Movies Unlimited. 3015 Darnell Road, Philadelphia, PA 19154.
Although its mention may seem like a plug, this catalogue is the most inclusive. Every movie available on DVD is listed in its annual eight-hundred-plus-page tome, in the same weight class with the Manhattan Telephone Directory, should such a thing still exist. The prices are competitive, and although the response time was glacial in the past, computer automation has reduced it to a fraction. Every film in every genre can be obtained through this masterful source. It has no equal, and at $9.95 plus $5.00 S&H, it’s a bargain. I’ve ordered frequently enough to receive the catalogue gratis; and I’m no profligate. I’m married, after all, and must answer to a higher authority.
Peary, Danny. Cult Movies. New York: Dell, 1981.
A movie voyeur’s treat. Although the term “cult” has been adulterated in order to lump indisputable turkeys in with genuine overlooked classics, in-depth studies of such significant misfires as High School Confidential are few and far between. I do, however, quibble over any attempt to include Citizen Kane on the same roster with The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Apart from the monstrous gulf that separates them, Kane is far too popular to be considered a cult item. And the statement (in Peary’s examination of The Scarlet Empress) that “it has, after all, been fairly well substantiated by most historians that … Catherine [the Great]’s sudden death occurred while she was attempting intercourse with a … steed” is ludicrous. Peary revisited his theme with Cult Movies 2 (Dell again) in 1983 and Cult Movies 3 (New York: Fireside) in 1988.
Riese, Randall, and Neal Hitchens. The Unabridged Marilyn: Her Life From A to Z. New York: Congdon & Weed, 1987.
As good as any, and better than most, dealing as it does with established facts and eschewing pointless speculation. Conspiracy theories involving her death, like those concerning the JFK assassination, weary me. The more of them that surface, the less likely there will ever be a solution. Worse, they trivialize lives that should be judged for their best moments (averting nuclear war, say, and the pure delight of Some Like It Hot), reducing them to the level of a party game. The literature on this actress, by theorists as disparate as Norman Mailer and Gloria Steinem, is fast approaching that on Napoleon Bonaparte, with less justification, as it’s grossly out of proportion to Monroe’s brief career and her place in cultural history. I’m so jaded on this subject I’ve never bothered to include a book about her in my extensive library on film and film stars. Of all the sex symbols whose lives ended prematurely—with the exception of Todd—this glittering personality and fine thespian, who labored hard to perfect her craft, is the only one whose end has received more attention than her life and work. Through no fault of her own, she’s become so Hollywood as to seem anti-Hollywood.
Shulman, Irving. Harlow: An Intimate Biography. New York: Dell, 1964.
Shulman, immortalized as the author of The Amboy Dukes, based this thoughtful and sympathetic account of a life remarkable for its brief brilliance in part on the reminiscences of Arthur Landau, Harlow’s longtime friend and the agent who discovered her. More in-depth (and doubtlessly more accurate) biographies have appeared since, but this is one of those movie-star books that makes you want to rush out and rent anything starring its subject. Unfortunately, its success inspired both Harlow, a dreary and sexploitative 1965 biopic featuring Carroll Baker, and a TV movie airing simultaneously under the same title headed by an equally forgettable starlet with a similar name, Carol Lynley. It’s not their fault; the ability to light up the screen is entirely natal.
Sikov, Ed. Screwball: Hollywood’s Madcap Romantic Comedies. New York: Crown, 1989.
Beautiful women and slapstick have gone together since the days of Mack Sennett’s bathing beauties, endured throughout the TV careers of Lucille Ball and Mary Tyler Moore, and remain a part of the contemporary scene thanks to Cameron Diaz, Julia Roberts, and Angelina Jolie. It may surprise those casually acquainted with cinema history just how often the sultriest bombshells fell on their prats at the behest of gifted comedic directors supported by veteran clowns. Evidence by association: Laurel & Hardy and Jean Harlow; the Marx Brothers and Thelma Todd; Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn; William Powell and Carole Lombard; Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert; Cary Grant and every actress who shared his screen. Sikov’s lively and informative text is the next best thing to screening Twentieth Century all over again; and you’ll want to, along with all the others, long before you finish reading.
Skretvedt, Randy. Laurel and Hardy. Beverly Hills: Moonstone, 1987.
In addition to providing a precious resource of material about the immortal comedy team, Skretvedt gives us crucial insight on Thelma Todd’s death, based on interviews with such surviving colleagues as Anita Gavin, and draws our attention to Jean Harlow’s contribution to one of their best two-reelers, valiantly disregarding the dignity usually afforded a glamour queen.
Vidal, Gore. Hollywood: A Novel of America in the 1920s. New York: Random House, 1990.
In the right hands, the historical novel is more spot-on than straight history. Vidal, who staked his claim with Burr, his scathing study of revolutionary America, carried that saga into the early twentieth century, with his silent-actress heroine providing a direct familial link with the narrator of that inaugural volume. He exposes the connection between the court-intrigue of the nascent motion-picture industry and behind-the-scenes manipulations in Washington, D.C. under the corrupt Harding administration, while holding out no hope that it will die with Teapot Dome. He’s saying there isn’t a scandal on the West Coast that hasn’t its counterpart in the White House. Little has changed since the events of this story.
West, Nathanael. The Day of the Locust. New York: Random House, 1939.
A depressing novel, narrated by a character whom by today’s standards would be committed for observation; and absolutely enthralling. West, a professional snoop who managed a residential hotel in L.A. during the Golden Age, used “research” as an excuse to open his guests’ mail—to our benefit, because if it weren’t for this book an important slice of Hollywood history would be lost.
FILMOGRAPHY
These sources are presented as a celebration of the lives (not the deaths) of some of the silver screen’s most unforgettable blond bombshells. We should honor them not for their own troubles, but for the part they played in helping audiences forget theirs.
Chickens Come Home. Directed by James W. Horne, starring Stan Laurel, Oliver Hardy, Mae Busch, Thelma Todd. MGM, 1931.
Just an example; any one of Todd’s appearances with these comic geniuses would illustrate her gift for humor. Along with Busch, Anita Gavin, and Lupe Vélez (another doomed actress, but a brunette, and therefore excluded from the “blond bombshell” curse; proponents of such legends are invariably dismissive of exceptions that disprove the theory), Todd was one of the few comediennes to hold their own against Laurel and Hardy. Here, she’s irresistibly charming as the “winsome” Mrs. Hardy opposite Busch’s nasty “blast from the past,” and that same year she’d stand toe-to-toe with the Marx brothers in Monkey Business—a feat rare among more seasoned players. “Hot Toddy” would make her own mark in comedy shorts with Patsy Kelly, earning the pair a reputation as the “female Laurel and Hardy.” Todd’s untimely death may have paved the way for ditsy glamour-queen specialist Carole Lombard, but if you’re superstitious or conspiracy-minded, it may also have been a blueprint for Lombard’s tragic fate seven years later.
The Day of the Locust. Directed by John Schlesinger, starring Donald Sutherland, Karen Black, Burgess Meredith, William Atherton, Geraldine Page, Bo Hopkins. Paramount, 1975.
At 144 minutes, it’s overlong, but a faithful adaptation of Nathanael West’s book. Veteran players Meredith, Page, and Billy Barty embody the period; certain physical imperfections and stilted acting would have prevented some members of the younger cast from success in the glory days of the Dream Factory. It is, however, an absorbing story, well scripted by Waldo Salt, and the visuals helped me realize
the neighborhood where Geoffrey Root and Eleazar Sheridan shared quarters.
Dinner at Eight. Directed by George Cukor, starring Marie Dressler, John Barrymore, Wallace Beery, Jean Harlow, Lionel Barrymore, Lee Tracy. MGM, 1933.
Like MGM’s previous Grand Hotel, this is a sort of House of Frankenstein, corralling all of one studio’s biggest box-office draws on one set. John Barrymore provides the one note of “tragic relief” in a rollicking send-up of silly society carrying on as usual in the depth of the Great Depression, with brilliant screwball turns by Harlow and Dressler, to whom falls the devastatingly funny last line. A joy to look at even with the sound off, for the outlandishly lush furnishings, lustrous Bakelite floors, and slinky gowns; but keep the volume up, or you’ll miss some of the brightest and most hilarious dialogue in all of film.
The Girl Can’t Help It. Directed by Frank Tashlin, starring Tom Ewell, Jayne Mansfield, Edmond O’Brien, Julie London. TCF, 1956.
Good R & B score, hackneyed plot, with professional schlep Ewell trying to make a star out of gangster O’Brien’s moll Mansfield. Mansfield died tragically, but nearly as sad to say, she was no loss to the cinema. A star should be either stunningly beautiful or a good actor; in the best of all worlds, she’s both, but beauty excuses the ineptitude of such as Lana Turner and Kim Novak. Mansfield couldn’t act, her legendary figure was overblown and overripe, and even after all this time her features are at best an acquired taste. She’s fodder for the endurance of the belief in the “Curse of Marilyn,” but in all likelihood her career would have faded from memory a generation ago but for the circumstances of her demise.
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Directed by Howard Hawks, starring Jane Russell, Marilyn Monroe, Charles Coburn. Fox, 1953.
The gold standard for romantic farces, with the “two little girls from Little Rock” determined to ditch show business and snag a couple of rich husbands. The music’s wonderful (I happen to think Monroe was a gifted singer, but for some reason I’m in the minority; in defense of my case, I recommend comparing her voice to that of Carol Channing, who played the same role on Broadway), and Monroe’s radiance, from the show-stopping “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” on, guaranteed she’d never again be billed second behind another actress.
High School Confidential. Directed by Jack Arnold, starring Russ Tamblyn, Jan Sterling, John Drew Barrymore, Mamie Van Doren, Diane Jergens, Ray Anthony, Jackie Coogan, Charles Chaplin, Jr. (!), Michael Landon. MGM, 1958.
Van Doren indirectly inspired Brazen; she claimed to have given up her career to escape the Curse of Marilyn. Whether she was seriously freaked or came up with a clever face-saving spin on the cancellation of her contract, she provides an important link as a blond siren less vulnerable than Monroe and far less coarse than Mansfield, with talent to spare. Confidential, a claptrap of a teen-drug-exposé flick, sends Tamblyn undercover to investigate narcotics traffic in Any High School, U.S.A. Best known for Jerry Lee Lewis’ pounding score (“Rockin’ at the high school hop”), this one’s worth watching just to see Van Doren’s cat-in-heat performance as Tamblyn’s nymphomaniac landlady.
Hugo. Directed by Martin Scorsese, starring Ben Kingsley, Sacha Baron Cohen, Asa Butterfield, Chloë Grace Moretz, Ray Winstone, Emily Mortimer, Jude Law, Christopher Lee. Paramount, 2011.
This is film scholar/buff Scorsese’s love letter to the birth of the movies, and one of the latest in the long rich history of films about film. Based faithfully on Brian Selznick’s (there’s a name redolent of Hollywood!) illustrated children’s book The Invention of Hugo Cabret, this script recounts an orphaned boy’s attempt to connect with his recently departed father, and actual motion-picture pioneer George Méliès’ journey back from disillusionment. Cohen, an intolerable nuisance in his previous outings, delivers a fine performance in a pivotal role, and Christopher Lee rounded out his distinguished career with his final appearance as a sympathetic librarian.
Liberty. Directed by Leo McCarey, Lloyd French, James Horne, starring Stan Laurel, Oliver Hardy. MGM, 1929.
In this, one of many early comedies to combine high-altitude thrills with hilarious slapstick, Harlean McGrew II, in her one scene, leaves a lasting impression in sudden undress. Re-billed later as Jean Harlow, she would underscore that effect, sometimes in the same condition.
My Man Godfrey. Directed by Gregory La Cava, starring William Powell, Carole Lombard, Gail Patrick, Eugene Pallette. Universal, 1936.
Here, Lombard paves the way for Lucille Ball, bearing the torch for glamour-girl-as-comedienne kindled by Thelma Todd. The chemistry between urbane drifter Powell and coddled deb Lombard electrified the screen, as it did in life; Powell would continue to deliver flowers to Lombard’s grave long after her death in a plane crash, notwithstanding her successful marriage to Clark Gable.
The Postman Always Rings Twice. Directed by Tay Garnett, starring Lana Turner, John Garfield, Cecil Kellaway, Hume Cronyn, Audrey Totter. MGM, 1946.
Long dismissed by noir aficionados as a “film grise,” substituting muddy gray for true black, this adaptation suffers in comparison to Double Indemnity, a more courageous take on another James M. Cain novel. Garfield’s your cup of tea, if you like Paul Muni with angst, but Turner provides no more than set decoration as always, a lovely empty vase crowned by liquid-blond hair and no brains. She’d know her own private drama when her daughter stabbed Turner’s abusive gangster lover, Johnny Stompanato, to death—although rumors persist that it was Lana herself who wielded the knife.
Red-Headed Woman. Directed by Jack Conway, starring Jean Harlow, Chester Morris, Una Merkel, Lewis Stone, May Robson, Leila Hyams, Charles Boyer. MGM, 1932.
Although it may seem ironic to single out this title to showcase the woman for whom the phrase “platinum blonde” was coined, it’s an unregenerately naughty delight, shot before the Hays Office cracked down on “questionable” content. Sleeping her way to the top without apology—and triumphing in the end—Harlow makes full use of her comedic talent, which was missing from her underwritten femme fatale turns in Hell’s Angels and The Public Enemy; although our language is richer for the line she delivered in the former film: “Would you be shocked if I put on something more comfortable?” She was equally madcap and gutsy opposite Clark Gable in Red Dust and Wallace Beery in China Seas (her character drinks Beery and his sea-dog cronies under the table); but if Anita Loos, who also gave us Monroe’s Lorelei Lee in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, didn’t have Harlow in mind when she created such proactive dames, it was only because the actress was unknown when she began writing. Harlow’s private life was riddled with tragedy, including a husband’s suicide; but her death at age twenty-six due to kidney failure was a loss from which the cinema has never fully recovered.
In his memoirs, George Hurrell, MGM’s legendary publicity photographer, confessed to stealing klieg lights from an operating-room set to do justice to Harlow’s unprecedented platinum coif. After her untimely death, he smuggled the lights back onto the set in respect for her memory. It was Hollywood’s equivalent of retiring a baseball superstar’s jersey; fittingly, in view of the blazing star’s plea for privacy, he did it without fanfare.
She. Directed by Irving Pichel and Lansing C. Holden, starring Helen Gahagan, Randolph Scott, Helen Mack, Nigel Bruce, and Gustav von Seyffertitz. RKO, 1935.
Filmed at least four times, twice silent, the fourth an execrable exploitation starring Ursula Andress (a Bond girl; an express ticket to obscurity), H. Rider Haggard’s fanciful tale of an immortal queen whose beauty must remain masked to avoid reducing every man who gazes upon it to helpless slavery (what woman could possibly want that?), is impossible to capture on film: Everyone has a different concept of just what constitutes irresistible sensuality. Gahagan (who would adopt Melvyn Douglas’ surname upon her marriage to that consummate actor), came closest, although the ice-princess performance such a role would require works against fleshly desire. Gahagan’s real life did not precisely end tragically, but her political aspirations dashed themselve
s to pieces when she opposed Richard Nixon for Congress, and took the full brunt of Washington-insider dirty tricks; to her death, she never forgave “Tricky Dick.” The history of the industry is rife with Mr. Smith Goes to Washington naïveté come a-cropper in the face of the District in the full force of its power. It helps to explain Hollywood’s spiteful jealousy regarding the political success of alumni Ronald Reagan and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Star 80. Directed by Bob Fosse, starring Mariel Hemingway, Eric Roberts, Cliff Robertson, Carroll Baker, Roger Rees, David Clennon, Josh Mostel. Warner, 1983.
This one is Fosse (Cabaret, All That Jazz, the stage version of Chicago) at low ebb. Playboy centerfold-turned-starlet Dorothy Stratten’s hideous sex-murder at the hands of her jealous parasite boyfriend is fodder for only the most grotesque of slasher movies; but her story’s another in the seemingly endless sequence of blond bombshells come to bad ends. The horrifying details, continuing post-mortem, were too nightmarish to include in this darkest of the generally upbeat Valentino series; they make the Tate-LaBianca slayings seem almost benign by comparison. I say, let them be forgotten except in sorrow for the victim and as a cautionary tale for all those who seek celebrity at any cost.
Sullivan’s Travels. Directed by Preston Sturges, starring Joel McCrea, Veronica Lake, Robert Warwick, William Demarest, Margaret Hayes. Paramount, 1941.
McCrea, a movie director in quest of inspiration, takes to the rails in the wake of the Great Depression to gather color for his magnum opus, O Brother, Where Art Thou? (which inspired the title of Joel and Ethan Coen’s 2000 masterpiece of comedy-noir). This mixture of physical comedy and pathos (scripted also by Sturges) stands alone in the ever-expanding genre of Hollywood Looks at Hollywood. (Paramount, it should be noted, was legendary for giving maximum latitude to directors and screenwriters; in this it was unique among the studios of its time.) Lake, one of the outstanding blondes of classic cinema—her signature “peekaboo bang” hairstyle compelled Washington to ask her to change it in order to spare her imitators from catching their locks in defense-factory drill-presses during World War II—escaped the horrific tragedy that seems to have stalked the type, but died before her time of cancer in her early fifties. (The always-acerbic Leslie Halliwell, among others, scorned her “limited acting ability,” but I for one find her range broader than more celebrated stars such as Lana Turner and the thoroughly inept Kim Novak.) McCrea’s contribution puts the lie to Time Magazine’s dismissal of this gifted comedian and fundamentally decent cinema icon as a “slightly dull” leading man in his 1990 obituary. This actor’s impressive oeuvre continues to appear in revivals decades after his death; but where, I ask you, is Time now?
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