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’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.)
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.
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.
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.
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.)
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.
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.
“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. |
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. |
“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. |
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. |
“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. |
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. |
“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" |
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.
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