Happy 100th Birthday to Kirk Douglas!

Douglas had an unrelenting stare.

Today is the 100th birthday of Kirk Douglas, and I wanted to recognize this living link to the film industry, both past and present, who can best be described as a transitional film figure.

He got his first film role in 1946, the year after the end of a cataclysmic world war. He had no connection with the Hollywood of the pre-war years, so he brought no baggage. His was a gritty new style that fit a jaded America. And yet he possessed the magnetism required of a Movie Star. 

During the 1940s, he was well-suited to the ambivalent black-and-white world of film noir—a distinctly post-war genre—and he starred in one of the best of the form, “Out of the Past,” in 1947. But he would never be pigeon-holed as a certain character type.

The same year as "Out of the Past," he got a change of pace in an ambitious adaptation of Eugene O’Neil’s play “Mourning Becomes Electra.” This smaller role was an early indication that he was willing to do unusual parts in non-commercial fare. Just a year later, he joined an ensemble cast in the brilliant (and very commercial) film "A Letter to Three Wives," as the intellectual, comically cynical husband of one of the three wives.

But he could smile too.

But his career really took off with his most powerful portrayal to date, as a ruthless boxer in 1949’s “Champion.” 

With that film, Douglas's career went into high gear, and he became one of the biggest stars of the 1950s and early '60s. At the same time, Hollywood was struggling to compete with the new medium of television and declining revenue. The studios started relying on new and exciting personalities like Douglas to bring in audiences. Douglas's big persona fit well with the wide-screen, Technicolor spectacles the studio put their money in.

But Douglas never wanted to be identified with any particular studio or film genre, and he happily juggled both commercial and artistic material, some of which may have been unattractive to many of his contemporaries. Throughout the 1950s, in between some pretty good westerns and several bad historical epics, so-so romances, and forgettable comedies, Douglas made a number of films of real artistic note.

In 1953, he starred in “The Juggler,” one of the first films to deal with the Holocaust. He brought to the screen the life of Vincent van Gogh (another intense artist) in 1956’s “Lust for Life.” A year later, he starred in Stanley Kubrick’s anti-war film “Paths of Glory,” and started a new decade with Kubrick’s “Spartacus” in 1960, perhaps his most famous role.

Throughout the 1950s, he also helped bring to life adaptations of modern and classic literature, works by Homer and Jules Verne, George Bernard Shaw and Tennessee Williams. (In fact, he co-starred as the Gentleman Caller in the first film adaptation of a Williams play, "The Glass Menagerie," in 1950.)

Oddly, Douglas is not well remembered for any particular pairing with a female co-star, although he appeared with everyone from Lana Turner to Lauren Bacall, Doris Day to Susan Hayward, Kim Novak to Farrah Fawcett. It's his big, rugged portrayals in dramatic, often outdoor, settings that stand out: adventure epics, war films, and especially the westerns.

In those films, he often shared billing with other men. It was the conflict between them that gave Douglas a platform to give intense, often raging, portrayals. With Kirk Douglas, there was always explosiveness simmering beneath the surface. And when it exploded, it was memorable. Although some of his films are black and white, his characterizations never were. In his best work, he was both protagonist and antagonist.

As with many stars of his generation, Douglas struggled for relevance in the 1970s, although he made a few good, if underrated, films in that decade. (He even directed two: a bad one in '73, a good one in '74.) In subsequent decades, he moved into occasional character parts.

Sometimes Douglas's intensity seemed almost too big for the screen. With the trademark clenched teeth, the chiseled looks, and that distinctive dimple, he could veer into self-parody. 

But whether his films—and the performances he gave—were good or great, okay or lousy, you can look at his career as a reflection of the cultural, attitudinal, moral, and even political changes of the last half of the twentieth century. 

Nominated three times for Best Actor but never a winner, Douglas's long dedication to the craft of acting, and to the magic of the movies, makes him a living artist to honor.

Directed by the Best:
Over nearly 20 years, Douglas worked with some of the biggest directors of the era, in some of their—and his—best, or at least most challenging, work:

• Joseph L. Mankiewicz - "A Letter to Three Wives" (1948) and "There Was a Crooked Man..." (1970)
• Billy Wilder - "Ace in the Hole" (1951)
• William Wyler - "Detective Story" (1951)
• Vincente Minnelli - "The Bad and the Beautiful" (1952) and "Lust for Life" (1956)
• John Sturges - "Gunfight at the O.K. Corral" (1957)
• John Huston - "The List of Adrian Messenger" (1963)
• John Frankenheimer - "Seven Days in May" (1964)
• Otto Preminger - "In Harm's Way" (1965)
• Elia Kazan - "The Arrangement" (1969)

Vanishing Acts

Since the beginning of cinema, becoming a movie star has been a singular symbol of success. In the 1930s and ‘40s, silver screen stardom was an aspiration that promised a life of adulation, glamour, and privilege – unlike the lives of everyday people.

But for some, the drive for stardom came at a high price. I’m looking at four top actresses of that scintillating era, glamorous ghosts who briefly burned white-hot and then disappeared – their lives either suddenly cut short or their careers halted due to painful personal tragedy prolonged for decades.

The Bombshell Defused
In the early 1930s, Jean Harlow exemplified the “blonde bombshell.” Volatile, electric, explosive. She was the original “platinum blonde” – a term created for her.

Discovered by Fox Studios (later 20^th Century Fox), Harlow made an auspicious early appearance in Howard Hughes’s big-budget film “Hell’s Angels” in the transitional year of 1930. The persona that evolved was that of the sexy, brash vixen. Female movie-goers saw her as a tough-talking best pal; guys loved the uninhibited gal with a heart of gold.

Harlow was never billed as a bad-girl type, but in the early ‘30s – before the more stringent production code that came into effect in Hollywood by 1934 – the studio could play up her frank sexuality. By the middle of the decade, however, the studio began to soften her image, even dimming her shimmering head of white-blonde hair to a light brown.

She was one of the biggest stars of the decade, exemplifying the glittering world of black and white cinema. She was at the height of her fame by 1937, but during the making of “Saratoga,” she became gravely ill. Her leading man Clark Gable knew something was wrong, but outside of a few other fellow actors, no one seemed to take her symptoms seriously.

Harlow went into the hospital with symptoms of kidney failure – and died there suddenly on June 7, 1937. She was only 26. Her fans were stunned that someone so vital could suddenly disappear so quickly. Eighty years hence, Jean Harlow remains frozen in time as a young, yearning figure draped in feathers and furs – awaiting her next take.

Side note: In 1932, after just two months of marriage, Harlow’s husband Paul Bern was found dead in their home – an alleged suicide. The actual circumstances of his death have never been determined, but the incident adds to her mystique.

Not to Be

Carole Lombard was the essence of what it meant to be a movie star in the Golden Age of Hollywood. Classier than Harlow, she was nonetheless an irresistible free spirit. She had a marvelous voice that could be gloriously comic or, when needed, pitched slightly lower to fit a dramatic scenario. She was a gorgeous dame with spunk and class.

Screwball comedy proved her niche. She had a knack for fast-paced dialogue delivery, sophisticated humor, and a physicality that counterbalanced her austere beauty. She co-starred with the biggest names of the day, from Gary Cooper to Cary Grant, Bing Crosby to Shirley Temple. She made four films with Fred MacMurray, and even co-starred with ex-husband William Powell in one of her biggest hits, "My Man Godfrey," in 1936.

By 1939, Lombard was married to Clark Gable in the biggest star romance of the era. And, she was trying new career territory, with a couple of straight dramas to test her acting mettle. Critics agreed she was more than just a screwball heroine. So in the daring anti-Nazi black comedy “To Be or Not to Be,” she combined both dramatic and comedic skills. At this time, she put her patriotism to work by leading a war bond drive that helped raise over $2,000,000 in one night. After that drive, on January 16, 1942, Lombard, her mother, and 19 servicemen boarded a plane in Indianapolis to head back to California.

But the plane mysteriously crashed into a Nevada mountain en route, killing everyone on board. Lombard was just 33. The death of this symbol of American life, freedom, and joy on a lonely mountainside – at the advent of a catastrophic world war – seemed to signal that the cinematic golden age she represented was slowly but surely nearing its end.

This Is Your Life

Hollywood has always been about fresh faces, and when Frances Farmer was discovered by Paramount Pictures in 1935, she was a new sensation. An aspiring stage actress born in Seattle and trained in New York, Farmer possessed a compelling combination of classic beauty and an earnest demeanor. She was sort of a Greta Garbo of the Pacific Northwest.

Farmer considered herself a serious actress, so it was an adjustment to appear as the love interest in a middling Bing Crosby musical shortly after arriving in Hollywood. A couple of B movies in, and she finally got a prestigious film based on the well-regarded novel “Come and Get It” in 1936. It garnered her great critical and popular attention, and she felt as though she was finally being appreciated for her talent.

Yet Farmer rebelled against nearly every facet of the Hollywood studio system, and her reputation for being argumentative, arrogant, and entitled grew. She was quickly relegated to one-dimensional supporting parts. But her downfall was motivated by more than just a rebellious spirit and reduced parts. In addition to a failed marriage and a scuttled affair with a famous playwright, Farmer was battling alcoholism. She became increasing abusive, both verbally and physically. In a burst of rage on one occasion, she even dislocated the jaw of a makeup woman.

Finally, with a highly publicized arrest in 1942, the studio had had enough, and Farmer’s career abruptly ended. She was 29. Repeated altercations with the police and well-publicized incidents of violent, erratic behavior due to paranoid schizophrenia led to eight years in and out of psychiatric wards and mental institutions. It was a harrowing period of shock treatments and even a claim of a lobotomy.

By 1950, with her once-splendid career behind her, Farmer entered a phase of quiet anonymity. She took various jobs that didn’t require a name: laundress, bookkeeper, hotel receptionist. A curious reporter wrote a magazine article about her, which led to renewed public interest. She was invited to make several TV appearances, including the unctuous Ralph Edwards-hosted “This is Your Life.”

The renewed where-is-she-now notoriety led to a few acting roles on television dramas, as well as a single, minor film role. Farmer then became the hostess of a daytime television program in Indianapolis (where Lombard boarded that fateful plane). Farmer had sporadic theater work throughout the 1960s and, although she seemed professionally content at this time, her personal demons were never really at bay. When she died of cancer in 1970 at 56, she was still a troubled woman – only a ghost of her former self.

Side note: That famous playwright with whom Farmer had a "scuttled affair" was Clifford Odets, who was married at the time to film star Luise Rainer – another infamous flame-out who I talked about here. In 1982, Jessica Lange portrayed Farmer in a controversial biography called "Frances." The veracity of some of the depictions of her mental breakdown have been questioned, including the purported lobotomy. But it remains a vivid recreation of the world she suffered within and against.

Hold That Blonde

When Connie Ockelman's family moved to Beverly Hills in the late 1930s, she was a pretty, diminutive teenager. Hollywood beckoned, and she became Veronica Lake.

A supporting part in 1941’s “I Wanted Wings” as a nightclub singer made her a hit overnight. A natural, unaffected style combined with that famous long blonde hair draped over one eye heralded a new look and presence for the war years of the 1940s.

A plum role in the Preston Sturges social comedy “Sullivan’s Travels” featured an impish quality and a wry, subtle humor. While 1942 was a bad year for Frances Farmer, it was a great one for Lake. She appeared for the first time opposite rising star Alan Ladd in the film noir “This Gun for Hire,” a big enough hit that it was followed quickly by a reteaming in “The Glass Key.” Two more films together later in the decade would cement Ladd and Lake as a legendary team emblematic of the smoky, mysterious, dream-like world of film noir.

A few more good parts for Lake during the war years led to a litany of forgettable comedies and musicals, including one called “Hold That Blonde.” But nothing seemed to hold Lake; burgeoning alcoholism and a terrible temperament made her unpopular with her fellow actors. A growing paranoia was holding her more than she was holding together life or career.

By her last studio film in 1951, when she was only 29, one hurdle after another had beset her. Multiple divorces, a miscarriage, bankruptcy, losing her home for back taxes, arrests and alcoholic dissolution sent Lake into obscurity. In 1959, she was discovered living at a women’s hotel in New York City, where she worked as a bartender.

As if parallel with Frances Farmer, hitting bottom for Lake became fodder for the tabloids. As a result, Lake found brief renewed interest. In the 1960s, she got a few stage parts – including playing the tragic Blanche DuBois in a British production of “A Streetcar Named Desire” – and, like Farmer, got a job hosting a local daytime TV show, this one in Baltimore.

She made one more movie, a bizarre, cheaply-made horror film in 1970 that was funded by the profits from her autobiography. When she died three years later of cirrhosis of the liver at age 50, she was a nearly forgotten curio of a brighter past. In a sad coda, there wasn’t enough money to pay for the removal of her ashes, so they remained locked away in a funeral home for many years.

Some of Us Are Looking at the Stars

Jean Harlow, Carole Lombard, Frances Farmer and Veronica Lake are all quite different women, with varying degrees of talent and staying power. Harlow is a symbol of 1930s Hollywood. Lombard practically invented the female presence in screwball comedy. Farmer, despite her notorious personal life, has not a single classic among her short filmography. Lake is emblematic of Tinsel Town of the 1940s, and several of her films with Ladd are classics of the film noir form.

Despite their differences, they share in common a singular style, beauty, personality, and presence – as well as uniquely tragic trajectories of fame. They all came to the ever-changing medium of the movies as luminous rockets, then disappeared – vanished ghosts of a vanished Hollywood.

Related: 

Joel McCrae: The Lake-Farmer Connection
The underrated leading man Joel McCrae co-starred opposite Veronica Lake in her best film, "Sullivan's Travels," in 1941. He was slated to be her leading man in "I Married a Witch" the following year, but he begged off, saying: "Life is too short for two films with Veronica Lake." 

Despite his disdain, they would make the western "Ramrod" together in 1947, at which point Lake's career was already in free-fall. Interestingly, McCrae was also Frances Farmer's leading man in her biggest success, "Come and Get It," in 1936.

The Lombard-Harlow Leading Man Timeline
Carole Lombard and Jean Harlow criss-crossed their leading men with great frequency:

- 1931: Lombard marries William Powell. Together, that year they make "Ladies' Man" and "Man of the World".
- 1932: Lombard makes "No Man of Her Own" with Clark Gable. Harlow makes "Red Dust" with Gable.
- 1933: Lombard divorces Powell. Harlow makes "Hold Your Man" with Gable.
- 1935: Harlow makes "Reckless" with Powell, and "China Seas" with Gable.
- 1936: Harlow makes "Libeled Lady" with Powell and "Suzy" with Cary Grant. Lombard makes "My Man Godfrey" with ex-husband Powell.
- 1937: Harlow makes "Wife vs. Secretary" with Gable and James Stewart, and starts, but does not finish, "Saratoga," also with Gable.
- 1939: Lombard marries Gable, and makes "In Name Only" with Grant and "Made for Each Other" with Stewart.

Looking Good: Five Forgotten Leading Men

There are certain male stars of the Golden Age of Hollywood whose names are still familiar today: Clark Gable, Cary Grant, and Humphrey Bogart immediately come to mind.

I want to look at five actors whose names aren’t as familiar, but who have a few things in common: They were all very good-looking; they grew from pretty boys into more manly screen personas; they migrated into the ubiquitous cowboy mold of the 1950s; and they ended their careers in mostly low-grade movies that seemed to underscore that their taciturn, rugged style had gone out of fashion. Their individual, personal stories are likely far more interesting than anything I can say about them here, but I wanted to shine a light on their handsome faces and give a snapshot on their careers once again.

John Payne
With his dimpled chin, ready smile, and affable persona, John Payne was as non-threatening as you could get in the films of the ‘30s and early ‘40s. He was cast in a succession of bright musicals co-starring Alice Faye, Betty Grable, and Sonja Henie. Titles like “Sun Valley Serenade,” “Week-End in Havana” and “Springtime in the Rockies” indicate their escapist nature.

He served in the war, and like many handsome young actors of the era, he came back older, a little worn, and ready to appear in meatier material. But while he was part of an exemplary cast in the 1946 adaptation of Somerset Maugham’s “The Razor’s Edge,” perhaps his most lasting film is the perennial Christmas classic, 1947's “Miracle on 34th Street,” in which he plays the stalwart lawyer who proves that Kris Kringle is the real Santa Claus.

The 1950s saw Payne starring mostly in B movies, some of which were actually quite good. The film noir “99 River Street” (1953) indicates he was a really strong actor who simply never reached the level of some of the bigger stars of his era. The remainder of the decade for Payne was dotted with a succession of serviceable but ultimately forgettable crime dramas, adventures, and westerns. In addition to plenty of TV work, guy-next-door Payne made just two films in the 1960s, including the low-budget “They Ran for Their Lives” in 1968 – his cinematic swan song. Payne's daughter Julie went on to work in films briefly, mostly int the 1960s. Payne seemed content with his glide from retirement into obscurity.

George Montgomery

George Montgomery started as a stunt man, but his good looks got him a small role in a minor movie in 1935 when he was just 18. He continued the bit roles and stunt work until he got a contract at 20th Century Fox in 1940. Little by little, he won roles in every genre, from westerns and adventures to musicals and romantic comedies. He even co-starred with Ginger Rogers in 1942 in “Roxie Hart,” the film that was the inspiration for the stage musical “Chicago.”

During the war, he co-starred with America’s favorite pin-up girl, Betty Grable, in the lavish, nostalgic Technicolor musical “Coney Island.” He continued in more popular movies, but really made his mark in westerns. (Do you see a pattern to the men in this blog post?) The early 1950s saw him in westerns with titles like “The Iroquois Trail,” “The Texas Rangers,” and “Jack McCall, Desperado.” He parlayed his cowhand persona into television in 1958 in his own series, “Cimarron City.” Finding work in Hollywood sparse by the advent of the 1960s, he moved to Europe to make a series of low-budget crime dramas. He inexplicably played a drug lord in a little-seen, and very bad, anti-drug exploitation movie called “Hallucination Generation” in 1966. My guess is he needed the money to support what he truly loved: woodworking, furniture design, and bronze sculpture. The man was an artist beyond his movie career.

In 1997, my parents were in California and wandered into an art gallery. A renowned woodworker and sculptor, Montgomery was showing his furniture designs and bronze work. How neat it must have been for my parents to meet an actor they’d likely seen on screen when they were kids. I treasure the photo of the three of them posing in front of a couple large-scale photos from his films, and with one of his life-size bronze pieces. (You can see the picture below, along with a photo of his signed gallery exhibit brochure -- a prized possession.)

Guy Madison

What Guy Madison lacked in innate acting ability he more than made up for in looks. And that’s exactly how he got into films in the first place. As a sailor on leave, he was discovered by a talent scout who immediately cast him – as a sailor on leave – in the big-budget wartime weeper “Since You Went Away” (1944). After the war ended, the studios tried mightily to groom him for stardom; he appealed greatly to the bobby-soxer (read: teenage) set. But even casting him opposite a now-teenage Shirley Temple in 1947’s “Honeymoon” didn't help much; to describe his acting as wooden in this film would be an insult to wood (even woodworker George Montgomery likely cringed).

But with time and training, Madison developed into a solid enough performer as he entered the 1950s. He starred in archetypal films of that decade that reflected both our pioneering western past (“The Last Frontier,” “Bullwhip”) and the space race of the future (“On the Threshold of Space,” “Jet Over the Atlantic”). He was bankable enough to be cast in "5 Against the House" opposite Kim Novak, who was one of the hottest female personalities of that decade.

Madison found his greatest popularity on TV in the western series “The Adventures of Wild Bill Hickok,” which ran from 1951-1958. When it ended, he did what a number of actors did as their Hollywood careers wound down – he went to Europe to make cheap Italian sword-and-sandal adventures and spy movies. Like George Montgomery, Madison also appeared in a trashy, so-called anti-drug movie; in Madison’s case, it was “LSD Flesh of Devil,” in 1967. I wonder if he knew what he was getting himself into with that one. The remainder of his career was dotted with nostalgic TV appearances, including “Fantasy Island” in 1979. 

As minor as his film legacy may ultimately be, it says a lot about the man himself that his daughter maintains a touching web site devoted to her dad here. (I found it very sad to learn that his grandson died in Operation Iraqi Freedom in 2003. It reminded me that, regardless of their fame, past or present, these actors were real people with real families who have lived on, or died, beyond them.)

Dennis Morgan
Dennis Morgan got his start in tiny roles at MGM Studios. His single scene in the big-budget extravaganza “The Great Ziegfeld” (1936) had him atop a humongous wedding cake, wearing a tuxedo as he croons “A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody,” surrounded by, yes, dozens of pretty girls. (A very good tenor, his voice was nevertheless dubbed.)

After a few bit roles here and there, Morgan finally made a dramatic impression as an unsympathetic socialite opposite Ginger Rogers in “Kitty Foyle” (1940). He made his mark, and soon moved over to Warner Brothers. In 1942’s “In This Our Life,” Bette Davis steals him from Olivia de Havilland. In “The Hard Way” (1943), one of Morgan’s co-stars was the affable Jack Carson; they made such a good team that they were cast together in a series of buddy comedies throughout the rest of the decade, with titles like “Two Guys from Milwaukee” and “Two Guys from Texas.” They were so familiar as a team that when they made “It's a Great Feeling” together in 1949, opposite up-and-comer Doris Day, they played themselves.

Maybe it’s the 1945 holiday movie “Christmas in Connecticut” for which Morgan is best remembered today. He didn’t have to stretch much to play an adorable soldier on leave who falls for Barbara Stanwyck. He sure looked good in that uniform, and it wasn't just Miss Stanwyck who was smitten. Throughout the 1940s, Morgan maintained his benign charm in a slew of other easy-to-take, easy-to-forget comedies, musicals, dramas, and even westerns, all of which helped comfort a nation in recovery after the war years. But starring parts became decreasingly available as he entered the 1950s. He moved into television and closed out his career in a small role in an obscure adventure called “Rogue’s Gallery” in 1968 before calling it quits. Happily retired, he made an appearance on “The Love Boat” at the end of the 1970s (like Guy Madison and so many other stars past their prime). In these rare appearances, he coasted on the nostalgia for his smiling, crooning persona, a vestige of a bygone era.

James Craig

Handsome James Craig -- a sort of Clark Gable lookalike -- is probably the most obscure of the leading men I discuss in this blog. It was typical of the studios to try out young contract players in small roles in B-movies and series like “The Lone Wolf” and “Blondie” before casting them in bigger fare. Craig was no exception.

Along with Dennis Morgan, he had a major part in 1940’s Ginger Rogers vehicle “Kitty Foyle,” and the next year he co-starred with the venerable Walter Huston in “The Devil and Daniel Webster.” (Huston played the devil.) This was a prestige film that helped cast him in the small-town wartime ensemble film “The Human Comedy” (1943). He followed these solid performances with a key role in the rustic, episodic “Our Vines Have Tender Grapes” (1945), which is notable for casting Edward G. Robinson against type as a sweet-natured Norwegian vineyard owner. All of these films are underappreciated minor classics. Craig presented a stalwart screen persona in all three films, indicating an actor to keep an eye on.

Craig's career throughout the '40s and '50s was peppered with the typical studio fare of the period, everything from westerns to romantic comedies. But by the early 1950s, like many of his peers (and some of the men in this blog post), he entered the world of television as a supporting actor. While he stayed busy throughout the '60s, the quality of his films decreased considerably. He found supporting roles in cheap westerns, but some of his final work was in terrible horror films made on shoestring budgets. For example, in "Venus Flytrap" his performance matches the awful production values. It's a flaccid coda to a once-promising career, especially in light of the fact that he was chosen as a "star of tomorrow" in 1944 -- a prediction that never quite came to pass. At the end of his career, Craig wisely moved on to something new -- becoming a successful real estate agent.

These five gentlemen all fit into the mold of the square-jawed leading man created by Hollywood. While none of them were great thespians, they all had the onscreen magnetism vital for making people take notice. Yet, each one was an approachable everyman despite their uncommon good looks. Their careers track the cultural transition from the conservative ‘40s and ‘50s to the tumultuous ‘60s.

Despite their inevitable career declines into rote westerns, "Love Boat" appearances and the like, each one conveyed charm and ease when they were at their cinematic peaks. It sure didn’t hurt that they looked great on screen. They may not be well known today, but they delivered some solid, enjoyable work that deserves to be remembered and appreciated. 

The point here, I suppose, is that, even if these five men are no longer household names, and even if the totality of their filmic output is not significant on the level of, say, Cary Grant or Humphrey Bogart, their work remains -- even after they are long gone.

Mom and Dad with George Montgomery, actor and artist, in front of a few photos
from his Hollywood days, and one of his remarkable western bronze sculptures.
(This one may very well be of himself.)

A portion of the cover of Montgomery's exhibit brochure --
signed to me by the man himself. "Best of luck." 
Thanks, Mr. Montgomery. (And thanks, Mom and Dad!)

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.