Sandra Bullock’s stardom is really an old-fashioned one. She’s like some strange amalgamation of Donna Reed, June Allyson, and Betty Hutton. She’s ordinary, or so we imagine: a star who can really connect to her audience. She’s mined the field of “women’s film” in all its variations, but the thing that marks her out is that she has her own production company and drives her own career forward. Her neo-stardom is thus shaped by an option the studio system women longed to have but could never achieve: Bullock runs her own show. As an actress, she frequently plays women who are marked or flawed in some way. In 28 Days (2000) she plays a serious, unglamorized alcoholic (not in the sense that she looks like hell, but in the sense that for almost the whole movie she is truly selfish and uncaring). In Hope Floats (1998) she is a former beauty queen who comes home in disgrace to be humiliated by everyone she stepped on in high school. In While You Were Sleeping (1995), The Net (1995), Miss Congeniality (2000), and the dark noir Murder by Numbers (2002), she plays lonely, isolated, unkempt women who have given up somehow and who are deeply estranged from their own femininity. Even Bullock’s non-neurotic, well-dressed Ellen Roark in A Time to Kill is still a lonely crusader, someone who is obsessed with ending the death penalty instead of finding fulfillment.† If Bullock had been active during the age of the star machine, she probably would have wanted to play Bette Davis’s role as the disappointed spinster Charlotte Vale in Now, Voyager, but more likely would have been assigned to the Ann Sheridan “good girl” role in King’s Row (1942). (Bullock lacks Davis’s rage, although she could clearly have connected to the deprivation and the loneliness.)
However, Bullock’s characters are not tragic. Their unhappiness is poignant, not crushing. Most of her films have a relatively gentle tone, and they usually end happily. Many people do not even perceive the ugly-duckling aspect of Bullock’s work. In a way, they’re not supposed to. When Bullock does play an unhappy woman, her open face, friendly eyes, and fundamental optimism signal us that the character’s unhappiness is not the whole story. There are other possibilities. The movie thus gains an inherent depth that validates Bullock’s stardom and links her to the great women’s film stars of the past. Of all the female neo-stars, Bullock is the one most likely to have had a similar career in the old system.
Angelina Jolie, however, is the one who can generate the excitement of a real movie star, appearing week after week on the covers of fanzines like In Touch and The Star. She’s the modern Lana Turner because her filmography is not really the source of her fame. Taking Lives (2004), Beyond Borders (2003), Life or Something Like It (2002), Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow (2004). Despite winning the Best Supporting Actress Oscar in 2000 for Girl, Interrupted, Jolie has an overall filmography that is less than stellar. She is famous because the fanzines need to write about someone, so it might as well be a genuinely charismatic woman who has, over the years, married and divorced very young (to first and second husbands Jonny Lee Miller and Billy Bob Thornton); publicly kissed her brother a little too hard; admitted to cutting herself; made vague references to drugs; dated a woman; expressed a yearning to be “taken down” by a suitably dominant individual of either gender; declared a willingness to try bondage; wore a vial of second husband Thornton’s blood (and divorced him amid allegations of his insatiable sex addiction); announced that she satisfies her postdivorce sexual needs by having flings with men in motels; adopted a boy from Cambodia, a boy from Vietnam, and a girl from Ethiopia; allegedly delivered the deathblow to Brad Pitt’s staggering marriage to Jennifer Aniston; conceived Pitt’s child; given birth; and, in the middle of all this, found time to undertake a genuine and serious mission for the United Nations on behalf of the world’s children. Fans don’t need to watch her films. Jolie, like a rock star, lives her type. Her roles are only pale imitations of her offscreen self. If Jolie’s drama is all a put-on, and one hopes for her sake that it is, it’s the shrewdest choice she could have made.
Jolie is a mix of two classic Hollywood types rarely seen today: the sex symbol and the “exaggerated woman” of old-time female melodrama. In the alleged age of female liberation, the celluloid descendants of fearsome and titanic women once played by Crawford and Davis and Stanwyck have all been safely straitjacketed away. There are not many leading roles in major films anymore for such types. In the old days, Jolie could have found steady work playing larger-than-life, even terrifying female characters. Today, she has to become one herself. Contemporary “exaggerated women” in movies lack a clearly defined genre sphere in which to set their stories. On screen, they are, more than ever, accessories to men. It is not a cultural accident that Jolie’s one serious, Oscar-winning role was that of a mental patient.
Jolie’s job appears to be to bring dangerous insanity to moviegoers inside a desirable package. A perfect example is her role as the unhinged Olympias in Oliver Stone’s 2004 Alexander. Although the movie was unquestionably a failure, Jolie gave it some much-needed pizzazz, gamely shouting out such lines as “The blood of Achilles runs through my veins” so effectively that no one could doubt it. In one memorable moment, she’s knocked onto her knees by her husband’s violence and lets loose with a wordless, truly primal roar of defiance. Any actress takes a large risk with such a scene—it’s a moment ripe for ridicule—but Jolie plays it so fearlessly that she clarifies an important aspect of Stone’s vision for the film: Olympias is Alexander. She’s the one with the world conqueror vision. He’s the one who has to do what Mommy wants. What other actress today could pull off Jolie’s frustrated Macedonian stay-at-home mom who wanted a career? She’s both hot and sinister—and a performer uninhibited by any cinematic disaster surrounding her.
Jolie represents the antidote to WASPy would-be Grace Kellys like Gwyneth Paltrow, opposite whom she was cast in 2004’s Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. Like matter and antimatter, Paltrow and Jolie are in visual contrast on-screen. Paltrow is pale, rather cold, and an ordinary woman (or at least she tries to pass for one). Jolie is the anti-Paltrow. Like the vamps of the silent screen—the Pola Negris and the Theda Baras—she cannot and should not play normal. “She stalks through films entirely on her own terms,” says Roger Ebert, and Jolie herself has the last word: “I’m capable of being stronger and darker and fiercer than anybody’s ever written.” Offscreen, she has also stalked through life and the pressures of real-life celebrity, standing up for causes she cares about, and generally taking charge of the publicity insanity surrounding her. Her father, actor Jon Voight, confirms her strength and confidence: “What do movie stars do with all that success, money, white-hot spotlight and fame? It’s distortion…an unnatural state…but Angie has found a way. She’s overcoming it with causes. Investing her celebrity to help others.”
More than any other actor or actress, the concept of the modern “neo-star” is exemplified by Tom Cruise, an all-purpose superstar and, to date, a truly durable box office champion. Cruise has put together a remarkable career that has made maximum usage of the alternating neo-star format. He makes blockbuster hits that appeal to mass audiences, smaller films that challenge his acting ability (and he’s met those challenges), and crowd-pleasing character-driven comedies (Jerry Maguire [1996]). Now in his forties (he’s forty-five in 2007), Cruise still has a boyish grin full of flashing teeth (not since Burt Lancaster have we had a set of star choppers like his). He’s lean and mean, and never forgets to deliver his trademark: a little impish cock of his head. Although he’s actually been around for a long time, having first been really noticed over twenty years ago in 1983’s Risky Business, he doesn’t look a day older than he did in his first movies. (He made his film debut in 1981 in Franco Zeffirelli’s version of Endless Love, starring Brooke Shields. Leonard Maltin’s Movie Guide says Endless Love “is rightfully regarded as one of the worst films of its time.”) He moved into big-time stardom with Top Gun in 1986, playing a cheeky brat of a military hero—just the type that American moviegoers always like.
As his career unfolded, Cruise seem
ed to understand instinctively how to be a movie star. Asked by an interviewer whether audiences see him as an actor or as a star, he gave the perfect neo-star answer: “It really doesn’t matter to me… actor? movie star? I just do it.” In truth, there does seem to be no Method angst in his performances. He takes a straightforward approach the way the old male stars—the Gables, the Coopers, the John Waynes—tended to do. He’s just there on screen. Because he’s always been willing to play in junk (try Cocktail from 1988 or Days of Thunder from 1990), it is sometimes forgotten what a really distinguished career he’s put together. Even more important, it’s often overlooked that Tom Cruise has played second gun to more great screen legends than any other male star of our time and held his own. He was strong alongside Paul Newman in The Color of Money (1986), confident and equal with Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man (1988), and unintimidated by Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men (1992). His passionate, let-it-all-hang-out performance as a disillusioned Vietnam veteran in Born on the Fourth of July (1989) was Oscar-worthy, and so was his Magnolia (1999) supporting role as what Leonard Maltin has called “a Pied Piper of satyrdom.” No one mixes a deeper level of serious acting challenge with a sillier level of mindless action (as in Mission Impossible I [1996], II [2000], and III [2006]). He pushes the boundaries of neo-stardom out to the edge, farther than any other movie star of our current era.*
By the beginning of 2006, Cruise was the single most successful box office movie star of his era, but trouble was brewing. Cruise had been brilliant at manipulating his own star machine. A good businessman, he got approval over all the marketing material connected to his films and was famous for being smart about how to sell himself. But in 2005 he fired his publicist, Pat Kingsley, and replaced her with his own sister, Lee Anne DeVette. Today, stars need professional protection more than ever. The media is aggressive, and whereas once only fan magazines and the Hollywood trades really covered show business, now every possible source of information covers it: the Internet, TV shows, tabloids, the trades, upscale magazines, and newspapers—even The New York Times puts show business trivia on its front pages and covers everything in its business pages as well as arts sections. On his own, without professional protection, he began a series of “personal” decisions: He promoted his private interest in Scientology; he criticized Brooke Shields’s decision to take antidepressants for her postpartum problems; he announced his passion for the young actress Katie Holmes, and confirmed it by jumping on Oprah Winfrey’s couch, a space usually reserved for a more solemn sort of revelation. The backlash against Cruise was immediate. The press criticized him for being bullying and inflammatory about Shields, for concocting his relationship with Holmes for publicity (on their first date he fed her sushi while they cruised over L.A. in his private jet),* and for, at the very least, possibly being unhinged in front of the Great Oprah (who remained admirably calm during his demonstration).
Suddenly, show business was rocked when Sumner Redstone—CEO of Viacom, the parent company for Paramount, Cruise’s releasing company—blabbed to The Wall Street Journal that he was terminating the studio’s long-term agreement with Cruise because of the megastar’s alleged “erratic behavior.” Redstone added, “As much as we like him personally, we thought it was wrong to renew his deal. His recent conduct has not been acceptable to Paramount.” Cruise as Fatty Arbuckle? No one knew what to think, but Cruise’s company (which he partners with Paula Wagner) immediately informed the media that they had broken off negotiations with Paramount more than a week earlier and were setting up their own independent operation. No one in Hollywood worried much about who was telling the truth—the issue was what it might mean for Tom Cruise’s future. When Cruise and Wagner announced they would take over and run the newly revived United Artists operation, insiders realized that Cruise had given himself full control of his own career. He couldn’t be counted out just because Paramount was mad at him, and he’s still very much a player in the game.
Although Cruise was still one of the biggest moneymakers of his time—his summer 2005 film, War of the Worlds, was a hit—his fans began to grumble and the business began to rumble: Mother of Mercy, was this the end of little Tommy? In a People magazine poll, 62 percent of readers declared the Holmes-Cruise romance was a “publicity stunt.” The editors pronounced it was all “publicity” and Us Weekly added their coup de grâce: Out of every hundred people passing through Rockefeller Center, sixty-five said it was all just “pr.” Cruise had made the mistake of thinking he could control his own image, but seemingly he righted his ship just in time as he pulled back and temporarily disappeared out of the press. He stabilized by marrying Holmes and becoming a father to their baby daughter, two well-publicized events that might return him to favor. Nevertheless, he continues to be ridiculed and criticized in the media. Tom Cruise has had to face the age-old bottom line of stardom: If he blows it with moviegoers, they will turn him out of the box office.*
Stardom has never been easy. Glamorous, yes, lucrative, yes, but easy, no. And, as The New York Times chronicled for readers in March 2006, when it comes to a concrete indicator of whether you’re there or not, take a look at the Hollywood star maps that are sold on street corners: “You’re either on or you’re off.”† Real stardom has to know itself. “I’m Mother Courage,” Elizabeth Taylor once said. “I’ll be dragging my sable coat behind me unto old age.” (And she was only forty at the time!)
Today the business seems to be losing confidence in movie stars: “The comfort level of hiring a star isn’t what it used to be,” says Jim Gianopulos, the chairman of Fox. “I think people have recognized that there’s a folly in allowing yourself to fall prey to the expectation that talent will always recover its value in the kinds of numbers we’re playing with.” (Louis B. Mayer can easily be imagined saying the very opposite in 1940.) Gianopulos’s opinions, however, seem to be verified somewhat by audiences, who are increasingly turning their backs on movies that are star-driven. “There’s a shrinking number of dramatic stars who can guarantee an opening weekend audience,” says Ron Meyer, president of Universal and a former agent. “They must be in the right vehicle at the right time.” The difference is that in the past a star had to be in the right vehicle at the right time to become a star.
When Terry Press, the head of marketing at DreamWorks, was asked the age-old question “Can marketing create a movie star?” she gave an answer partly worthy of Louis B. Mayer’s day: “No. The public makes a movie star.” Then she added a modern-day spin: “Look at Johnny Depp. He’s now a gigantic movie star, but he’s been a great actor for many years. There was terrific marketing on many of his films, but it took Pirates of the Caribbean to make him a big movie star. The audience spoke.” Thus, in the old system you became a movie star and hoped you could have a chance to develop into an actor. Now you become an actor and hope that marketing—that is, a blockbuster hit film—can turn you into a movie star. The system has inverted, but the bottom line still stands: You need the audience, the right film, the accident of fate, the marketing. Not all that much has really changed.
Pundits are now claiming that the time of the star has passed. Even people inside the film business are predicting the “starless” movie of the future.* Does that mean Tom Cruise will be the last of the red-hot movie stars? It’s doubtful. Probably all that will change, besides their salaries, is who they are, what they play in, and how the public wants to see them.
Whether the star machine works them or they work the star machine, what is unequivocably true about the creation of movie stars then and now is this: It’s a mysterious process. And nobody can define it. It’s still a mixture of the objective (business breaks, roles, publicity) and the subjective (whether or not the audience sees something in you they want). Movie stardom is still—and will always be—half-calculated and half-serendipitous. Halle Berry, a veteran survivor of audience whims and Hollywood’s own mercurial attitudes—as well as someone who had the odds stacked against her as a black woman—explained what an actor ha
s to do to become a star when there’s no longer a studio-generated machine to help: “You keep trying, keep throwing it up against the wall. You don’t quit with one failure, or one success, or rest on laurels.”
As today’s movie actors keep on trying, they can hold on to what former Disney chairman Michael Eisner said about the audience’s attitude toward movie stars: “They like to see them. They like to think they can look like them. They like to think they could live like them…[Stars] are part of the charisma of the business.” In other words, people need movie stars. And they know one when they see one.
* As mentioned earlier, the studio system that created and used the star system collapsed by the end of the 1950s, brought down by a series of issues. See Bibliography.
† Eastwood is a business hybrid: the wedding of the old system to the new. Two other stars who began in the studio era, Jack Lemmon and Paul Newman, also made the transition but were not developed by the studio star school system.
* By 1980, there is only one name associated with the former system, Clint Eastwood. The other male stars are Redford and Hoffman, along with Burt Reynolds (who was number 1), John Travolta, and Steve Martin. Over the years, Hoffman would prove exceptionally durable, as both star and actor. The Los Angeles Times dubbed him “the accidental movie star…the short, big-nosed actor who, in his own words, ‘plummeted to stardom.’” Although people tend to think of this time frame as one in which there are no roles for women, there are four women on the list: Streisand, Jane Fonda, Sally Field, Sissy Spacek. Within ten years, not a single one of these names will be repeated, and the entire new list are names not developed in any form of the star machine: Jack Nicholson, Tom Cruise, Robin Williams, Michael Douglas, Tom Hanks, Michael J. Fox, Eddie Murphy, Mel Gibson, Sean Connery, and Kathleen Turner.
The Star Machine Page 71
