The studio heads called in a oft-used master craftsman named King Vidor to handle the job, and he proceeded in a few weeks to capture on celluloid some of our culture’s most beloved images.

Who was this “King Vidor”?  If you’re a modern conservative movie lover with some smattering of knowledge about classic Hollywood, you may have heard that strange name without really knowing or caring about its import. It sounds vaguely European — perhaps even fake? — and hardly evokes the same smile of recognition as Ford, Hitchcock, Hawks, Wilder. It seems to belong more with names like Curtiz, Lubitsch, Cocteau, Kurosawa — foreign-sounding, arty-farty names, ones only a geeky film aficionado could love.

And yet Vidor (you pronounce it “VEE-door,” not “VEYE-door”) was no foreigner at all. Texas born and bred, he was a champion of the little guy, the average Joe. His Christianity (he was raised a Christian Scientist), optimism, and Americanism infuse all his work. A craftsman, an innovator, an auteur, he had one of the longest careers of any director. If you have always treasured those sepia-toned Wizard of Oz sequences, and would like to find more stuff like it, do yourself a favor and hunt down Vidor’s The Champ (1931), a film that shares many of the same qualities with his later work on Oz.

Growing up as a middle-class kid in Galveston, Texas, King Vidor (1894-1982) didn’t fall in love with cinema right away. He was born just at the time that movies began being projected for audiences, and as a kid he would occasionally frequent the local Nickelodeons (so named because they cost a nickel to get in) and see the very first silent films. He was far from impressed. “When I was a young kid in Texas at the beginning of the century, I used to hate movies,” he explained decades later. “I hated their phoniness, their fakeness, the makeup which used to mask the actor’s expressions, their dreadful unreal acting with overdone pantomime gestures. People find them laughable today. I found them laughable then.”

All of that changed when, as a teenager, he became a ticket taker and backup projectionist at one of the theaters in Galveston. With nothing else to do, he found himself watching the films over and over. “I saw that two-reel Ben-Hur (1907), made in Italy [sic], twenty-one times each day or one hundred and forty-seven times in its week’s run. The men who made it never sat through it as often.” Studying the pantomime, the acting, the lighting, the camerawork, Vidor began to see the possibilities and power of this nascent art form. One thing he noticed right away: “The better the technique of the director, the fewer the subtitles.”

When a neighborhood kid hatched a plan to build a functional movie camera out of “an old projection machine and cigar boxes,” Vidor jumped at the chance to join in the experiment. They worked like kiddie mad scientists on their project, then bought a hundred feet of unexposed negative and used it to capture the spectacular destruction of a bathhouse near the Galveston seawall during a raging storm. With the help of some adults they sold the film as a newsreel to a distributor, and it got a lot of play around Southern Texas. “The day that hurricane struck,” Vidor said, “the course of my future was settled.”

He continued making newsreels throughout high school and selling them to distributors, ever trying to expand his prospects and break into a real job as a director of honest-to-God movies. It seemed that every day came further confirmation that cinema was growing into a great art form with a power to be reckoned with. Once, while watching a Western in a North Texas theater, Vidor watched in shock as a cowboy in the audience suddenly drew his pistol and began shooting at the screen! “He had come to town for a Saturday night’s spree,” Vidor recalled, “but when he saw the hero was about to be hung unjustly for cattle rustling, he couldn’t sit there with his six-shooter without doing something. The film did not stop, nor did they arrest the shooting cowboy. I suppose the three bullet holes were later patched, the manager having decided the less said about the incident the safer.” Movies, Vidor believed, were quickly becoming, “as vital to everyone’s life as milk and bread. You grew up with it. It affected your character, your dress, your lovemaking, your courage.” It was an industry of dreams and illusion and humanity that he wanted to be a part of.

Newly married, Vidor rode out to California at nineteen and ended up in San Francisco with twenty cents left in his pocket. They survived with typical Vidor-ian ingenuity, by taking empty, discarded boxes from grocery stores and scraping out the crumbs of oatmeal, Shredded wheat, and corn meal found within until they had enough for a meal. Eventually they scrounged together enough money to take a steamship to Los Angeles, where they did their best to weasel their way into the budding Hollywood film industry.

Vidor’s pretty wife became a $10 a week actress, while Vidor himself wrote dozens of scripts, photographed newsreels and travelogues, and worked any odd studio jobs that presented themselves. His breakthrough came with The Turn in the Road (1919), a film he financed from money begged from a consortium of dentists. Shot for $9,000, he found a distributor to take a chance on it, and it made $365,000 in its run. With that notch in his belt he could finally get studio jobs, and at twenty-three he was a young up-and-coming director. (his wife, Florence Vidor, became a famous silent screen actress, and they would eventually divorce for all of the usual Hollywood reasons).

Always pushing the envelope and remembering the unrealistic movies of his youth, Vidor experimented and innovated in his films. He used bright lights to smooth out the wrinkles on actresses faces, and got them laughing off-camera before a scene to capture a bit of that authentic glow of humor on film. He began timing shots to classical music, building up the editing of scenes into what felt like a musical crescendo, calling his technique “silent music.” He would sometimes even make his actors march or walk to the pace of a metronome, and the effect was almost subliminal, but haunting.

At a time when most films were suffused with fantasy and spectacle, Vidor grew to appreciate human stories that carried with them what might be called American realism. There were seldom villains in his movies — he relied instead on the trials and tribulations of real life for his drama. “War, wheat, and steel,” was his way of summarizing his interests, meaning life on the streets of middle-to-lower class America.

The Big Parade (1925), a World War I film presenting for the first time the perspective of mud-soaked grunts and GIs, became the most profitable silent film ever made (had there been any Academy Awards back then, it would have won a pile of them). Another Vidor film, The Crowd (1928), was an experimental masterpiece about ordinary people making their way through the small triumphs and tragedies of American big-city life, and garnered nominations for Best Picture and Best Director at the very first Academy Awards.

With the coming of sound, Vidor didn’t suffer the career setbacks that actors like Wallace Beery did, but he did discover that he needed to make some serious adjustments to his filmmaking style, not all of them welcome:

Silent pictures were treasured as an art form, and when talking pictures came in, most of the silent film directors regretted the change, the transition, because there was a certain technique that was very much akin to music. A silent film was never seen without music, without an orchestra. . . .We believed in the articulate powers of pantomime; we felt the things we were doing were bigger than words.

[In talking films] words reduced the actions, the emotions, the story we were trying to tell. It was like using words at the ballet. It made specific what we wanted to keep general. We could no longer appeal simultaneously to all audiences, the various levels of age and intelligence and sophistication. People were no longer free to fill in their own words. . .

It was a time of quiet despair to those of us brought up to love the lucidity of silence.

He also bemoaned the fact that all of the wonderful (and today still very modern-looking and influential) camera movements for silent pictures like The Big Parade and The Crowd were now all but impossible in the sound era, as the cameras now had to be housed in soundproofed rooms or covered with bulky soundproofed housings.

These were the problems facing him as an artist when, in 1931, he got the chance to direct The Champ.

Next Saturday in For Conservative Movie Lovers, we conclude our look at The Champ with some stories about how Vidor worked behind-the-scenes with Wallace Beery and Jackie Cooper, along with a look at the movie’s appeal both in 1931 and in 2010.

Previous posts in the series “King Vidor, Wallace Beery and The Champ“

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

FURTHER READING and VIEWING

Watch eighty-five-year-old King Vidor receive his honorary Oscar at the 51st Academy Awards on April 9, 1979.

The Big Parade (1925), directed by King Vidor: You can watch this silent film triumph in its entirety on YouTube. Part One starts here.

Hollywood Series — A Celebration of American Silent Film: King Vidor is a featured interviewee in this wonderful series by film historian Ken Brownlow. Many of the episodes are on YouTube, and I specifically recommend the first part of “The Pioneers” for an education about the true power and popularity of silent films in that era, how they were every bit as impressive to them as Star Wars and Avatar are to us.

Fourteen days later, on August 22nd, they posed together for a final promotional photo shoot, which was their last appearance together at any Beatles event. Although one more album was released (“Let it Be”), “Abbey Road” was the last album recorded by the band, which was already virtually dissolved as a unit. Yet the album was a great artistic and commercial success. The “Let it Be” album was intended to be released first, but the group did not think it ready. They moved on to record “Abbey Road” and released it on September 26th and October 1st, 1969, respectively, in the UK and the US. The cover photo, fittingly designed by Paul (as he was the only member who had a passion to keep the group together; even as he finally sued to end the partnership), depicts the band’s final crossing of “Abbey Road,” toward their studio home of the prior eight years. Ironically, even bizarrely, convicted murderer and “wall of sound” creator, Phil Specter, did the final mixing in 1970 of several songs on “Let it Be,” almost as an audition. He was not aware there would be no more Beatles, although he did some work for Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band.

I was, and am, a great Beatles fan. Then again, most rock music lovers are. As a fan of professional sports, I found many similarities in these seemingly dissimilar cultures.  An obvious similarity is both have Halls of Fame. Both cultures encourage respect for the success of the great ones who came before them, as well as those contemporaneous to them. The Beatles, for example, loved Buddy Holly’s group “Buddy Holly and the Crickets” and, of course, Elvis (Lennon said “before Elvis there was nothing”). Even their name, in part at least, was recognized by them to be similar to the Crickets and helped them choose the name “Beatles” (prior names included Johnny and the Moondogs, and The Silver Beetles).

Of course, not everyone is a Beatles fan. Lead singer Michael Stipe, of the group R.E.M, when asked in a 1992 Rolling Stone interview about the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, responded that the Beatles were like elevator music. He did not even respond to the Stone’s question. Stipe, I believe, was being honest. Yet, his lack of awareness as to their impact was profound. I know “standing on the shoulders of giants” leaves him cold, but that sentiment also reflects a severe lack of existential awareness. I have never felt the same about Stipe or R.E.M. since.

In 2008, a book in “words, pictures and music” by Barry Miles, named The Beatles Phenomenon, was published.  Miles wrote McCartney’s official biography in 1998.  My 17-year-old daughter spent five weeks at Oxford this summer (studying Shakespeare and playing “Hamlet’s” Guildenstern in the Oxford debating hall; yes, Guildenstern). My birthday occurred while she was away. One of her classmates had just bought Miles’ book for her brother’s birthday. My daughter, who became a Beatles fan from the 2007 movie musical “Across the Universe,” bought the book for me for my birthday. What is interesting about this is, 40 years after the last Beatles album, teenagers are still buying Beatles books. Before I get into my primary “thesis” and inevitable political “take away” about the Beatles, there are a few facts I find fascinating about the group. In no particular order, here are a few:

-Their famous “mop top” haircut was designed by Astrid Kirchherr, girlfriend of Lennon’s art school friend and early band member, Stuart Sutcliff. I already knew that. What I did not know, is she copied the style from the French movie actor Jean Marais’s portrayal of Oedipus in a 1959 Jean Cocteau movie (“Le Testament d’Orphee”). The Oedipus irony is priceless, given the cultural, political and social revolution which was the 1960s.

-The first top 20 hit by the Rolling Stones (UK) was given to them by the Beatles. It was “I Wanna be Your Man.” The fact that Ringo sang it one year later is amusing. The Stones were desperate to get an album out and enlisted Lennon and McCartney’s help. The Beatles literally completed writing the song (which they already had begun earlier) in the presence of the Stones in the latter’s studio in less than an hour. As Lennon later said “that’s how much importance we put on it.”

-Of the 183 songs written by the Beatles, 73 were written by Lennon, 69 McCartney, 17 Lennon/McCartney, 22 Harrison, and two Ringo. Lennon and McCartney agreed their songs would always have a joint credit. I always thought McCartney had written more, but this was incorrect.

-The number one selling rock group from 2000-2009 is still the Beatles, having sold 27 million albums. According to Billboard, the Beatles have had 19 number one albums. Elvis was second at 10, tied with Jay-Z. Tied for fourth are Springsteen and the Stones with nine. The Beatles and Elvis are the only acts estimated to have sold more than a billion albums. Michael Jackson, ABBA, and Queen sold about 350 million. The Stones sold 200 million, Springsteen 120 million, and Jay-Z 50 million. Paul McCartney and Wings sold almost as many albums as Springsteen, 100 million (not counted in Beatles total). Michael Stipe’s R.E.M, sold 50 million. Not bad for a group who hates standing on the shoulders of giants.

-Finally, on the trivia front, which segues nicely to the next paragraph, is that McCartney, Lennon and Harrison first picked up a guitar in 1956 (Paul) and 1957 (John and George). Six years later they were the most famous group in history at that point in time, as well as since. How did this happen?

As a child and young teenager, I lived and died for the Los Angeles Dodgers. I read all things Dodgers, that I could get my hands on. That meant reading about the Brooklyn Dodgers. Branch Rickey, the famous and successful Brooklyn Dodger GM who signed Jackie Robinson, once said “luck is the residue of design.” This quote always stuck with me. Baseball is driven at the micro level by randomness and luck. It is a game of probabilities; a bounce of the ball this way, a failed close call that way, a great timely play by an outfielder, etc. Over the long run, however, the best tend to win out.

The Beatles were, of course, lucky. Working with Brian Epstein and George Martin was timely and serendipitous. But their luck, too, was the residue of design. If it wasn’t Martin and Epstein, it would have been someone else. Why? Their work ethic and commitment to being a successful rock group was phenomenal. Lennon and McCartney came together in 1960, joined shortly thereafter by George Harrison (who himself aggressively sought acceptance by Lennon and McCartney). There were a number of other members who came and went, the most famous being Pete Best the drummer. He was fired before their first album was cut, and a drummer from one of Liverpool’s top groups, “Rory Storm and the Hurricanes,” Ringo Starr, was hired in his place.

As Barry Miles documents, their workload was astonishing. Between August 1960 and early 1963, they performed more than 800 hours on stage (not including practice) in Hamburg, Germany alone. During that same time period, they appeared almost 300 times at Liverpool’s “The Cavern.” This does not include other venues they played. This is astonishing and surely accounts for their success. Yes, they had skill, but work is what made them the Beatles. George Harrison said: “[In Germany] we learned to work for hours on end, and keep on working at full peak even though we reckoned our legs and arms were ready to drop off.” This work ethic created their prolific song writing ability. McCartney describes their first recording session for the album “Please Please Me”:

We’d been playing the songs for months and months and months before getting a record out. So we came in the studio at 10 in the morning, started it, did one number, had a cup of tea, relaxed, did the next one, a couple of overdubs…we just worked through them, like the stage act. And by 10′ o’clock that night, we’d done ten songs and we just reeled out of the studios, John clutching his throat tablets.

They also were among the first singer song writers in history. This was rarely done prior to the 1960s. They released 12 original albums (one double) between 1963 and the beginning of 1970; additionally they released 30 non-album tracks. Elvis never wrote a song. They did two full length feature films, did hundreds of radio and television appearances (when counting interviews). They lived in close to squalid conditions and played for little money prior to late 1962. They also were heavy users of various forms of amphetamines. They consciously sought diversity in their sound and the songs they played. They were willing to play covers as well as their own songs. They drove themselves to improve. Any venue was an opportunity.

When Brian Epstein happened on to them in 1962 in Liverpool, he saw great potential, although he had no experience as a producer, being merely a record shop owner. But he was a promotional wizard at heart and committed himself to their success. He also took advantage of the Beatles’ business naivete (which they eventually over came). He signed a deal in which he received 25% of the gross (normal was 10%) and the Beatles paid expenses and split the remainder. Still, the Beatles never resented Epstein. Lennon always said that Epstein provided the organizational and marketing skills to supplement their work ethic to make them successful. The Beatles, at Epstein’s urging, were also willing to stop wearing denim and leather and switch to those funky suits. They felt no less “authentic.” More than 70 million people watched each of the two Ed Sullivan appearances in early 1964 when they first came to America. They sounded great. The population of the US was 180 million. To put that in perspective, Obama and Palin each drew about 40 million to their nominating speeches in a country of 300 million.

The Beatles were obviously great. They were great because they are fun to listen to. They could make it seem so easy, which makes them even more fun to listen to. The White Album, consisting of about 35 songs, was an astonishing random assortment of various sounds and melodies. It was as if they were playing with their competition.  But it was not easy. It came out of effort as well as brilliance.

So what political message am I going to pull from this 40th anniversary of the dissolution of the Beatles? It is obvious, right? They were poor, but not victims. They did not ask for hand outs. They could not have been invented by a government program. They pursued self interest but provided enjoyment for hundreds of millions. Why is this not the message of our current president and his congressional allies? Why does Sonya Sotomayor credit affirmative action, rather than her own hard work, for her success? She distorts what should be her message. Why does the Democratic Party look to give to protected groups of people while taking from others? Why aren’t we encouraging work and the entrepreneurial spirit instead of demonizing the profit motive? McCartney is worth 1.5 billion. As economist Don Boudreaux says, “only $1.5 billion?” Not everyone who works as hard and as passionately as the Beatles will become mega-wealthy, but without hard work and motivation, there can never be any success. Why is this not the economic message of our day? As George Harrison once sang, we have this instead from our Government.

Let me tell you how it will be,
There’s one for you, nineteen for me,
‘Cos I’m the Taxman,
Yeah, I’m the Taxman.
Should five per cent appear too small,
Be thankful I don’t take it all.
‘Cos I’m the Taxman,
Yeah yeah, I’m the Taxman.

(If you drive a car car), I’ll tax the street,
(If you try to sit sit), I’ll tax your seat,
(If you get too cold cold), I’ll tax the heat,
(If you take a walk walk), I’ll tax your feet.
Taxman.

‘Cos I’m the Taxman,
Yeah, I’m the Taxman.
Don’t ask me what I want it for
(Ah Ah! Mister Wilson!)
If you don’t want to pay some more
(Ah Ah! Mister Heath!),
‘Cos I’m the Taxman,
Yeeeah, I’m the Taxman.

Now my advice for those who die, (Taxman!)
Declare the pennies on your eyes, (Taxman!)
‘Cos I’m the Taxman,
Yeah, I’m the Taxman.
And you’re working for no-one but me,
(Taxman).