The Rebel Lady Turns 100

I wanted to return to "In a Movie Place" after a six-month break to recognize the 100th birthday of Olivia de Havilland on Friday, July 1. She is the last of the great movie stars of the Golden Age of Hollywood. 

Her longevity, in our time, is a living link to a distant period of great creativity and innovation. She helped shape the movies and the industry that makes them, so I wanted to celebrate her varied career and a very long life seemingly lived with wit, beauty, graciousness and grace.

As a young film buff, I was struck by de Havilland’s girlish regality, yet I came to see the undercurrent of fire and toughness that lay beneath the ladylike exterior. I discovered varying aspects of this remarkable woman's work, depending on the film I was watching and at which point in her long career. When she was good, de Havilland was very good. And at times, she was brilliant. Let’s take a look at some of her best work over four key decades.

Looking like a well-scrubbed
ingenue in the '30s

1930s: The Love Interest

After a couple minor films, de Havilland appeared as Hermia in an ambitious 1935 film adaptation of Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Just 19, she is radiant, conveying the promise, energy, and joy of youth. (And a tremendous ease with Shakespeare.)

During this decade she began her legendary teaming with Errol Flynn. They would make six movies together. Whether playing princesses in peril, Lady Marian to his Robin Hood, or a spunky gal of the Wild West, she provided Flynn with a beautiful, charming foil. But these were hardly the difficult roles she wanted. As de Havilland herself wryly observed, “The life of the love interest is really pretty boring."[1]

She closed out the decade of otherwise frustrating limitations with “Gone with the Wind” in 1939. It was her turning point. She imbues the doomed Melanie with a requisite softness, but calls upon an undeniable strength. Her sensitive portrayal garnered her first Academy Award nomination as Best Supporting Actress—and put her on a new career footing.

Exhibiting greater maturity in the '40s.

1940s: The de Havilland Decision

Having proved herself as part of an outstanding ensemble in “Gone with the Wind,” de Havilland followed as the star of “Hold Back the Dawn” (1941). She plays a naive schoolteacher duped by a man (Charles Boyer) who marries her only to gain American citizenship. De Havilland brings a definite pathos to the role, and was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Actress. This achievement marked the beginning of a decade that brought big changes to her career—and to the filmmaking industry.

During WWII, de Havilland made only five films. She spent a significant part of this time volunteering with the USO, visiting troops in psychiatric wards. At the same time, she was embroiled in a court case against Warner Brothers Studios to fight against the seven-year contracts that typecast, limited, and sometimes destroyed actors’ careers and generally forced them to abide by the whims of the studio.

She was fighting against one-dimensional roles and substandard films, and she won the case—known as the de Havilland Decision. Her efforts changed the studio system forever, helping to usher in the era of independent talent.

Having won that victory, the post-war years heralded her best period. In “To Each His Own” (1946), she portrays an unwed mother who gives up her child to avoid scandal. She becomes a successful businesswoman while watching from a distance as her son grows over 25 years. The film illustrates the possibilities—and limitations—of career women in the first half of the 20th century. She's so good, so moving, that she snagged her first Academy Award for Best Actress.

Montgomery Clift is dashing but duplicitous.

De Havilland followed this success with “The Snake Pit” (1948), in which she portrays a woman suffering from mental illness. Her time with the USO no doubt informed her work in this harrowing film. She is by turns tender, terrifying, and heartbreaking. While the film contains the dated psychology of the 1940s, it is a groundbreaking picture, and remains an important element of de Havilland’s maturing career. She was nominated again for Best Actress.

But it’s the last movie she made in the 1940s that is the capstone of her career. “The Heiress” (1949) is a brilliant adaptation by director William Wyler of Henry James’s novel Washington Square. She plays the shy, homely daughter of a widowed doctor (Ralph Richardson) in the 1880s, who scorns her social awkwardness and unattractiveness.

She falls for a dashing young man (Montgomery Clift), believing—incorrectly—she has found love at last. But a pivotal turn of events enables de Havilland to sharpen her patented sweetness, revealing a fierce edge tempered by the realization that she has been fooled. Her final scene demonstrates masterful film acting in what is the best movie of her career. She rightfully won the Academy Award for Best Actress.

A lobby card for "Proud Rebel."

1950s: The Proud Rebel

Like many actresses of her generation, the 1950s wasn’t a particularly fruitful decade for de Havilland. She only made five films, and in most there is an artificiality to her performances that stands in contrast to the more naturalistic acting then coming into fashion.

One performance, however, stands out. In “Proud Rebel” (1958), she is a tough landowner in post-Civil War America. A former Confederate soldier (Alan Ladd) has come to her Illinois town as he is making his way to Minnesota, where he hopes to get surgery for his mute young son (played by Ladd's real-life son David). While there, he runs afoul of a nefarious family that wants de Havilland’s land.

De Havilland gives the best performance of her post-studio period, eschewing the saccharine quality of her lesser outings and tempering tenderness with a gritty world-weariness. As a widow with a sad personal history, her pain and concern for Ladd’s little boy is etched on her face. In this rugged setting, she is like an older, more jaded version of some of the spirited ladies she played opposite Errol Flynn 20 or more years before. This is a highly underrated film that deserves a look, if only for her work in it.

A stressful moment in "Lady in a Cage."

1960s: The Lady in a Cage  

Long after many of her contemporaries had already moved into “older woman” roles (or retired altogether), de Havilland embraced middle age by starring in “The Light in the Piazza” (1962), as the caring mother of a mentally challenged teenage daughter. She turns what could have been a one-dimensional portrayal into a moving and heartfelt characterization, conveying the clash between her protective instincts and the wish to permit her daughter a degree of personal freedom. The film is rooted in mid-century ideas of morality, but de Havilland's performance still stands out.

Her last two titles of this tumultuous decade followed the trend of casting older actresses in horror films. In “Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte” (1964), de Havilland's sweetness is laid on thick, but it's just a precursor to a sadistic turn as she terrorizes her cousin (Bette Davis). Following on that film's success, de Havilland took the lead in the exploitative thriller “Lady in a Cage." Here, thugs hold her hostage in the elevator of her swanky apartment and terrorize her, demonstrating that no one is safe from a changing and increasingly violent world. Perhaps the film is a metaphor for actresses of her generation at that time; in films at least, de Havilland’s regal bearing was becoming an anachronism, and women her age had no real place in Hollywood any longer. It's not a very good movie.

Still Waters

De Havilland closed her career as an actress in the 1970s and '80s with guest spots, including disaster movies, made-for-TV outings, miniseries, and popular shows like “The Love Boat.” (Everybody was doing it). She took her last acting role, in any medium, in 1988.

Never a performer who relied upon patented mannerisms or affectations, de Havilland did have a tendency to overact if she wasn’t reined in. At times she could be alternately cloyingly sweet or overbearing, especially when she attempted comedy (not her forte). 

As a friend recently pointed out, she was at her best when she held still.[2] But still waters, as they say, run deep; when she had the opportunity to supplant her inherent wholesomeness with an underlying darkness, she could be surprising.

She said in an interview in 2006: “My ambition had been to play difficult roles or to do difficult work and to do it well.”[3] I’d say that, over a career spanning more than 50 years and encompassing iconic milestones in film history—both on camera and off—she accomplished her goal.

Olivia de Havilland represents the very last of the Golden Age of Hollywood of the 1930s and '40s. But her best work will endure, as will her contribution to the creation of the style and technique of the movies as a modern medium. We’re fortunate to have been connected to her living presence for so long—an entire century, in fact. So, here's to the lady rebel whose legacy will be good work done well.

1 and 3: Academy of Achievement, “Interview:Olivia de Havilland - Legendary Leading Lady,” October 5, 2006

2: Dave Singleton, author of "Crush," "The Mandates" and many articles on popular culture.

Farewell to a Few Film Favorites

With every year, a few familiar film faces pass into history. As 2015 comes to an end, I want to recognize four actors who made an impression on me, in one way or another. Maybe it was their look or attitude. Perhaps it was a single film. Maybe it was what they represented in my young film-going mind. In any case, they are four very different performers who shaped my love of movies, and I want to share them with you.

Omar Sharif
“I’d rather be playing bridge than making a bad movie.”

After nearly a decade as a famous Egyptian film actor, Omar Sharif broke out with his appearance in David Lean’s 1962 epic “Lawrence of Arabia.” As Sherif Ali, the friend and eventual confidante of adventurer T.E. Lawrence (Peter O’Toole), Sharif became an international film sensation.

But for me, it’s his starring turn in “Doctor Zhivago” (1965) that made the biggest impact. The film is one of my all-time favorites, a sweeping historical epic about the Russian revolution. Sharif’s subtle performance is quiet and small, adding to the power of an otherwise big movie.

Sharif exudes awe and wonder
as Zhivago.

Sharif’s richest period was the 1960s, when he appeared in a range of historical epics, westerns, biographies, and even the musical “Funny Lady” (which made Barbra Streisand a movie star). By the end of that decade, however, his star began to fade. Meanwhile, he was developing a reputation as a professional gambler, and began taking roles to support that reputation. So after making such a splash, many of his subsequent films were, in fact, quite bad.

But if he’d only made one movie, “Doctor Zhivago” would have been enough. What makes an impression in his performance as the eponymous Russian doctor is what he says with his eyes. The quiet way in which he registers delight or sadness goes straight to the heart.

Omar Sharif died on July 10 at the age of 83. (Read this article to get a glimpse into the real, rather complicated, man.)

Drake looking more serious
than she typically was in her films.

Betsy Drake
“For goodness sakes, why would I believe Cary was homosexual when we were busy f*cking?”

Not many people remember Betsy Drake today. She was one of a roster of cute, well-scrubbed ingenues who started popping up in Hollywood films after the end of World War II. Her filmography is quite short—just nine films between 1948 and 1965—and none of them are particularly remarkable.

It’s her first film, however, in which she appeared opposite Cary Grant, that stands out for me. “Every Girl Should Be Married” is emblematic of Hollywood’s post-war reassurance that everything is going back to normal—a very patriarchal, confining normal—and contains then-current attitudes toward gender roles, sex, and morality.

Drake plays sprightly and slightly air-headed Anabel Sims, who develops an instant crush on a bachelor pediatrician (Grant). Through the course of the movie, she does everything she can to woo him, and he does everything he can to avoid her overtures. While Drake is delightful, some viewers today might find her obsessive behavior strange. In essence, she is the stereotypical stalker. But her efforts are played for laughs, and the men in the film are so paternalistic towards her that any implication of a psychiatric problem is brushed off.

While Drake's Annabel is tasked with uttering every manner of clichéd expectations for men and women of the era, you get the impression watching Drake that there was probably more to her in real life.

They were happy in the beginning.

And indeed there was. To prove there is life beyond Hollywood (which Drake hated), she left acting and focused on neuropsychiatry. (Maybe she wanted to examine what would motivate a real-life Annabel Sims.) She was an early proponent of the mental health effects of LSD, earned a Master of Education degree from Harvard University, and published a novel.

After "Every Girl Should Be Married," Drake's subsequent films were forgettable. I’ll always remember her wide-eyed, goofy Anabel in “Every Girl Should Be Married,” her hair bobbing as she walks down the sidewalk, waxing poetic about the overstuffed “crunchy” chair she wants to buy for her someday dream home—once she snags her doctor. You just can't watch the film today, though, without being reminded that it's 1948, and society has clear-cut ideas about what a girl should do.

In real life, Drake and Grant married a year after the film was released. Ten years later, she wrote the screenplay for Grant’s 1958 hit vehicle, “Houseboat,” in which she was to co-star—until Grant began an affair with Sophia Loren. You can guess what happened; Grant cast Loren instead. So Drake and Grant split up, and finally divorced in 1962. They remained friends.

Up until Drake died on October 27 at age 92, she vehemently—and with rather salty language (see quote above)—denied rumors that Grant was gay.

Sometimes acting is for the birds.

Rod Taylor
“There's a still of me looking terrified with a bandage on or something, and I'm looking at this bird. That's real terror. I hated that bird!”

Hunky Rod Taylor has always been a favorite of mine, mostly for one particular movie: Alfred Hitchcock’s 1962 thriller, “The Birds.”

It’s a cold film. Observe the distant coastal vistas, the total lack of a musical score (outside of the sound of the birds), and the chilly interplay among the three female leads (Tippi Hedren, Suzanne Pleshette, and Jessica Tandy as Taylor’s icy mother). Watch and you’ll see what I mean. Taylor’s virile male presence is the film’s only real touch of warmth.

An Australian, Taylor had been acting in American films since the mid-1950s, appearing in small roles in big movies like “Giant” (1956) and “Raintree County” (1957), as well as substantial parts in smaller ensemble dramas like “The Catered Affair” (1956) and “Separate Tables” (1958).

In 1960, he landed the lead role as H.G. Wells’ time-traveling hero in “The Time Machine," and a star was born. The movie captured the imaginations of kids as he moved through millennia in his Victorian time machine.

Taylor didn't think he was
good-looking. I beg to differ.

The remainder of the 1960s, his most productive period as a movie star, was dotted with historical epics, war adventures, westerns, spy pictures, soap operas and comedies (a genre in which he was particularly adept). He co-starred with everyone from Liz Taylor and Doris Day to Julie Christie and Jane Fonda, and even lent his voice as one of the pups in Disney’s “One Hundred and One Dalmatians” (1961).

Always rugged yet affable, Taylor seemed comfortable in any genre and was just one of those guys who is a pleasure to watch in nearly anything, making everything seem natural and effortless. But it's his role as a regular guy up against nature in “The Birds” that will remain eternal for me.

Quentin Tarantino, the ultimate film geek, was a big fan of Taylor’s heroics in the two-fisted adventure movies he made in the 1960s, so he cast the veteran in his own two-fisted adventure, in a small guest role as none other than Winston Churchill, in 2009's “Inglourious Basterds.” That was Taylor’s last appearance; he died on January 7 at the age of 84.

(Related note: I discuss "The Birds" in my August 2015 post.)

Signed photo from O'Hara.

Maureen O’Hara
“Above all else, deep in my soul, I'm a tough Irishwoman.”

What can I say about Maureen O’Hara? As one of the last of the great leading ladies of the Golden Age of Hollywood, she’d been around so long I just figured she always would be.

She got her auspicious start in Hollywood’s so-called 'greatest year' of 1939 as Esmerelda in “The Hunchback of Notre Dame.” In it, she demonstrates the beauty and passion that would become her trademark over a 30-year career.

Although her Irish accent was often masked in her movies, director John Ford—with whom she’d work five times—brought it out in his brilliant, sentimental 1941 film, “How Green Was My Valley,” about a poor family in a Welsh mining village in the early 1900s. O’Hara was part of an ensemble cast that couldn’t be beat.

As was typical in the ‘40s, O’Hara made a wide range of movies, from westerns and film noir to comedies and the occasional musical. Perhaps she made her biggest mark in a long line of fun Technicolor swashbucklers, in which she appeared with the likes of Errol Flynn, Tyrone Power, Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., and Paul Henreid. She matched their undeniable good looks with her stunning red-headed beauty, but showed her own athleticism and prowess with a sword. (O’Hara was beautiful, but she was never afraid to take a spill on camera.)

In addition to those swashbuckling heroes, O’Hara’s list of male co-stars reads like a Who’s Who of Golden Era leading men: Fred MacMurray, Henry Fonda, John Garfield, and James Stewart were just a few. Somehow she had chemistry with all of them.

O'Hara in "The Quiet Man"

Watching her in two bonafide classics makes you appreciate her and her place in American film—and cultural—history: 1947’s “Miracle on 34th Street” has her in what I see as an early feminist incarnation, tempered, of course, by the mores and societal expectations of the post-war years; and 1952’s “The Quiet Man," which exemplifies everything she cherished about her Irish heritage. While she is a little stiff in the former (Santa Claus is the real star, after all), she is dynamic, fiery, and funny in the latter, magnified by the glorious color photography. You can't take your eyes off her.

While she had a big family hit with Disney’s 1961 “The Parent Trap,” her career wound down in the 1960s (as it did for many actresses of her generation). Fortunately, she refused to go the horror movie route, as was fashionable for many of her female peers at the time; instead, she made a few more family-oriented movies, with the occasional western to show she could still spar with the best of them.

To me, O’Hara represents the type of Hollywood lady they just don’t—or can’t—make anymore. She had spunk and spirit, fire and humor. She could bound energetically about a tall ship, weep as the world was at war, comfort little Natalie Wood and believe in Santa Claus again, get dragged through the mud by John Wayne, and maintain her jaw-dropping beauty, undeniable class, and inspiring dignity through it all.

Maureen O’Hara died on October 24 at age 95. I’m gonna miss that lass.

In fact, I'm going to miss them all. But the wonderful, magical thing about the movies is, the light in the stars never really goes out.

As Black as Steel and Twice as Strong

Hattie McDaniel as she looked
when she wasn't playing a maid.

The old Hollywood studio system of the 1930s and '40s thrived on typecasting, molding actors into archetypal roles. There were the suave men-about-town, the rugged cowboys, urban gangsters, blue collar guys, and so on. The white female stars were usually cast as the hard-boiled dame, the good girl next door, the spoiled socialite, etc.

If a studio needed a British elder statesman type, they had someone under contract to fill that role. If they needed a stuffy mother-in-law, they had plenty of middle-aged women under contract that would fit the bill. Comical Irish drunk? Check. Greasy Italian right off the boat? Check. Mexican spitfire? Check.

But when it came to typecasting, African Americans had it even worse. Hollywood’s “Golden Age” of the 1930s and ‘40s, the studio-dominated era, was a rich period for white actors as long as they didn’t mind the typecasting; but it was not particularly fulfilling for black actors. (One could argue that it was still worse for Asians, since many of those roles were actually played by white actors in heavy makeup.)

Most black actors were stoic about the narrow definition they were given on film at the time; it was work in an industry that paid much better than work they could get outside of Hollywood—maids, shoe shines, man servants, porters or other menial jobs. As Hattie McDaniel—the movies’ first black Oscar winner—famously said, "Why should I complain about making $700 a week playing a maid? If I didn't, I'd be making $7 a week being one.”

In this blog post, I’m looking at four black actors and a single film in their repertoire that made a strong impression on me personally, for one reason or another. They range in style from modest to towering; but above anything else is the characterization, comic timing, and presence each of them project—whether they dominate just a single scene, several scenes, or play a prominent part throughout the film that augments an ensemble cast.

Louise Beavers
"I am only playing the parts. I don't live them.”  

Beavers holds Lombard's hand as she 
dispenses sage advice. White girl better listen.

In 1934, Louise Beavers co-starred opposite one of the biggest white actresses of the time, Claudette Colbert, in the original, ground-breaking “Imitation of Life.” She plays the mother of a girl who goes to extreme lengths to pass for white—even at the expense of her relationship with her mother. Beavers was a heartbreaking revelation in the film.

But despite the movie’s success, it was the very prominence of Beavers’ role—relating as an equal to Colbert—which caused controversy for some in the white community. And the black community reacted negatively to what they still viewed as a stereotyped role. After all, she was still playing more or less a maid.

Aside from this pseudo-success, there is another title in Beavers’ filmography that stands out. In 1939's “Made for Each Other,” she plays Lily, a cook hired by a young married couple, played by Carole Lombard and James Stewart. While the couple have advantages (they can afford a cook), their marital struggles are the crux of the film.

There is nothing earth-shaking about “Made for Each Other,” or Beavers’ role in it. What stands out for me is the dynamic that plays out between Lombard and Beavers. They are not only employer and employee, but friends. The film contains one of the only scenes in a film of this era in which a white person and a black person relate to each other as adult equals. They actually have a conversation with each other.

In that scene, they sit on a park bench as Beavers gives Lombard sage advice and, understanding Lombard’s current struggles, stands up behind her and rubs her head to soothe her worry. The scene is played in a way in which two real people who respect each other, despite their racial and economic differences, would behave.

In a later scene, set at New Year’s Eve, Lily stops by to drop off a gift, and Lombard embraces her. When I first saw this scene, it struck me that I’d never seen another film of this period in which black and white adults touch each other with such genuine affection. Today the gesture would seem negligible, but it was a definite first in film, to my eyes.

Unbelievably, even after her triumph in “Imitation of Life” five years earlier, Beavers’ role in “Made for Each Other” went uncredited. Despite the seeming carelessness of her lack of billing, she imbues Lily with great warmth, and makes a lasting impression.

As a footnote, the remainder of Beavers’ career—30 years—had her relegated to a succession of maid roles. However, she broke ground by being the first black star of a television series, “Beulah,” in which she played—you guessed it—a maid.

Canada Lee
“I had the ambition…to work like mad and be a convincing actor.”  

It seems bizarre that Canada Lee
doesn't even appear on the poster.

Orson Welles gave Canada Lee his first acting break, auspiciously appearing as Banquo in the 1936 all-black stage production of Macbeth. It's on the stage that Lee really made his mark.

However, he did make a handful of feature films between 1939 and 1951, all of which gave him significant supporting roles.

For me, one stands out in particular. “Lifeboat” is Alfred Hitchcock’s 1944 film about a group of disparate individuals who must band together after their ship has been sunk by a German U-boat. Lee, as the bombed ship’s cook, joins British and U.S. service members, a merchant marine, a haughty white female journalist, a delusional British woman, an Army nurse and a wealthy industrialist.  Also aboard the lifeboat is a German survivor, on whom the group takes pity. (They regret it later.)

At first, the survivors work together in an effort to make it to safety in Bermuda. But as time passes, conditions worsen, rations run out, and drinkable water becomes scarce. They become desperate and eventually resort to violence in the cause of self-preservation.

The film is really an examination of the disparities and inequalities of wealth, class, race, gender and nationality. Tallulah Bankhead, as the regal journalist who initially appears on screen wearing a fur coat and surrounded by luggage, is the nominal star of the picture; but she's really just part of an ensemble cast. And if Lee’s character isn’t fully developed, this is still a film that depicts him as a three-dimensional human being—something that movies of the 1940s didn’t often do.
 
As Joe Spencer, he brings a dignity not often seen by black actors in films of this time. He relates as a human being with the other characters—not as a servant. It helps that everyone on this tiny lifeboat is now equal.
 
Still, author John Steinbeck, who wrote the original screenplay, didn’t like how Lee’s character was depicted, calling the role a "stock comedy Negro." In viewing the film today, I disagree—perhaps it was Lee’s natural dignity that rises to the surface despite any limitations placed upon him by the film’s producers or studio. “Lifeboat” is a fascinating combination of wartime propaganda, filmic experiment, and social commentary.

Hattie McDaniel
“I'd rather play a maid than be one.”


As Malena, Hattie McDaniel steals this scene from 

Katharine Hepburn and Fred MacMurray.

Hattie McDaniel is legendary for being the first black actor to win an Oscar, as Mammy in 1939’s “Gone with the Wind.” While her role and the film itself have been controversial for decades due to seemingly racist depiction of blacks who didn’t really mind being slaves, my feeling is that the epic remains a brilliantly-mounted spectacle about a divisive period in American history.

And, by the way, McDaniel’s Mammy is the only character in the film with any common sense. And that makes her the heart of the film--not Scarlet, not Rhett, not any of the other white folk who fight or flee, give in or give up as the Civil War tears their world apart.

But it’s another role, in a much smaller film from 1935, that I want to focus on.
 
“Alice Adams” examines a middle-class girl’s efforts at social climbing in small-town America. Katharine Hepburn is Alice, whose ambition exceeds her means. When she meets a wealthy young man (Fred MacMurray), she falls for him hard.

In an attempt to impress him, she invites him to dinner at her parents’ modest home, scrambling to pull together a meal of what she imagines rich people eat, insisting that her parents wear formal wear, and hiring a maid named Malena (McDaniel) to serve the dinner just for that night. Everything that could go wrong does, including Malena’s incompetence in both the kitchen and the dining room.

Forget for a moment that McDaniel is playing a maid, and watch her brilliant comic timing. The scene during dinner is played almost wordlessly and with no background music to tell us when to laugh—but McDaniel owns it, squeezing every ounce of hilarity out of her seemingly menial role.

Her timing is impeccable, as are her movements and gestures. Her balletic balancing of a dish and the door, the perfectly timed slipping of her wilted maid's hat, and her sidelong glances never belie an expression of abject boredom. Malena clearly does not care whether these silly people impress their guest or not.

I’d like to think that director George Stevens—who knew from comedy—grasped that he was working with a brilliant professional. After all, by 1935, McDaniel was a respected actor and comedienne, a veteran of vaudeville, the legitimate stage, radio and film.

I mentioned Louis Beavers' television show "Beaulah." It was Hattie McDaniel who originated the character, but in the earlier radio version.

Rex Ingram
“I was persuaded that I was just what was needed to play a native of the jungles in the first Tarzan pictures."

Unlike Canada Lee, Ingram is the
most prominent person on the movie poster.
(And rightly so.)

In the 1930s and ‘40s, anything produced by the Korda brothers of England (Alexander, Vincent, and Zoltán) guaranteed prestige. They worked with large budgets to create spectacles, often in expensive Technicolor, with beautiful sets, scenery, and stars.

In 1940, they released “The Thief of Bagdad,” a spectacular Arabian fantasy that starred Sabu as Abu, the young thief of the title. (Sabu was the only "out" Indian actor to achieve mainstream success in British or American films during this era.) While the rest of the main cast of “Arabian” characters is populated by a German (Conrad Veidt as the villain Jafar) and young and beautiful white English actors John Justin and June Duprez, the actor of color I’m recognizing here is the singular Rex Ingram.

Like Canada Lee, Ingram was a respected stage actor by the time this film was made, but had dabbled in films dating from 1918. (That's when he was cast in an early "Tarzan" movie.) In “The Thief of Bagdad,” he gives a literally towering performance, and steals the film as the remarkable special effects create a giant Djinn, or genie, whose hearty laugh fills the screen as much as Ingram’s physical presence.

Abu finds a bottle and inadvertently sets free the Djinn, who roars with anger at having been confined for milennia. Abu puts the Djinn back in the bottle; but, the Djinn agrees that, for letting him back out, he will grant the boy three wishes. From there, the Djinn becomes Abu’s friend and guardian.

Ingram has a field day with this role, and it’s thrilling to watch him dominate the movie, both in presence and characterization. He is literally bigger than life.

Ingram made only a handful of film appearances over a career that spanned nearly 50 years, but in his sporadic appearances, he made the moments count. Two standout roles include runaway slave Jim in 1939’s “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” and Sgt. Major Tambul in one of the best war movies made during WWII, 1943’s ensemble drama “Sahara,” which starred none other than Humphrey Bogart. Ingram also featured prominently in several all-black movies of the pre- and post-war years, such as “The Green Pastures” in 1936 and “Anna Lucasta” in 1949.

Ingram revisited genie territory in the American-made adventure film “A Thousand and One Nights” in 1945, this time billed as The Giant. Obviously the role was hardly a stretch for him. Perhaps in another era, we could have seen more of Ingram in roles that played up his soaring voice, magnetic presence, and considerable talent, rather than limiting him due to his skin color.

When I watch old movies, I always take note of how minorities are represented. It’s just one of the many layers of details I observe to help me understand the time in which they were made. Sometimes black actors are merely part of the backdrop—a porter placing a suitcase on a train as a pretty white lady boards, for example. Other times, yet rarely, they have a more prominent role.

And I pay attention to those black actors and how they present themselves, understanding how they were limited by circumstances that were likely beyond their control at the time.

While many of the roles for black actors during the 1930s and ‘40s were subservient, I still respect the actors themselves, for their dedication, professionalism, humor and talent. They were making their way in a world that was mostly stacked against them, yet worked in an industry in which they could advance in ways not available to them most anywhere else.

Perhaps Louise Beavers, Canada Lee, Hattie McDaniel, and Rex Ingram had to be the ones to go through this period, either playing a succession of one-dimensional parts or limiting their own careers to avoid those types of parts. In any case, they paved the way for better opportunities for future generations. Whatever the case may be, I love them for being the ones that were there at the start.