by M. G. Lord
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
1. The Beautiful Somnambulist
2. National Velvet, 1944
3. 1945–1950
4. A Place in the Sun, 1951
5. 1951–1955
6. Giant, 1956
7. 1956–1959
8. Suddenly, Last Summer, 1959
9. BUtterfield 8, 1960
10. 1960–1962
11. Cleopatra, 1963
12. 1963–1965
13. The Sandpiper, 1965
14. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? 1966
15. 1967–1973
16. Ash Wednesday, 1973
17. The Little Foxes, 1981
18. 1982–1984
19. Her Greatest Conscious Gift, 1984–2011
Acknowledgments
Notes
Footnotes
Bibliography
Plate Section
A Note on the Author
By the Same Author
Imprint
For Shannon Halwes, without whom this book would not exist
1
The Beautiful Somnambulist
YOU COULD SAY it began in 1944 with National Velvet, when Elizabeth Taylor, age twelve, dressed as a boy and stole America’s collective heart. By “it,” I mean the subversive drumbeats of feminism, which swelled in the star’s important movies over decades from a delicate pitty-pat to a resounding roar.
Feminism may not be the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the name Elizabeth Taylor. But it might if you share your definition with writer Rebecca West: “I myself have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is. I only know that people call me a feminist when I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat.”
Elizabeth Taylor has been called many things, but never doormat—not in life and not on screen. (Except in Ash Wednesday, her 1973 movie, where that was the point.) The characters she played were women to be reckoned with. And many of her roles—the great and the not-so-great—surreptitiously brought feminist issues to American audiences held captive by those violet eyes and that epic beauty. While I know that writers and directors create movies, stars create a brand. And the Taylor brand deserves credit for its under-the-radar challenge to traditional attitudes: a woman may not control her sexuality; she may not have an abortion; she may not play with the boys; she may not choose to live without a man; she must obey her husband; and should she speak of unpleasantness, she will be silenced.
Although I love quoting West’s glib retort, feminism is, in fact, a tricky thing to define, because its self-identified adherents don’t always march in ideological lockstep. To theorist bell hooks, it is “a movement to end sexism, sexist exploitation, and oppression.” To writer Marie Shear, it is “the radical notion that women are people.” To columnist Katha Pollitt, it is “a social justice movement dedicated to the social, political, economic, and cultural equality of women and men, and to the right of every woman to set her own course.” To author Rebecca Walker, it is “to integrate an ideology of equality and female empowerment into the very fiber of my life.”
Throughout its history, feminism has never been either monolithic or static. During the twentieth century, its concerns changed from suffrage, temperance, and the repeal of primogeniture laws to reproductive rights, workplace equality, and protection from discrimination based on gender or sexual orientation. Betty Friedan kicked off the so-called second wave of feminism with her 1963 book, The Feminine Mystique. In 1971, Gloria Steinem, another second-wave figure, launched Ms. magazine to address ongoing feminist issues. But during the magazine’s first decade, its readership, like feminism itself, was largely white, heterosexual, and middle class.
In the 1980s, novelist Alice Walker, a Ms. contributor, broke with this movement, urging feminists of color to identify as “womanist.” A decade later, her daughter Rebecca Walker rejected the “womanist” idea, declaring herself and those who share her views to be “the third wave.” Third-wave feminists pitch a big tent—large enough to contain diverse ethnicities, sexual preferences, and gender identities. They affirm their right to sexual pleasure, believing that desire is complex, and consensual behavior should not be policed. All feminists support equal pay for equal work. But despite the consensus, this goal seems no closer to realization than it was fifty years ago. My understanding of feminism derives mostly from second-wave texts. But I admire efforts to make feminism more inclusive, and view controversy within its ranks as a sign of its vitality.
Until a few years ago, I thought the last word on Taylor was written by Camille Paglia in the 1990s. In an important essay, “Elizabeth Taylor: Hollywood’s Pagan Queen,” Paglia identified in Taylor the ancient, “mythic” sexual power associated with Delilah, Salome, and Helen of Troy. But after watching Taylor’s key movies recently with some much younger friends, I discovered what had been hidden in plain sight: the feminist content in some of her iconic films. Be it accidental or deliberate—text or subtext—this content is very much there.
I am a baby boomer. The friends who opened my eyes are Gen X and Gen Y; our age difference changed how we saw things. On a recent Memorial Day weekend, we rented a house together in Palm Springs—that museum of midcentury Hollywood, where the very streets are named for its famous former residents: Frank Sinatra, Bob Hope, and Dinah Shore.
I am old enough to remember these performers in their heyday. My friends are not. They know them, of course, but in their later-life incarnations: Frank Sinatra as a pal of First Lady Nancy Reagan, Bob Hope as a has-been comic, and Dinah Shore as a talk show host. The Gen X friends mostly knew Taylor as the butt of Joan Rivers’s fat jokes from the 1980s: Taylor was the woman with “more chins than a Chinese phone book.” My Gen Y friends knew her only as a gay icon and an AIDS philanthropist. So when I proposed watching some Taylor DVDs that I had received as a present, my friends expected an evening of camp. Instead, we were gobsmacked—both by Taylor’s performances and by her movies’ feminist messages.
National Velvet is a sly critique of gender discrimination in sports. Taylor’s character, Velvet Brown, falls in love with her horse—a time-honored preteen tradition. She dreams of riding the horse to victory in the Grand National, the most important steeplechase in the world. But because jockeys are required to be male, Velvet is excluded. First crushed, then emboldened, she enters the race anyway, impersonating a boy.
Following National Velvet, Taylor’s next significant hit was A Place in the Sun (1951), which is hard to view as anything other than an abortion-rights movie. It deals with the tragic consequences of stigmatizing unwed pregnancy. Feminism holds that women have a right to control the reproductive use of their bodies. Condemning single mothers relinquishes that power to men. “Mothers were said not to give life to new individuals, so much as to give children to their husbands, so that male surnames and inheritances might be perpetuated,” explains author Barbara Walker in The Skeptical Feminist.
Feminism also endorses a woman’s right to control her sexuality. In BUtterfield 8 (1960), Taylor’s character is censured not for being a prostitute but for exercising her right to choose the men with whom she will sleep. This galls the men who desire her, especially the ones she rejects. Other movies explore different feminist themes: Giant (1956) deals with the feminization of the American West; Suddenly, Last Summer (1959) portrays the callousness of the male medical establishment t
oward women patients; The Sandpiper (1965) pits goddess-centered paganism against patriarchal monotheism. Taylor’s most celebrated movie, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966), may also be her most feminist. It demonstrates what happens to a woman when the only way that society permits her to express herself is through her husband’s career and children.
Before going into the world to preach, zealots of all stripes retreat to the desert to meditate and prepare. After my exile in Palm Springs (getting massages and lounging by the pool), I returned to Los Angeles with a mission: learn more about these films and the circumstances under which they were made. And if their feminist content held up, spread the word.
A few years earlier, when I met Taylor, no link between her and feminism had yet crossed my mind. I did, however, see a vast disconnect between her shallow tabloid persona and the seeming depths of her real-life self. Intelligence flickered behind those lilac eyes. In October 2001, Taylor spoke at a small dedication ceremony for the Roddy McDowall Memorial Rose Garden at the Motion Picture and Television Fund’s Wasserman Campus, which was then a retirement home for show people. Adam Kurtzman, an artist who sculpted a bronze portrait of McDowall for the garden, invited me to the ceremony, which I could not otherwise have attended. Taylor stood next to Sybil Burton Christopher, Richard Burton’s first wife, and, to my surprise, embraced her. The tabloids had written at length about the two women’s enmity, which began when Richard left Sybil for Elizabeth. But their reconciliation was apparently not salacious enough to report. At the end of his life, McDowall had brought them together. Elizabeth held one of his hands, Sybil, the other, easing his passage from this world to the next.
In my notebook, about Taylor’s appearance, I wrote, “Not bald.” In 1997, Taylor had allowed Life magazine to photograph her with a shaved head, before surgery for a benign brain tumor. The National Enquirer, of course, published all manner of macabre unauthorized shots. Taylor was gold to the gutter press; so much so that after her death on March 23, 2011, the New York Times ran a tribute from a tabloid reporter describing his botched attempt to balloon over her 1991 wedding to construction worker Larry Fortensky.
Artists, I realize, are rarely as interesting as their art. Yet as writer Walker Percy observed in his 1961 novel, The Moviegoer, stars of Taylor’s magnitude possess “an aura of heightened reality” that moves with them, and “all who fall within it feel it.”
The aura has a dark side. We view film stars with “a kind of possessiveness, in which they both submit to and evade our goggle-eyed wonder,” critic Leo Braudy said in The Frenzy of Renown: Fame and Its History. Most stars harden in response to this attention. They have to. They must withstand the projections of a million strangers.
Nor do such stars inhabit anything resembling the real world. I grasped this when I interviewed the actor Kevin McCarthy, who was still matinee-idol handsome at age ninety-four in 2008. (McCarthy died in 2010.) He had known Taylor through his close friend, Montgomery Clift. In 2002, McCarthy and his wife, Kate, were guests of Liza Minnelli at her wedding to David Gest. Taylor and actress Marisa Berenson served as matrons of honor. But the ceremony had to be delayed for an hour. Because Taylor had forgotten her shoes.
Taylor has had many biographers. Yet their books often reveal more about their authors than about her. Some dish; some fawn; few paint a nuanced picture. To the scandal-mongers, for instance, Elizabeth’s mother, Sara Taylor, was a failed actress who morphed into a monomaniacal stage mother. But Kate Burton, Richard’s daughter, a Broadway actress who remained close to her former stepmother, tells a different story: “Elizabeth was very devoted to her mother, who lived to be very elderly. And she was absolutely devoted to her father.”
Other biographers fixate on Taylor’s anatomy, as if that alone explained her. Ellis Amburn, for example, treats her breasts as if they were independent entities—like children or pets. After charting their arrival during her teens, he tells how Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, the studio where Taylor was under contract, dealt with them: hiring “Bust Inspectors” to patrol the sets. To determine whether a neckline was too revealing, an inspector placed an orange in the space between her breasts: “If the cameraman could see the orange, he had to move the camera back.”
Not all of Taylor’s biographers have admired her. Brenda Maddox, an American-born, Harvard-educated writer who now lives in England, took on Taylor in 1977. Maddox is known for two probing, judicious books: Nora: The Real Life of Molly Bloom, about James Joyce’s wife, and Rosalind Franklin: The Dark Lady of DNA, about the scientist whose premature death from ovarian cancer allowed biologists Francis Crick and James Watson to claim credit for her work. But Maddox’s take on Taylor is, well, unhinged. Her collection of damning details—to the exclusion of anything positive—makes the 1981 biography of Taylor by renowned hatchet-wielder Kitty Kelley look like a mash note. In fairness, Maddox doesn’t just hate Taylor, she hates every artifact of American popular culture that doesn’t “indict” some aspect of American life.
When a biographer attacks a subject who is in midlife, the biographer risks generating a flawed book. The subject’s identity can change dramatically in the final four or five decades of life, as it did with Elizabeth Taylor. In 1985, she began fund-raising for AIDS—when so much fear and mystery surrounded the disease that doors were slammed in her face. “Elizabeth did something when it required real courage,” Elton John told an interviewer in 2007. “She didn’t just put her name to a cause or speak from an ivory tower: She lobbied, she got out on the streets, she formed her own foundation.”
Similarly, early in her career, Taylor may not have noticed the feminist content that undergirded some of her roles. Like the beautiful somnambulist in Harold Lloyd’s High and Dizzy, who sleepwalked onto an upper-story ledge, Taylor strode unconsciously into risky territory, unaware of just how “out-there” she was. Somewhere along the line, though, I think Taylor woke up.
Taylor’s 1987 diet book, Elizabeth Takes Off, repeatedly makes feminist points—exploring ideas about women and body image that English therapist Susie Orbach first brought to widespread attention in her groundbreaking 1978 book, Fat Is a Feminist Issue. Taylor professes her admiration for Gloria Steinem, particularly the way Steinem handled an oft-heard comment on aging: You don’t look forty. “This is what forty looks like,” she recalls Steinem saying.
No examination of Taylor would be complete without the Hollywood institutions that she grew up under, clashed with, and ultimately helped to defeat. One was the Production Code Administration, a group of ruthless and astonishingly powerful men who between 1934 and 1966 routinely bowdlerized scripts and excised logic from plots to prevent films from criticizing religious authority or the institution of marriage. Another was the so-called studio system, which locked actors into long-term contracts, requiring them to work for flat fees, and denying them a choice in their roles.
In exchange for job security, actors signed away every aspect of their lives. Studio publicists invented fictions to conceal behavior that might hurt a star at the box office: drinking, drugging, philandering, or any activity modified by the adjective “homosexual.” Sham marriages were commonplace. In 1955, actor Rock Hudson wedded his agent’s secretary to banish rumors of his gayness. Some stars delivered their best performances in their counterfeit lives. In Kate, his provocative biography of Katharine Hepburn, writer William Mann offers convincing evidence that the legendary extramarital affair between Hepburn and Spencer Tracy was, in fact, a cover-up for both stars, who, in their truly private “private lives,” were gay.
As a young woman Taylor, too, played the duplicity game. But in 1962, after two men in sequence very publicly ditched their wives for her, she stopped hiding. And far from suffering at the box office, she became Hollywood’s highest-paid actress. Not even the Vatican could hold her back. When its weekly newspaper, L’Osservatore della Domenica, accused her of “erotic vagrancy,” she blithely quipped, “Can I sue the Pope?”
In mining Taylor’s films for th
eir feminist content, I could start out on a safe path with Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, a blue-chip movie securely ensconced on many respected critics’ top-ten lists. What I discovered, though, was that some of Taylor’s so-called turkeys were anything but. This is especially true after 1961, when she chose her own projects, rather than having them imposed by MGM. These later films often had ahead-of-the-curve messages that made people squirm. It was easier to sneer at a film than to come to grips with its prescient subtext. Or as Clement Greenberg famously observed, “All profoundly original art looks ugly at first.”
I hope this book will move readers to watch the movies it highlights with an open mind, to see if they, too, perceive the feminist content. I especially hope the Millennial Generation will watch, catching a glimpse of a recent past in which rights they take for granted—abortion, interracial marriage, and certain sexual acts in private between consenting adults—were illegal.
Inspired by the retrograde gender roles in such popular TV shows as Mad Men, some males born long after the bad-boy days have begun to express nostalgia for them. Just once, they’d like to harass a female co-worker with impunity, or force a gay man who criticizes their clothing back into his soundproof closet. The rights hard-won by second-wave feminists might still be taken away. Abortion, for instance, remains a hot-button issue, and given the allegiance of some Supreme Court justices to patriarchal cults, Roe v. Wade may not be the final word.
Taylor’s films show the bad-boy days as they really were—which was not so great if you happened to be female. Or as Laura Reynolds, Taylor’s character in The Sandpiper, laments: “The man is a husband and a father and something else, say a doctor. The woman is a wife and mother and … nothing. And it’s the nothing that kills her.”
2
National Velvet, 1944
