Brent, Humphrey Bogart, Geraldine Fitzgerald Dir: Edmund Goulding BW-104 mins, TV-PG

Classic Bette Davis melodrama filled with too many story twists to count, a miscast Humphrey Bogart and perfectly cast Ronald Reagan as a playboy drunk all too aware of his own shallowness. Davis puts all she has into her role (one she fought for) as a rich socialite thrown on an emotional rollercoaster after receiving a death sentence due to one of those movie tumors which allows for maximum dramatic impact and the all important ticking clock.

George Brent’s both strong and sympathetic as the doctor who treats Davis, falls in love with her, and ultimately helps the spoiled party girl discover the simple pleasure of life and what real happiness means.

The last ten minutes will have the logical half of your brain rolling your eyes, but there will be tears in them eyes because Davis is all movie star and makes you buy completely into the sweet, bitter, ridiculous, melodramatic, wonderful sadness of it all.

Also, be sure to catch Edward G. Robinson in “Dr. Erlich’s Magic Bullet” at 3pm, an outstanding biopic, one of my personal favorites, that I look forward to writing more about the next time it doesn’t air on the same day as an epic Davis weepie. 

By now most of you have seen this dishonest attack on Governor Sarah Palin narrated by Ashley Judd:

Hi, I’m Ashley Judd, and years ago I was best known for starring in the same movie again and again before all but disappearing after accepting a supporting role in something with both “ya ya” and “sisterhood” in the title. I’m here today, hoping to endear myself again with Hollywood by savaging Sarah Palin because my manager told me that was my last, best shot at a late career gasp.

Obviously, I’m paraphrasing.

Throughout the late thirties and early forties, Bette Davis was one of the biggest stars in the country. She was also one of the most powerful, fighting constantly with Jack Warner for better roles, script approval and control over her own career. No one told Bette Davis what to do.

Here’s a “commercial” Davis chose to make at the height of her stardom while her country was at war, like we are now:

Really, it’s not about the politics.