Sunset Gun

Six Stanwyck Noir (And One Sirk For Measure)

I've been neck-deep in noir (a good thing). And I’ll get to all of it later (interviewing Marsha Hunt and Eddie Muller at the Egyptian, watching the amazing Wicked Woman and Cry of the Hunted, Peter Lorre, Steve Cochran, Jack Elam…there’s so much to process) but for now, I’m turning to Barbara. Before I dive into Beverly Michaels (and I will -- that woman was a revelation), here are six Stanwyck noir and one Sirk for measure. You can’t deny yourself the Sirk. 

The Strange Love of Martha Ivers (1946)

Barbara Stanwyck's tormented, dominating performance in Lewis Milestone's noir The Strange Love of Martha Ivers is one of my favorites. Stanwyck plays the title role opposite a studly Van Heflin and a wimpy Kirk Douglas, and she's almost alarmingly powerful. As the domineering Martha, a wealthy woman married to a recently elected district attorney (Douglas), Stanwyck seethes with a sick viciousness that, as ugly as it becomes, never appears entirely inhuman. Her marriage is loveless, resulting in extensive cheating and a rage she takes out on a milquetoast drunkard Douglas. She also harbors a secret that Heflin, whom she's still in love with, is privy to, and both she and Douglas spend the picture scheming, fighting and experiencing a series of stinging nervous breakdowns. Stanwyck has a field day displaying neurotic bitterness with a deep sadness that's so intense it becomes fascinatingly sick.

Sorry, Wrong Number (1948)

As proven by this enthralling picture, Stanwyck could be physical and fascinating even while lying in a bed and simply talking on the telephone. Of course it helps that she's desperately attempting to save her life in a dangerous telecommunications scenario involving both a nefarious husband and the unending bureaucracy of the telephone company, but I'm certain Stanwyck would be gripping even if she was merely chatting with a girlfriend. As Leona Stevenson, an invalid heiress, Stanwyck gives us a masterfully complex vision of fear and dread without being shrill or one-note about her situation. And that situation is terrifically frightening. After picking up a phone call with crossed wires, Leona overhears two men discussing a murder plot. She's frightened, obviously, but becomes absolutely terrified when she realizes the mark is (gulp) her. Via elaborate flashbacks we learn more about her situation, chiefly Leona's estranged, shady husband (played by Burt Lancaster), who's gotten in so deep with gangsters that he has resorted to this murderous plan. And Stanwyck's performance is complicated, vulnerable and endlessly fascinating.

Double Indemnity (1944)

Already proving her mettle in screwball comedy, Stanwyck took on the dark art of film noir with nasty brilliance. Creating one of noir's most inspired, iconic femmes fatales, Stanwyck's double-crossing, bitch-seductress Phyllis Dietrichson in Billy Wilder's seminal Double Indemnity remains unparalleled. Donning the now famous blond wig, a sexy, cynical smirk and (dear God!) that anklet, she oozes a snaky sex appeal that manages to be evil and, in flashes, vulnerable. After eyeing her mark in Fred MacMurray's insurance salesman, Stanwyck convinces the lovesick lug to help plot and execute the murder of her husband in the hopes of cashing in on the dead man's insurance policy and supposedly living happily ever after. But, as usual in these situations, nothing ever comes off without a hitch -- numerous hitches, in this case. All dolled up in pom-pom heels, creamy sweaters and dramatically lined lips, Stanwyck's Phyllis, who's not as young as she used to be and not quite as lush, can't hide the poison within her. And her chemistry with MacMurray sizzles as they swap barbs and coos (co-written by Raymond Chandler from a James M. Cain crime novella) with sleazy ease. They yearn for more, but Stanwyck, the prototypical noir siren, seems perfectly aware of how fatalistic this kind of dream really is. Sometimes murder really does smell like honeysuckle.

Clash by Night (1952)

What makes Stanwyck tick? That's a continual question regarding the actress who played, among other characters, tramps and heiresses, wives and writers, scammers and showgirls. So it's especially electric to watch Robert Ryan attempt to figure her out in the Fritz Lang melodrama/noir Clash by Night (written by Clifford Odets). As a woman returning to her hometown of Monterey, Calif., we learn that her life hasn't worked out the way she hoped for. She yearns for a more substantial life and, as she admits to a young Marilyn Monroe, a man to help build her confidence. The man she chooses is a worshipful Paul Douglas, but he's not the one she wants, and she struggles with feelings for her husband's best friend, the probing hothead Ryan. Stanwyck gives one of her tour de force performances -- brittle, poignant, tragic and strong while being simultaneously down to earth and superior. You absolutely get why she would think better for herself, and then, in her wounded moments, why she couldn't quite succeed. But, true to her mystery, you never really understand why. Though Ryan spits, "Don't kid me, baby. I know a bottle by the label," he and the viewer never can put their finger on what that label reads. Barbara was never that easy.

The File on Thelma Jordon (1950) / There's Always Tomorrow (1956)

As the saying goes, the woman could tempt a saint. In the case of these two different performances, Stanwyck tempts two married men: one quite aggressively and with criminality (The File on Thelma Jordon); the other without premeditation but as a consequence of confining 1950s matrimony (There's Always Tomorrow). As the title siren of Robert Siodmak's noir The File on Thelma Jordon, Stanwyck lures nice, married Wendell Corey into an affair to further her criminal plans and, though committing many misdeeds, comes out sympathetic (albeit not off the hook) in the end. Showing her range within the archetype of femme fatale, Stanwyck's Thelma is a woman consumed by guilt. So much that even had she not sacrificed herself after ruining Corey's life, you'd sense her doomed conflict regardless.

Similarly moody, guilt ridden (though a positive influence) and ultimately sacrificial, Stanwyck's accidental temptress in Douglas Sirk's There's Always Tomorrow shakes up bored Fred MacMurray's claustrophobic life with a "perfect" wife and three selfish kids. In his indictment of middle-class complacency, Sirk rightly cast previous collaborator Stanwyck as the woman who inspires MacMurray's desires -- not only because she's alluring, but also because, among the cookie cutter fakes, she's real. This realness was an intriguing element to Stanwyck -- it was something that would cause many of her characters deception, pain and suffering. Stanwyck may have aged to play mother roles, but damned if she was going to tie on an apron and call it a day.

Jeopardy (1953)

The John Sturges directed daylight noir thriller is not only a tense, daring ride, but a deliciously good time. Here's the predicament: While vacationing in Mexico with hubby Barry Sullivan and their young son, Stanywck is put to the test after Sullivan is trapped in the surf and she must find anyone (anyone) to help her. Aid arrives in smarmy Ralph Meeker (ohhhh...Ralph Meeker) a fugitive who has a few other things on his mind. And off it goes. The repartee between Stanwyck and Meeker is absolutely priceless with standouts involving the triple slap Meeker lays on tough Babs, or Meeker’s proud preference for cheap perfume: “it doesn’t last as long,” or my favorite moment  --  when Stanwyck realizes she must make the ultimate sacrifice. She faces Meeker all hard and seductive to say, “I’ll do anything for my husband. ANYTHING.” And she does. Hard-core Babs.

"Big ideas, small results."

Soul Survivor

Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, Jackie Wilson, Curtis Mayfield, my beloved Ike Turner…they are all gone dammit. Gone.  How any self respecting (or self flagellating) Christian thinks I should believe in God is beyond me. Not that I need God necessarily and yet, when I hear that true soul Survivor, Al Green, I start thinking…Jesus Christ…maybe I do. Green, one of the greatest soul singers ever placed on this God-forsaken planet is (yes, thank God again, apologies Christopher Hitchens) still living, still putting out records and still performing live. One of the last real soul singers blessing our landscape -- especially a musical landscape populated by lip-synching video vixens, pop punk whiners and the very allowance of Kevin Federline cutting a rap record, Al Green will make you believe.

The Arkansas–born, Michigan–raised, Memphis-living Green made brilliant albums during his Hi Records heyday (Al Green Gets Next to You, Let’s Stay Together, I’m Still in Love With You, Call Me), his live performances (which I’ve fanatically collected over the years) were something to behold -- sexy, inspirational, transcendent experiences that weren’t simply swoon-worthy (though the ladies love Al Green), but genius examples of tightness and improvisation. Al Green can riff out of the margins, break from his sensuous midrange to talk to the audience and then lift to falsetto only to bust into a goose-bump–inducing raw growl that comes from a place so deep it’s nearly impossible to describe its power.

To use simpler terms, Green performs with raw, soulful intensity in its purest form. And where do you see that anymore? Excuse the easy takedowns, but seriously, Beyonce, Rihanna? Give those girls some Al Green Midnight Special performances simply to remind them not, what only a real singer is, but a real entertainer, and a real interpreter of song.

And Green’s realness can be achieved anywhere, from the soundstages of Soul Train to still-packed concert halls to his Full Gospel Tabernacle where the soul icon remains the residing reverend. If you’re ever in Memphis, don’t miss the chance to possibly catch Mr. Green presiding over worship -- an experience that, years back, one of my atheist-leaning friends caught and was so significantly inspired by, the tough guy was moved to tears. If you’ve ever watched Green perform the baptism-by-orgasm “Take Me to the River,” you’ll completely understand my friend’s reaction.

And further, if you’ve ever suffered through many of our current pop stars, you’ll feel a little sadness that performers like Al Green barely exist anymore in popular entertainment. I mean, really. What the fuck happened? There’s plenty of gritty soulful artists out there (thank you Andre Williams, thank you T. Model Ford, thank you Black Keys -- and thank you for almost recording an album with Ike Turner) but gone are the days when you could actually turn a large clunky dial and see these kinds of geniuses on the five channel boob tube. I hate to say this, but our parents were lucky. No wonder my father went through that leather vest, leather cap, butterfly collar phase. I always thought it might have been some Charles Bronson Death Wish nervous breakdown situation. (Remember when Bronson remodels his apartment all swinging '70s garish in the movie? That's what divorce did to some men, even without the murder and vigilantism -- but I digress.) Anyway, it was probably all that Al Green in the 8-track. That’s some potent stuff.

And I do mean stuff, since Green makes me want to pop a doll and worship God at the same time (must have something to do with Jesus via hot grits in the tub and a handgun...). Especially when he sings the sexy haunting “Jesus Is Waiting” -- and with a sling!  You can interpret this Soul Train performance as pure holy or holy high-high (check out Green's eyes) or whatever kind of godliness you apply to your Green, but one thing’s for sure, it’s on a holy high mountain of silky hot brilliance. That's religion.

You Can Never Write Fast Enough...

My newest writing gig, (in my humble, auto-centric opinion) might be one of the coolest opportunities I've ever had -- Garage Magazine. The eternally bitchin' hot rod mag asked me to pen a column that combines two of my favorite things -- cars and movies -- so there was no way in hell I could say no. I struggled with just what to cover in my debut column -- my head spinning like my Torino doing cookies in the desert. And yet, the same movie continued to surface -- Two-Lane Blacktop. It was so obvious, too obvious, I wondered, but on final ponder, I put my brain in park and told myself: It's my favorite car movie, I've written about it numerous times, and I love it enough to expand, explicate and worship further. Why not christen my column with the best of the best?

An added bonus was my magazine photo session with the incredibly talented artist/badass LA photographer Estevan Oriol. He's snapped everyone from Ice Cube to Forest Whitaker to Dennis Hopper to Rob Zombie and more and created some gritty, gorgeous work concerning street life as well. I was in more than able hands (also, he loved my car, so naturally he's one of my favorite people). The issue is on newsstands now, so make sure to pick it up. Dita Von Teese graces the cover and centerfold, while other stories include a look at the great Hollywood/cheesecake photographer Bernard of Hollywood, a prison interview with famed skater Jay Adams and a look at DC based punk rock motorcycle couriers from the 1980's. You will not be disappointed. And stay tuned for my next Garage column which will cover famous cinematic mental breakdown car moments. (If you scroll down to my Bette Davis homage, you'll see one of the greatest).

So with that, I've dipped into my archives to feature again, my favorite car movies -- something that wouldn't have fit in the magazine and something Garage readers can enjoy, disagree or challenge me over (as long as those challenges don't involve a chicken race). On second thought...

Anyway, here's my look at the 10 greatest examples of car cinema (not entirely in order, not the greatest cars, or greatest car chase sequences, though many of these pictures feature both), proving that autos can make not only a genre, but compelling characters as well. For these films, it's not star but car power. The Torino is calling...

10. Dirty Mary Crazy Larry (1974)

OK, so the film itself leaves something to be desired in the deep-meaning department. And the director dips into the cheap-thrills cookie jar one too many times. But Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry is lots of messy fun -- especially when involving automobiles. Peter Fonda is (crazy) Larry, a would-be NASCAR driver who, with his mechanic Deke (Adam Roarke), pulls off a heist and runs for a new country. But they also take Mary (Susan George), a nutjob wild child (who's really the "crazy" one here, anyway?), who makes the getaway a little more, well, interesting. Filled with all kinds of terrific chase sequences starring lust-worthy hotrod "characters" such as a Dodge Charger, a Chevrolet Impala and a Dodge Polara. This one's muscle-ri-fic.

9. Duel (1971)

Before he struck fear in the heart of every beach-loving, ocean-swimming New Englander, Steven Spielberg crafted one of his supreme films with Duel, a movie that struck fear in the heart of every traveling salesman just trying to get down a California highway. Dennis Weaver is the nebbish, Joe-Blow salesman whose life becomes a vehicular nightmare when a mysterious, ominous truck will not stop following him. But why? Well, we assume the truck wants to kill him (or just completely mess with his head) in some kind of sanity test the poor schlub did not need that morning. Or maybe the truck really hates his car -- a Plymouth Valiant. Whatever the case, the deranged semi vs. Plymouth makes for a superbly tense 90-minute chase film that's a lot more disturbing and so-called "bad to the bone" than Christine.

8. Vanishing Point (1971)

Can you get from Denver to San Francisco in one night? Check out Vanishing Point, in which Barry Newman's mysterious speedster, Kowalski attempts just that. Hired to deliver the white Dodge 440 1970 Challenger in less than 15 hours, he's in the exceptional predicament of being pursued by cops, while a blind DJ named "Super Soul" (Cleavon Little) helps him along his way. Informing the driver of his progress via radio show, Super Soul also makes Kowalski something of a folk hero ("the last American to whom speed means freedom of the soul"). Taut, enigmatic and chock full of pursuits (a memorable one involves a Jaguar), the film skids and scoots and speeds to a kind of infinity. Who really wants to get out of their car?

7. Gone in 60 Seconds (1974)

You gotta love a movie in which the car is such a major character, she's given a name ("Eleanor"). You also gotta love a movie in which the writer, director and stunt driver also stars (H.B. Halicki), mostly because he's such a die-hard gear-head that he surely couldn't imagine anyone else leading the proceedings. Car thieves must steal 48 cars in a short period of time, including a 1973 Mustang Mach 1 code-named Eleanor. When Halicki (as the amusingly named Maindrian Pace) gets his hands on Eleanor, the film kicks into epic high gear, with a 40-minute chase scene that passes through five California cities and leaves nearly 100 cars totaled. The movie was re-made (badly) in 2000, proving you don't need big stars (Nicolas Cage and Angelina Jolie) or extra extreme effects when you already had the real deal in the first place. And Halicki was the real deal; he died in a stunt accident while making this film's sequel

6. The Driver (1978) 

Walter Hill proved that he knew his way around a car by writing the screenplay for Sam Peckinpah's supreme The Getaway (another great car movie) and directing the auto-centric The Driver. An unyielding, enigmatic thriller, the film stars Ryan O'Neal, known simply as The Driver, a man constantly chased by, yep, The Detective (a fantastically creepy Bruce Dern) in a seemingly endless game of cat and mouse. The entire film involves obsessed pursuit; the viewer's point of view is often inside the car as the Driver maneuvers without any discernible emotion. O'Neal is almost literally a driving machine, as he shifts, swerves and speeds his Trans Am through parking structures, alleys and oncoming traffic. This is no giggling Smokey and the Bandit; this is Le Samourai on high octane.

5. Le Mans (1971)

Le Mans is about exactly that: the famed French auto race that runs for 24 hours. And not much else. In true car-noir fashion, it takes a good half-hour before we hear the film's protagonist utter a line of dialogue. That protagonist, Delaney, is played by Steve McQueen in a film so stripped of plot that it often feels like a documentary. We simply watch the auto race on the world's hardest endurance course as our hero goes more than 24 hours on 14.5 kilometers of cordoned country road. There's a duel between Delaney, in his Gulf Team Porsche 917, and a Ferrari 512LM that tests not only the driver's technical abilities, but also his personal will. Filled with terrific racing sequences galore and impressive wrecks, the spectacle is thrilling even if the narrative, not so much. But who cares...

4. Bullitt (1968)

What -- you thought I'd get through this list with only one McQueen film? Not likely, especially since this film is so firmly implanted in car cinema, it's tough not to combine the car and driver as one super being. Bullitt, Peter Yates' too-cool-for-school-actioner, boasts the greatest cinematic drive through the streets of San Francisco. But there's more than that legendary pursuit. There's the car -- a sweet 1968 Mustang GT 390 (the best-looking Mustang ever) -- and the driver -- McQueen (the best-looking guy ever to drive a Mustang). McQueen, who helped re-vamp the bitchin' green Ford, is the James Dean of car culture, indelibly linked with the lure and lore of the automobile. Bullitt actually makes me think Mustangs are not the most obvious "muscle" car you can own. Still (sorry Steve), the villain's car, the 1968 Dodge Charger was much, much cooler.

3. Smokey and the Bandit (1977) 

Many remember 1977 as the year Star Wars became a national obsession. But while some of you played with plastic light sabers and (now priceless) action figures, there were others who busted out their Dad's CB radio ("Sheriff ... do the letters F.O. mean anything to you?") and prayed he'd buy a black 1977 Pontiac Trans AM just like the one Burt Reynolds (a.k.a., The Bandit) drives in Hal Needham's classic Smokey and the Bandit. And yes, I did just say classic. A charming, laughing Reynolds teams with trucker pal Jerry Reed to transport 400 cases of Coors beer across state lines, with an apoplectic, hilarious Jackie Gleason (as Sheriff Buford T. Justice) in pursuit. Loads of light fun filled with clever, excellently edited and just plain stellar car-chase sequences, Smokey and the Bandit is, as the infectious Jerry Reed song proclaimed, "loaded up and truckin.'

2. Mad Max (1979)

Mad Max gives new meaning to the term "playing chicken." After super-studly, leather-clad cop 'Mad' Max Rockatansky (played by Mel Gibson in a star-making performance) explosively wins this game with an escaped criminal named The Nightrider, thug-in-arms biker-gang leader The Toecutter (oh, how I love these names) seeks vengeance, killing not only Max's partner but Max's family as well. So now Max is, as the title states, mad. Very, very mad. As directed by George Miller, this dystopian vision of violent recklessness and ultimate revenge is wonderfully paced, beautifully textured and even quite emotional at times. It also, in terms of ingenious car chase, crash, smash and explode sequences, is incredibly, punk-rock badass. And it features one of cinema's coolest cars: The Interceptor, a 1973 Ford Falcon XB GT, the auto-erotic fixation of the petrol set. Where can I get one?

1. Two-Lane Blacktop (1971)

If Jean Paul Sartre had directed a drive-in movie, he might have crafted Monte Hellman's existential, car noir Two-Lane Blacktop. The stoic central characters are stripped down to their basic handles -- James Taylor is known only as the Driver, Dennis Wilson the Mechanic, Laurie Bird the Girl and the late great Warren Oates, in one of his most unforgettable roles, is GTO. All players drive and drive and drive, seemingly to challenge other cars and race cross country, but is that really what they're seeking? The characters don't even know themselves. But they do love their cars. Taylor and Wilson drive a seriously souped-up '55 Chevy that's all muscle and speed, no frills, while Oates rolls a yellow 1970 Pontiac GTO -- something Taylor scorns as right off the lot. What makes this film unique is its absolute auto-centric vision (the continual purr and hum of the engine makes even the viewer feel at one with the car) mingled with art-house beauty. And it's one of the few movies in which the Driver can state with extra, ambiguous meaning, "You can never go fast enough." A masterpiece.

And here's some Johnny Cash singing an ode to stealing/assembling his "Psychobilly Cadillac"...

Mr. Widmark Knocked...

With Richard Widmark and Marilyn Monroe on the brain (the sex tape! The gentleman!), I'm re-running my piece on "Don't Bother to Knock," a movie that not only boasts one of Monroe's greatest performances, but a wonderfully nuanced role for Widmark as well.

Oh Marilyn. I know, I know, we all love Marilyn Monroe (or we're supposed to) but I’m not going to stray from her simply because she’s so damn popular. The tragic heroine princess to every aspiring starlet or little girl or grown woman is our coffee mugged goddess, so ubiquitous that, I think, we sometimes take her for granted. Especially in her early and later roles (my two favorite periods for Marilyn). From the fresh faced, sublimely natural starlet sporting jeans in Fritz Lang’s Clash By Night to the methody, tired, tragic and lonely lady of John Huston's The Misfits, I find Marilyn’s first and last hopes at proving herself on screen immensely powerful.

Such is the case in Monroe's first starring vehicle, 1952's Don't Bother to Knock. There’s a prophetic sadness permeating her nuanced, fascinating performance, and for a picture of this period, her delusional babysitter (freshly released from an insane asylum) is surprisingly sympathetic. Knowing all we do about the troubled star, it most likely wasn't a stretch for the then-relative newcomer to understand the pathology and despondency of her character Nell, a beautiful young woman burned by love who can't handle the breach between reality and fiction. A film noir of sorts, director Roy Baker's part-thriller, part-character-study is a tense tale with plenty of pathos geared toward Marilyn, who wasn't the full-blown MM superstar yet. As Nell, a mysterious girl who takes on a babysitting job in a hotel where her creepy, sad-sack uncle (Elisha Cook Jr. — who else) works, Monroe enters the picture in plain clothes, dark blonde hair, and little makeup. Though she's no plain-Jane, she looks like a "nice girl" — nice enough for hotel guests the Joneses (played by Jim Backus and Lurene Tuttle) to allow a stranger to watch over their cute little daughter Bunny (Donna Corcoran). After quickly putting the girl to bed (clearly she's not interested in the kid), Nell plays dress-up in Mrs. Jones' fine silk robe, perfume, and diamond jewelry.

Meanwhile, cocky, self-absorbed airline pilot Jedd Towers (a very layered, and sexy Richard Widmark) is stinging from rejection after the hotel chanteuse (a young, gorgeous Anne Bancroft) dumps him.  Spying the beautiful Nell from his window to hers (which is damn hot) he finds some new action when the lonely Nell signals him from her room. He comes over for a good time, likes what he sees, and basically puts up with her strange behavior until it gets a little too freaky; a little too desperate. When she comes on strong, he exclaims: "You bother me! I can't figure you out! You're silk on one side and sandpaper on the other!" To which MM answers, "I'll be whatever you want me to be!" This is too much, especially from a woman this beautiful and he answers perplexed: "Why?" Indeed. A man, even Richard Widmark, can only take so much, and when Nell hangs Bunny out of the hotel window, he really starts thinking she might not be worth the tumble. But here’s the poignant part—Nell doesn't really mean any harm. She's just disturbed and frequently suicidal. And here’s a novel idea—she desires a man to take care of her without hitting or hollering at her desire to look gorgeous. She should be normal dammit!

But, why? Why must women have to be so normal? Though suffering from deep seated psychological problems, I sense that it’s this type of "normal" pressure making her crack (the punishing and smarmy Cook Jr. doesn't help either). Monroe portrays these ideas beautifully, so much so, that I wondered how much of her real life was seeping into her performance, it plays so real. I kept wishing that she could just get out of that hotel, doll herself up and have some fun with a man who might understand her. Widmark isn't really the one, even though underneath his smirk and swagger, he’s essentially a good heart.  Interestingly, however, the moral of the story comes at Nell's expense — Widmark’s Jedd becomes a better, more decent man by not giving into temptation with a supposed psycho (which, in Widmark's strong, able hands, is entirely believable). Poor Nell, and poor Marilyn. In real life, most men wouldn't so sensitively resist.

Happy 100 Bette Davis

Bette Davis would have been 100-years-old this Saturday April the 5th and I just wish (I wish) I could have met her in my life. I wouldn't have cared if she hollered at me, made me pull her anti-aging tape straps under her wig, blew cigarette smoke in my face or crisply informed me that my apartment was a "dump" -- whatever -- I'd take abuse from Ms. Davis just to listen to that voice. And maybe, perhaps more than likely, she would have been nice. (After all, I'm nothing like her back-stabbing, ungrateful daughter B.D.) In any case, I would loved to have solicited some advice from that woman. Bette Davis as life coach. That could work for me.

For if there is or was any female figure to whom others should turn to in times of crisis, loneliness and despair, it is Miss Bette. Why? Because Bette Davis is every woman (and some men) wrapped into one: ugly and beautiful, sweet and biting, honest and deceitful, classy and vulgar. There isn't a side of Bette that every woman doesn't see in herself. Her face -- those buggy eyes flickering with homeliness and yet an odd beauty (never forget how uniquely gorgeous Bette was as a young starlet), sadness, insanity, malevolence, rage and finally, strength. And her little body -- coiled up and ready to strike (as in Another Man’s Poison) or sloppy and cruelly casual (like in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?: “Here’s your lunch” she announces to Joan before promptly serving her a rat) or lovely and wary (as in All This, and Heaven Too) or brassy and swishy (as in Jezebel) or an elegant liar (as in The Letter) or mousy turned gorgeous (as in Now, Voyager) or just plain gloriously melodramatic then vulnerable (as in All About Eve) or heart-breakingingly desperate (as in The Star). There are moments when Bette seems almost turned inside out, as if she’s revealing the innards of the female psyche --  which is exactly why she can appear so damn terrifying at times.

But she had her soft moments (watch her opposite Charles Boyer in aforementioned All This, and Heaven Too and you'll see what I mean). In later years Bette recalled, "Christ, I was always bitching about how I hated my face in those days. Compared to what I look like now, I was an absolute living doll!"

She was a doll -- a doll that could easily contend with Chucky, but a doll nonetheless. God knows she had those famous, buggy-beautiful eyes, silky skin and an ample chest, but Davis, like most women, lived with numerous imperfections. But she didn't harp on these flaws or engage in diva delusions, instead she gleefully, sometimes perversely played up her problem areas. And it sometimes made her all the more attractive. In All About Eve, she's supposed to be an insecure, aging star, yet even when a young Marilyn Monroe walks on (who looks like a peach, even after undoubtedly consuming numerous benzos and splits of champagne), you can't take your eyes off Bette. And it wasn't just her looks -- it was her way. Everything Bette did -- walking (in minced steps), talking (with exacting enunciation), smoking (in circular jabs) -- she did with a flourish. Like Joan Crawford, Marlene Dietrich, Greta Garbo and the great Tallulah Bankhead (who really should have made more movies) Bette was her own unforgettable invention, an unconventional glamour-puss, who stands the test of time. Unlike sanctioned beauty, Bette's particular magic is something that never fades.

Neither did Bette's ballsy view of life and relationships, so wonderfully expressed on (and frequently off) the big screen. For instance, what to do when dumped? Go out in a blaze of glory. Though her demise was devastating in Of Human Bondage, she pulled off a stunning, final fuck-you to poor Leslie Howard. Bette, who insisted on looking the damaged strumpet against director John Cromwell's wishes was not only one of the first actresses to choose looking this bad on screen but also appeared like some kind of riot girl/punk rock proto-type (young Courtney Love must have studied this scene). Sitting in a flophouse, emaciated and dying, but still snarling all ugly/sexy in her revealing slip, bleached blonde hair and runny eye makeup -- all it took was a few withering looks to leave Leslie Howard's passive-aggressive club footed doctor with an image to smolder for a lifetime. In a very un-Camille like performance, she seemed to be saying: "Here I am, warts and all. Can't handle it? Your loss. Now go live your boring life with you new girlfriend."

And what about giving someone the cold shoulder? Bette showed women how to deal with the delicate situation of the brush off (or tease) by sparing him the psych-speak and exiting with a baffler: As Ms. Davis' Southern belle character drawled in Cabin in the Cotton, "I'd love to kiss you, but I've just washed my hair." (Try this one out). And along these same lines, she also reveled in showing that not all women want marriage and babies. In Beyond the Forest (a movie she didn't want to make but was brilliant in nonetheless), Davis' character is married to Joseph Cotten -- not a bad catch by any stretch of the imagination. But she grows bored and becomes critical of what marital bliss and good living are supposed to be ("What a dump" she bitches about their house). Though cast as an evildoer in the film, I've always felt sympathy for her Rosa Moline --- she was limited, in love with another and then, dear God, pregnant. So how to remedy this situation? She hauled herself off the side of a mountain, pregnant belly in tow. Sure, it wasn't the nicest, safest move (and it certainly wasn't as glamorous as Gene Tierney’s tumble down the stairs in Leave Her to Heaven), but perhaps through the dictates of the Production Code, this was the only way she could not have that baby. And she wanted to move to Chicago -- high-tail it out of that stifling, small town where everyone talked shit about her. Who can really blame her?

And yet, as much as women and men say they love the feisty ladies, it often simply comes down to the bitch. What a bitch. And I think a few women are even worse regarding this insult (sit down and act like a nice little lady). Bette would say bullshit to all that (and then call Joan Crawford a bitch: "I wouldn't piss on her if she was on fire." But I digress...). Her motto? "No guts, no glory." Like other gutsy women, she made men's heads spin: Is she a bitch? Or an assertive fox? This is the continuous (and exciting) inward query (and you know hubby Gary Merrill got all hot and bothered by that alluring combo). Like a lot of strong women, she had a Napoleon complex, but we love that in men (Pacino, De Niro). We get a thrill watching Joe Pesci shove a pen in someone's eye. But Bette? That would scare the shit out of us. Just imagine what Bette could do to an attacker -- the carnage a maniacal Bette would leave defending herself -- all that flying fur (real of course), red scratching fingernails and a lit cigarette to the face. I honestly can’t see Bette Davis successfully getting mugged.

And I imagine that if Miss Davis couldn't win a physical fight, she could reign victorious via a verbal arsenal of movie lines that were nearly as lethal. No, she didn't write them, but it sure sounded like she did. Take, for instance:

Marked Woman: "I'll get even if I have to crawl back from the grave."

It's Love I'm After: "You're going to have love for breakfast, love for luncheon and love for dinner. Sweet, sugary, sticky worship. You're going to have a steady diet of it till you're ready to scream, you billy goat!"

And the more subtle diamond dagger from The Little Foxes: "I don't ask for things I don't think I can get."

Finally, some real life advice from Bette Davis herself (and before sad-sack Miles in Sideways): "Never, never trust anyone who asks for white wine. It means they're phonies."

Bette, Bette, Bette. She didn't act the Diva, she was the Diva. But strangely down to earth too. She hated airs, which contributed to her dislike towards Joan Crawford (that, and something to do with Franchot Tone) and one of the reasons she slammed poor co-star Celeste Holm from All About Eve -- bemoaning perky Holm's on set salutations, Bette snarled, "ugh manners." As artificial as her carefully constructed lips were (that line!), Davis detested fakes, and forced, silly sentiments, things that would, as Bette said, “provoke anyone of sensibility to nausea.” Of her legendary All About Eve character Margo, Bette stated: "Margo Channing was not a bitch. She was an actress who was getting older and was not too happy about it. And why should she? Anyone who says that life begins at forty is full of it. As people get older their bodies begin to decay. They get sick. They forget things. What's good about that?"

Well, you could be alive Miss Davis -- and with all of your grit and gusto -- even at 100. I certainly wish you were. Like that Oscar statuette you placed on the dashboard during your dipsomaniacal drive through Hollywood in The Star, I'd love to ask just once: "Come on Bette, let's you and me get drunk."

Happy Birthday Bette.

Three Obsessions: Dassin, Dietrich, Dirty Mad Dog

After a curious absence from my usual triad of obsessions, I'm back at it, with DVDs I'm excited about and a few return offenders that are getting, as one horny old lady from Elvis: That's the Way It Is so eloquently put it, "my Phi Beta Kappa key a jangling" (You remember her, right?).

But, again, discs -- there's been some pretty choice DVDs released including The Bette Davis Collection, Volume 3 and last week's Gangster Collection, Volume 3 (finally, The Ladykiller!) as well as the new Bonnie and Clyde special edition. You can read all my DVD and Theatrical reviews at Strange Impersonation and check out whatever else I'm thinking at Pretty Poison.

As for now, Three Obsessions:

1. The Siren's Take on Jules Dassin's AP obit  First Richard Widmark and Abby Man, and now Jules Dassin -- one of film's most inventive, raw, soulful, intelligent auteurs.  With titles like Thieves' Highway, Brute Force, The Naked City and my favorite, Night and the City (featuring Richard Widmark's greatest, most desperate, most quintessential noir performance) and the brilliant Rififi and Topkapi, as well as Never on Sunday, a popular picture that served as a valentine to his talented wife, actress Melina Mercouri, Dassin was a seminal figure who deserves the respect of a Hawkes, a Ford, a Hitchcock or a Kazan. And speaking of Kazan...Dassin suffered the vile witch-hunt of HUAC, and was blacklisted from Hollywood after director Edward Dmytryk named him as a communist. Dassin would fashion his aforementioned greatest work -- Night and the City, in London, and later the influential Rififi, made in France. There's many terrific tributes to Dassin online, and I'm working on my own (I'm still reeling after Widmark) but I love (love, love, love) Self-Styled Siren's passionate objection to the AP's lame-brain Dassin obit. Sayeth Siren:

"Did you get the part where he was a leftist? Are you sure? Should we mention it again? Lefty-left-left-leftist, got that? How about the fact that Dassin left the Communist party in 1939? Oops, no space for that. He moved to London to do Night and the City, who knows why. Then Dassin 'abandoned' the U.S. after being denounced by vaguely plural 'contemporaries' and put on the blacklist. They wouldn't let on just anybody, you know, you had to be 'Communist enough.' Then Dassin lived in Italy and France and after soaking up the Euroscene he returned with Rififi...  It is worse to hear that an American director of exceptional talent...has died at the ripe old age of 96, and then see that the obituary flashing across the newswires is a slanted piece of crap."

Siren has riled me up over this -- like prison-riot riled up. I need to break a bottle or something. Or watch Brute Force again. That's probably the superior alternative.  Rest in peace Mr. Dassin.

2. Marlene Dietrich's ABC  From her leggy Lola in The Blue Angel to the tux and tails and later, gorilla suit and blonde Afro in Blonde Venus to the brilliant documentary Marlene -- as I've discussed before, I never thought I could love Marlene Dietrich any more that I already do. But while working at a book store years back, I came across this keeper -- not an autobiography but Miss Uber Blonde's own personal dictionary entitled Marlene Dietrich's ABC. Originally published in 1961, the reference book (and it really is a reference book) allows the reader to think of a word or term and look up Marlene's own special, specific definition.

You're not going to find the meaning of say, impugnable or dislogistic but you will find Suave ("I can get along very well without the use of this word."). You'll also flip through to find Morocco ("Looks better in films"); Credit System ("The American Tragedy"); Hardware Store ("I'd rather go to the hardware store than the opera. And I like the opera"); Medical Ethics ("They make me sick"); Pouting ("I hate it, but men fall for it so go on and pout") and Necking ("a dirty pastime."). (Oh Marlene, surely you mean good fun dirty?) But within her specific list is this oh-so-true statement regarding my own personal junkie paradise, Stationery Stores: "People who adore stationery stores are like dope addicts about paper clips, paper clamps, felt tip pens...paper...thick stiff, hard, soft, rough, large like canvas, surfaces like linen or pigskin... I remember buying the most beautiful pale blue legal paper, which almost felt like silken blotting paper...I look at it every once in a while and it sends me." Proof positive of her simultaneously mysterious and down-to-earth erotic potency, Marlene manages to make felt tip pens sound sexy. This gem is out of print but look for it. You never know when you might need to quote Dietrich's take on soda pop: "The gooey, bubbly sea drowning our American children." She's right.

3. Born to Kill (1947)  After re-watching the brilliant Night and the City twice in one week, taking in all of that "artist without an art" (such a great line) Harry Fabian, and feeling especially moved by not only the picture, but both Widmark and Dassin's recent deaths, I yearned for something I couldn't sympathize with. I wanted to feel hard. So who do I turn to for such necessary nastiness? That down and dirty mad dog hard-boiled hero Lawrence Tierney. Specifically, Lawrence Tierney in Born to Kill. Violent, black-hearted and disturbingly sexual Tierney is at his brutal best, especially when paired with Claire Trevor, the amoral climber who falls for the similarly ruthless Tierney (their chemistry is deeply sick yet wonderfully sexy). Adapted from the novel by James Gunn and directed by Robert Wise, the picture utilizes everything Wise learned from Val Lewton to stunning effect with, not only gorgeous noir lighting but genuinely nightmarish, violent attack sequences. A scene in which Tierney beats up and kills his ex-girlfriend and her lover will shock you much more than your modern eyes would expect. And Trevor (whom I worship) -- is one sizzling snake. I love how she cooly discusses the pain of death, as if explaining dental work or a hat sale at Bloomingdales: "A piece of metal sliding into your body, finding its way into your heart. Or a bullet tearing through your skin, crashing into a bone."

The  supporting cast is stellar (Walter Slezak, Esther Howard and the noir fixture Elisha Cook Jr.) but Tierney, good GOD, is he wonderfully evil here. Known to many (and to too many) as the rough talking oldster in Reservoir Dogs, young Tierney is a man with immense sex appeal, the ultimate alpha male, the ultimate tough guy just dripping with testosterone of the ticking time bomb variety. His flashes of anger are potently scary, intense and real. He's an odd cross between smoothness (his voice is more punctuated and level, not overtly gravely) and harsh moodiness ready to explode. And nothing he does seems fake -- especially killing. But we are talking about a guy who, in real life was arrested more times than the character he played (John Dillinger) and who was knifed in a bar fight. Aw, dammit...now I'm sad again. All of these guys really are gone. OK. We've still got Ernest Borgnine (and I'm counting him for The Mob, Johnny Guitar, The Stranger Wore a Gun, Bad Day at Black Rock and The Wild Bunch) but he's not really the same thing. Maybe everyone should have married Ethel Merman for 32 days just once?

Richard Widmark: 1914-2008

And just after my tenth (eleventh?) viewing of one of my favorite film noir, that daylight ménage à trois (or rather, ménage à trois by way of intimidation, which only makes the picture all the more fascinating and kinky) -- Road House -- just when I was really wrapping my head around my obsession with both the movie and that hot blonde laughing lunatic of menace and twisted sex appeal, he ups and leaves me.

One of motion pictures greatest actors, an icon of film noir and an intelligent, decent man in real life has left us. Richard Widmark died Monday at the age of 93-years-old.

An actor who stunned audiences (and earned his one and only Oscar nomination) with his film debut as the giggling psychopath Tommy Udo in Henry Hathaway's Kiss of Death, a character who, in the film's most notorious scene, pushes an old woman in a wheelchair down a flight of stairs, Widmark worked a long career filled with intriguing, daring roles that left a permanent impression on the movie-going public. So much, in fact, that Tommy Udo clubs formed around the country at various colleges, honoring the maniac for not taking any guff from women, men or life itself -- no matter how venal and self destructive he was. But that was part of Widmark's power and subversion -- you enjoyed his lunatics, you almost wanted to be near them, if only for a moment, just to witness that all that live wire insanity and bad seed evil.

But his career wasn't all about scumbags and sadists hassling little old ladies, he also helped create some of noir's most immortal characters including, in my mind, two ultimate existential noir anti-hero icons in two ultimate film noir masterpieces --  Skip McCoy in Samuel Fuller's Pickup on South Street, and Harry Fabian in Jules Dassin's Night and the City. 

There was also The Street with No Name, Panic in the Streets (where he made the smart career move by playing the good guy and allowing Jack Palance the role of creepy heavy), the stunning aforementioned Road House (with Ida Lupino and Cornel Wilde), Don't Bother To Knock (with Marilyn Monroe), No Way Out (playing such a convicing racist, that the real life and very passionate liberal apologized to young Sidney Poitier after nearly every take), Judgment at Nuremberg, How the West Was Won, Madigan, The Alamo, The Bedford Incident (co-produced by anti-nuke activist Widmark) and more and more and more.

His presence was always missed once he stepped away from the screen but it was nice knowing the man, one of the last men standing of all the noir legends, was still alive and kicking. That he was enjoying his very non Tommy Udo-like life away from the spotlight in Connecticut, critical of  modern movies and soul baring celebrities and the general dumbing down of cinema while keeping his life in healthy perspective. I've got so much more to write about one of my absolute all-time favorite actors, but to put it simply -- he was a rare one.

Rest in Peace Mr. Widmark. We’ll always have Jefty’s. And, here's your famous push...for old time's sake.

Sing You Sinners: Bing Crosby

There’s a wonderful moment in the musical High Society during which Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra sing an especially rousing version of Cole Porter’s “Well, Did You Evah!” Midway through the charming, inebriated song, in which two “swellegant” party pals swap banter, dish on guests and form a dipsomaniacal camaraderie, Crosby croons to Sinatra with his distinctive “ba ba ba boom” and Sinatra jokes, “Don’t dig that kind of crooning, chum.” “You must be one of the newer fellows,” Crosby answers back.

The idea of Sinatra being one of the “newer fellows” is amusing since, in 1956 (when the picture was released), the big-band, and balladeer musical style of crooning was already on the wane. Sinatra was well on his way to becoming the elder-statesman Chairman of the Board, Elvis would be anointed the King of Rock ’n’ Roll and Bing would be … Bing.

Not that anyone would ever forget Bing Crosby. The crooner, born in Tacoma, Washington, had been cinema’s number one box-office draw from 1944 to 1948 and was an enormous, multitalented star -- radio, recordings and motion pictures all earning him legions of adoring fans. And like another famous crooner who would count him as an influence (Dean Martin), Crosby had his own cinematic comedy team, making the frequently funny (and underrated) “road” movies with wise-acre Bob Hope. He even won an Academy Award (for Going My Way) and received another nomination for his alcoholic role in The Country Girl.

There’s no denying that Crosby was and is big time. And yet … why does he feel just a little slighted through the years? Like the only moment we enjoy his music is once a year, when we roll out “White Christmas” from our holiday collection of old standards?

Perhaps it’s just how antiquated his music sounds today -- beautifully, mysteriously antiquated, like something emerging from a dream….or a nightmare. In either moody reverie, when listening to the brilliant baritone sing “Pennies From Heaven,” “Ol’ Man River” or “Swinging on a Star,” you feel the music form around you, as if you’re riding on an ethereal echo chamber of air coming from a million miles away. It’s spacey, creepy and charming all at once. Which perfectly explains how effective the song “Mairzy Dotes” becomes in David Lynch's Twin Peaks, when daughter-murdering, Bob-haunted Leland Palmer crazily sings it in the midst of his meltdowns. And then there was that pairing of the two Thin White Dukes -- Bowie and Bing dueting “Peace On Earth/Little Drummer Boy” -- ideal.  These were two sexy space aliens keeping Christmas a little bit Christian and a little bit…pagan. As much as I love Frank Sinatra, this kind of cross generational extraterrestrial-ness could have only been created with Crosby.

All of these elements of Crosby are so marvelously powerful, that his music remains (particularly his earlier recordings) ever haunting, ever romantic and, in some instances, ever celestial. As musicologist J.T.H. Mize put it, Crosby could “melt a tone away, scoop it flat and sliding up to the eventual pitch as a glissando, sometimes sting a note right on the button, and take diphthongs for long musical rides.” In short, Crosby could send you. He still can. And not only at Christmas time.

Six On The Clock: Cinema's Working Women

I've always enjoyed this especially sexist, but hilarious quote uttered by Spencer's Tracy's drinking buddy in Woman of the Year: "Women should be kept illiterate and clean, like canaries."  Funny, but...au contraire you jerk. What kind of movies would be made about them?

Whether sleeping one's way to the top, kidnapping a boss for progressive office improvements or embezzling wads of cash, women in the workplace have always made for intriguing cinematic fodder. They also reflect changing, evolving or, sometimes, de-evolving attitudes and actions concerning career gals in society, something that's been relevant since the beginning of film. And Hollywood never tires of the topic. With March's Women's History Month in mind, I'm returning to memorable cinematic depictions of working girls. Some might be considered role models, some quite questionable at their jobs and some just plain mentally disturbed. But all of them are fascinating --  here's my pick of six.

Network (1976)

Name: Diana Christensen (Faye Dunaway)
Job Title: TV executive
Strengths: Ambitious, brassy, ballsy, idea-driven, helps create modern television as we know it.
Weaknesses: A power-hungry bitch, bad in bed, encourages Howard Beale (Peter Finch) to continue his nervous breakdown on TV, helps create modern television as we know it.
Final Analysis: Is this what the modern-day working woman would become? For some work-a-holic ladies, yes. Dunaway's blistering, brilliant performance as Diana shows how climbing the ladder and allowing career to take precedence over every other aspect of one's life could be, well, a tad limiting in terms of leading any kind of nourishing personal existence. Though some view this character as misogynistic, Dunaway's power-hungry future media mogul is just like any human, man or woman, who's entirely caught up in personal ambition -- she's just given some additional symbolic layers as a woman. Deservedly, Dunaway won a Best Actress Oscar for her role.

His Girl Friday (1940)

Name: Hildegaard 'Hildy' Johnson (Rosalind Russell)
Job Title: Newspaper reporter
Strengths: Crackerjack newswoman, super clever, ultra quick with the quip, has ex-husband/editor Walter Burns' (Cary Grant) heart.
Weaknesses: Insensitivity to her fiancée (played by Ralph Bellamy) whom she certainly won't marry. She'll never have any kind of typical family life, but then, when you're with Cary Grant, who cares?
Final Analysis: Working in the boys' club of the newsroom, Russell's character isn't an overly ambitious shrew full of swaggering show; she's completely on the same level as every guy tapping out his copy. And the men not only know it, but wholly embrace it. What makes her interesting as an example of working women is that she feels it necessary to begin a "normal life" and attempts an ill-fated second marriage to pushover Bellamy. But ex-editor Grant can smell the play-acting a mile away, getting under her skin as only an ex-husband you're still in love with can (or really, Cary Grant, who has to be the greatest ex-husband a woman could ever put up with). His Girl Friday says, with positive grit, that we need Hildy, not in the kitchen, but in the newsroom, full of rat-a-tat banter and, sometimes, heartless scoops. And you've got to love a movie in which an ex-husband teases, "Why, Hildy! You've got the old-fashioned idea that divorce is something that lasts forever, 'til death do us part.' Why, divorce doesn't mean anything nowadays, Hildy, just a few words muttered over you by a judge." This was made in 1940? Right on.

Woman of the Year (1942)

Name: Tess Harding (Katharine Hepburn)
Job Title: Political columnist
Strengths: Savvy, worldly, multi-lingual, exceptionally intelligent, has immensely sexy chemistry with Spencer Tracy.
Weaknesses: Questionable mother with her short-term adopted child, neglects husband, can't make a proper breakfast.
Final Analysis: Can women really have it all? According to Woman of the Year -- no. But then men don't necessarily get everything they want either, especially if married to Hepburn's Tess Harding. She's a revered columnist who's not just a working woman but a national icon. And the film reveals realistic chinks in one celebrated feminist's armor. Sure, she can engage in a whirlwind romance and marry sports writer Tracy, maintain all of her jobs, travel the world, entertain illustrious friends and adopt a Greek orphan, but, like any mere mortal, there's not a chance in hell she can give all these areas equal attention. Especially the orphan, whom Tracy returns (can you imagine this happening in a movie today?) due to his wife's poor mothering skills. Still, neither the film nor Miss Hepburn ever demonizes Tess. She's frustrating to her husband and imperfect, but no one's telling her to change -- just slow down a bit -- and learn how to use a toaster properly. It's something everyone should do.

The Apartment (1960)

Name: Fran Kubelik (Shirley MacLaine)
Job Description: Elevator operator
Strengths: Personable, a lovely button pusher.
Weaknesses: In an office affair with a married man. Clearly a bad idea.
Final Analysis: Though Billy Wilder's Oscar-winning picture is really more about the male office world, with Jack Lemmon's amiable, struggling nice guy C.C. Baxter sleeping his way to the top (bi-proxy), its vision of women in the workplace is too intriguing to ignore. Especially those women who aren't necessarily climbing the corporate ladder, but are instead attempting to find a husband -- or break up a marriage. In the process of allowing his bosses the use of his apartment for various amorous dalliances with young ladies, Lemmon stumbles on one affair that rubs both him and the audience the wrong way. The company's cute, clever elevator operator, Fran Kubelik (MacLaine), is having a major fling with personnel big-wig Sheldrake (Fred MacMurray), a married man and certifiable cad who's never going to leave his wife. What's intriguing about this depiction is how darkly but ultimately non-judgmentally Fran's character is drawn. She makes some bad choices (as do many ladies working for him), but clearly it's tough for the lower-rung working girl, especially if she actually finds herself in love. And, other than staying away from lecherous superiors, the movie really supplies no answers aside from this: Try falling in love with the right guy. In this case, Jack Lemmon, which ain't half bad. And yet...I always wonder if they're really going to work out in the end.

Baby Face (1933)

Name: Lily Powers (Barbara Stanwyck)
Job Title: File clerk and...
Strengths: Strong enough to pull herself out of a speakeasy life, terrific powers of, uh, persuasion, hangs out with her maid.
Weaknesses: Problems with ethics. Big problems with ethics. But who can blame her?
Final Analysis:  Among Stanwyck's other sizzling pre-code pictures, including Night Nurse and Ladies They Talk About, Alfred E. Green's Baby Face was so brazen that censors snipped five minutes out of the picture (some having to do with Nietzsche -- so glad those are back in), hoping viewers would leave a little less shocked by the experience. The trick didn't work, as the movie (thankfully now restored with extra minutes intact) is still considered one of the raciest pictures of the '30s and remains controversial even today. Stanwyck is Lily Powers, a young woman who leaves an abusive father and a small-town speakeasy for a job in a New York bank. In a very obvious depiction of sleeping her way to the top, Stanwyck ascends the stories of the office building, leaving scores of used men behind her. She ultimately becomes a kept woman -- happily so -- until a tragedy gums up the works. But she's still hard-hearted and out for herself, something that's surprisingly sympathetic, almost glorified in the film. Commenting on the Depression -- how desperation can crumble one's morality (if morality really matters) -- she's both a victim of her time and nobody's fool. Stanwyck, always game, dived right into the scintillating material with her special brand of plucky, hard-boiled sex appeal; she's likable, awful and totally understandable all at once.

Marnie (1964)

Names: Marnie Edgar/Margaret Edgar/Peggy Nicholson/Mary Taylor (Tippi Hedren)
Job Title: Secretary
Strengths: Attempts to stay away from any kind of romantic entanglements with men in the office. Clearly efficient. Smart dresser.
Weaknesses: I'll have to go with the massive theft from various employers. Also, her nutty problem with red ink.
Final Analysis: You might wonder why Alfred Hitchcock's psycho-sexual thriller Marnie has graced this list, but I think it's not only a fascinating study of repressed childhood memories, Freudian psychology and odd sexual hang-ups (and turn-ons), but a remarkable depiction of a troubled, perhaps insane working woman as well. Hedren is Marnie, a cool blonde goddess and compulsive liar and thief so traumatized by her past that her only arena for both escape and personal gain is work. Moving from city to city, she nabs jobs with her expert demeanor and skills (she is an efficient secretary) only to embezzle from employers along the way. She meets her match at the Rutland Company, where Mark Rutland (Sean Connery) recognizes her for the crook she is. And like so many men facing the siren call of the crazy chick, he wants her -- bad. Though the film covers a lot of ground concerning Marnie's fractured psyche, it's nevertheless a telling representation of just how bitter a woman can turn from men: enough to rob. And I love Hitchcock's fetishistic detail of Marnie scheming and stealing. I could watch Tippi open an close her handbag for hours.

From my MSN story "Work It Ladies"

Happy Birthday John Garfield

Though I frequently discuss actors I love/am in love with, I've never delved into that simmering, gorgeous genius of masculine menace, charm and vulnerability -- John Garfield. He's one of my favorite actors (among a top three that alternate, but Garfield always remains), and an actor who almost literally knocked me for a loop when I first saw him on screen (in The Postman Always Rings Twice). All that sensitive masculinity, intelligence and intense, noir sex appeal and I was a goner. Forget Jessica Lange and Jack Nicholson's furious fornication on the kitchen table in the steamy re-make (which I do enjoy and find erotic), John and Lana need only to simply look at each other and...that's it. You know what they're up to later -- and the wondering is part of the picture’s tremendous turn-on (not to mention Lana's lipstick).

But Mr. Garfield...perhaps like poor Priscilla Lane checking out all your tough guy artistry, smoking that ciggie while playing the piano in your unforgettable 1938 film debut (Four Daughters) you're just too much for me.  Like Joan Crawford’s wide-eyed attraction and anger during your virtuoso "Flight of the Bumblebee" interlude in Humoresque, I just can’t function properly when thinking about you.  I'm all gob smack and tongue tied and, aw nuts...let’s just hitch-hike away from that depressing roadside diner. I don’t care if my white suit gets dirty. And unlike Ms. Turner, I'll knock him in the head with a bottle if you want...whatever it takes. See, I can’t think straight when regarding Garfield’s formidable big screen sway.

But since today is his birthday, I had to discuss for recognition alone. Why isn't he supremely famous? A household name? Why isn't he better recognized (he wasn't even listed in the featured Birthday section of IMDB, though thank goodness TCM honored him). For reasons I cannot decipher, this brilliant, brooding actor, though well respected by those who know better, isn't considered the legend a la Bogart, Clift, Brando or Dean. Why isn’t he better appreciated? This massive talent with genuine bad-boy street cred (he was born Julius Garfinkle and raised tough on New York's Lower East Side) was a huge star in his day, so much so that his 1952 funeral was attended by more folks than Rudolph Valentino's ceremony.  So why have too many forgetten him? Where's his damn box set?

If you've never seen a John Garfield performance, you have been (in a supreme understatement) missing out. If you've only watched one or two, you're sorely behind. If you need to catch up, check (among many other pictures) his intense, oftentimes roughly romantic and edgy performances in movies such as Gentlemen's Agreement, They Made Me a Criminal, The Postman Always Rings Twice, Body and Soul, Force of Evil, The Breaking Point, Nobody Lives Forever, Humoresque, Flowing Gold, Between Two Worlds, We Were Strangers and (my favorite) He Ran All the Way -- his last film and a quite fitting one considering how he left this world. 

And God...what an exit Mr. Garfield. In my mind, one of the first method actors (he trained in the famed Group Theater and worked with Clifford Odets), he was also victim to one of cinema's darkest, most shameful moments when the left-wing, progressive actor (and patriotic actor, he helped created The Hollywood Canteen for heaven's sake) testified at the scabrous House Un-American Activities Committee, who suspected him and certain colleagues, Communist. Unlike many other actors, writers and directors (including one of his former directors, Elia Kazan), Garfield refused to name names. As both a once young street tough and a man of principle, Garfield would not rat. Not surprisingly, work was then harder to come by and at the young age of 39, Garfield died of coronary thrombosis. Many speculate an already present heart condition was worsened by the stress caused by the House's inquisition. I think this assumption is correct. His mislabeling and death is so tragic that it anger me to this day.

Another reason I find it tough to write about Garfield. But I’ll never stop watching his movies -- in many cases multiple times. Right now, in fact. He Ran all the Way awaits. Happy Birthday to this hot genius piece of work. And here's to dropping that lipstick. Lana was lucky.

Happy Birthday Desi Arnaz

Next to the cinematic milestone of watching Humphrey Bogart in High Sierra and promptly falling in love with him (at age seven) my other girlhood crush was Desi Arnaz -- cool cat Cuban bandleader extraordinaire and husband to the luckiest redhead in New York City.

Other than The Addams Family, no other TV domestic situation seemed as attractive and as liberating as Desi's Ricky Ricardo and Lucille Ball's Lucy. Already sour on the idea of marriage at a young age, the Ricky Lucy dynamic not only seemed the real way a marriage could work but tremendously sexy. (I had yet to learn of the real life couple's eventual divorce, and that their fights gave George and Martha a run for their money).

But back to fantasyland. Let's see...living in a cool apartment directly in the city, falling into mischief with best pal and ex-vaudevillian Ethel, adorning various disguises to trick your hot Latin husband, working in a candy factory for a day, and getting into furniture smashing arguments only to cool that mad flow of Spanish with humor and yes, crying, which I realize annoys many contemporary viewers. But so what on Lucy’s pouting? I always sensed Ricky was getting something on the side with all those luscious dancing girls and back-up singers so his guilt was a little justified. But then I also figured the couple had some kind of an arrangement -- a don’t ask don’t tell policy -- which seemed so thrillingly modern. Although I was never certain what sort Lucy might be mixing with, I deduced a few wild encounters with crusty cab drivers, scarred, sweaty dock workers and hopped up jazz musicians a la Margot Tenenbaum. Frankly, I could see no downside to any of this. Still can’t.

And then there was the Hollywood phase -- William Holden at the Brown Derby, Rock Hudson, Cornel Wilde's hotel room, shopping with Ethel at the Farmer's Market and goofing around with Harpo Marx?! I don't care how many times Desi yells at you, it's all worth it. If you're gonna be a housewife, this is the one to be. You’re coming home to Ricky Ricardo.

Today is the late, great Mr. Arnaz's birthday and I'm wishing him a happy one. The man had quite a life -- leaving Cuba with his father for political exile in Miami (his family's fortune was destroyed and his father banned from Cuba under the Batista regime), teenage Arnaz was discovered by band leader Xavier Cugat, and was soon leading his own band in Miami Beach. From the late 1930’s-1940’s, he rose in prominence as a spectacularly talented drummer, singer and band leader of Afro-Cuban music. And then he met Lucy -- they then revolutionized television.

So again, Happy Birthday Mr. Arnaz. Thanks for providing my now life-long crush, thanks for your underrated humor and timing and thanks for your music. Also, thanks for nearly ruining all other relationships of my future. (I’ll extend thanks to Mr. Bogart as well -- and how Bogie and Desi swirling around my desirous, youthful brain aided and abetted my love for tough guy/dancing womanizer Roy Scheider's Joe Gideon...another beautiful destructor.)

No wonder I've never been married. Babalu indeed.

Deep Dangerous Sexy Freeze

Is Lee Marvin the coolest man to ever walk the earth? Today, as I write this, directly after rewatching his detached though complicated, gloriously glacial though substantially obsessed badass gangster in John Boorman’s neo-noir Point Blank, I am saying yes. In my world, Lee Marvin is the grand master, the most deserving mac daddy, the top dog, numero-uno recipient in my own personal cool-cat contest. And he’s so cool that if he were alive to read this now, he would have cared less. Cool guys can’t be bothered with such silly, effusive honors.

Of course, I might change my mind tomorrow (after all, there are those other kings of cool swaggering through cinema --  Robert Mitchum, Steve McQueen, Alain Delon, Humphrey Bogart, Toshiro Mifune, John Garfield, Lee Van Cleef…oh Lee Van Cleef… and so on) and my purpose here isn’t ranking chill factor, it’s discussing Marvin as tough guy. But I can’t talk Marvin without regarding his late-’60s, early-’70s hep-a-tude, especially since Marvin’s deep freeze was what made him so potently formidable in 1967’s Point Blank  --  a movie that spins its tough-guy protagonist to the existential limit.

The story is simple, yet layered with all kinds of mystery. Marvin plays Walker, a man who was deceived, robbed and left for dead by his evil former bosses. Returning from the wreckage of his past, he storms through a slick, sick Los Angeles seeking payback for his money and his life, enacting all sorts of violent vengeance on any sorry sap getting in his way. That $93,000 his bosses owe will be met with blood, guts and an agenda that’s obvious but compellingly peculiar. Marvin is a hulking force of icy bloodlust, a man so filled with rage that he’s numbed himself  --  almost into a zombie. Inside, he’s half dead, and obtaining all that money (“I want my money!”) is the only way he might possibly reanimate the near-Frankenstein he’s become.

I say near monster because, in Marvin’s hands (and in his fantastic squinty eyes, his wonderful early-to-age white hair and his deep, rich voice), there’s a tortured, emotional soul underneath his frighteningly unflappable exterior. You can’t become tough without a little pain, and Marvin’s Walker has felt pain. And this deeply embedded despair heats up his thick-skinned reserve with a potent blend of savagery and sexuality.  When Marvin simply stands while hot-headed babe Angie Dickinson smacks the shit out of him with her purse and then her flailing hands and slaps, it’s a sizzling overload of detachment, violence and sexual aggravation that ends with an exhausted Dickinson simply giving up. Or giving in -- an angry lady orgasm in a heap on the floor. Why I find this both hilarious and hot only lends to the picture’s sometimes bewildering power and turbulent eroticism.

And what happens following her fit? He ambles upstairs and watches TV. Yes, only the imperturbable Lee Marvin makes handling the television appear almost as cool as a handling his gat. As a postmodern noir, Marvin sitting in front of the tube following Angie Dickinson’s fury, frustration and fever seems perfectly, absurdly appropriate. And unlike many modern films, one is actually excited (though a little terrified) for the make-up sex.

Tweaked and extended from my favorite tough guy at MSN.

You're All Forgiven

Apologies up front…I’m going to get all classic rock on you here. But it’s The Who and to me, The Who are evergreen.  Especially when it comes to a one-song performance (and not even a headlining performance) -- that moves an excites me and makes me all crazy in my bones. It’s their sonic slam dunk of “A Quick One, While He’s Away,” which they rocked to the hilt on The Rolling Stones Rock and Roll Circus -- a live taping for an ill-fated 1968 TV special that was supposed to promote the Stones’ brilliant record “Beggars Banquet” as well as showcase friends and musicians like Marianne Faithful, Taj Mahal, Jethro Tull (ugh…flute) and the Dirty Mac group of John Lennon, Keith Richards, Eric Clapton, and Mitch Mitchell. (And then there was the freaky fantastic Yoko Ono, who, sorry, I love here -- Yoko’s caterwaul is worth watching if not for the hilarious expression of violinist Ivry Gitlis alone.) The special never aired, though thankfully, it did eventually make its way to video in 1996.

But why was the broadcast halted? Many (especially Who fans) speculate that the Who’s inventive, crazy, beautiful eight-minute “A Quick One” proved to be the proverbial straw that broke the rockers’ backs. They almost put the Stones to shame.

This isn’t to say that the Stones performed terribly; to be fair, they played last and were visibly tired. And I revere The Stones, early career to Mick Taylor to “Tattoo You” to…even “Undercover of the Night.” But in 1968, with Brian Jones on board, they were showcasing one of the greatest moments of their career (and damn they all looked good -- especially Mick in his maroon pants and red shirt ). And yet, next to the mind-blowing (and I almost hate to us this word but it applies) awesomeness of “A Quick One,” Mick Jagger and company -- even in their slinky, sexy, “pleased to meet you” decadence -- seemed a little … out-shined. One might say boring. And the Stones would all probably agree.

There was just something extra-inspired and particularly magical about the Who’s moment that sets it apart from anything they’ve done before or since (anything I’ve seen or heard, at least). The song has a lot to do with it: a mini-opera that tells the story of a woman who is touchingly forgiven by her lover after having a fling with an engine driver named Ivar. It moves in a series of wildly different directions that makes it feel like six tunes in one.

And every single element presented here is flawless. From Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend swapping roles of lead singer, to John Entwistle’s glorious falsetto, to Keith Moon’s riotous though perfectly timed crashes and rolls (ohmygod when he throws the floor tom! I love him!), to Townshend’s windmill guitar chops (when he stomps his foot and raises his arm -- I always think, this is why guitarists get laid), to the powerful “Dang, Dang, Dang, Dang” section (used so memorably in Wes Anderson’s Rushmore) -- the song manages to be almost insanely reckless and yet tight as a drum.

Even the band’s disparate personalities and mismatched clothes (Roger Daltrey’s tan suede fringe getup, Pete Townshend’s white bell bottoms and shiny vest, John Entwistle’s Prince Valiant-goes-S&M attire and Keith Moon’s glittery though oddly dingy jumpsuit -- you know he was wearing that thing for weeks on end) manage to heighten the sound (if that’s possible) and performance. Watching Daltrey swing that microphone in all his fringe-flying-future-Pinball Wizard glory is a quintessential rock-god moment. The entire performance is something from the deities, the perfect song for the show’s slightly demonic circuslike setting -- a complicated, exuberant work of breathtaking brilliance that makes me want to…I don’t know…do something very, very good or very, very bad. Like Max Fischer, Bill Murray and those bees. Ask for marriage or commit a murder. Kiss or kill.

With that, as Keith Richards said, “And now ladies and gentlemen, dig The Who.”

Oscar At 80

From My Oscar Best, Worst and Weirdest at MSN Movies:

To think that just a couple of weeks ago, this whole Oscar shindig might have been cancelled...

But the three-month-long Writers Guild strike was settled in the nick of time, so the biggest movie awards show in the world -- the American equivalent of a coronation -- could go on, and stars could gather to honor ... other stars. As host Jon Stewart quipped: "Having the Oscars helped end the strike ... before we spend the next four to five hours giving each other golden statues, let's take a moment to congratulate ourselves."

The 80th Annual Academy Awards were not all just pats on the back, writer jokes and fantastic frocks (well, actually, there were a lot of fantastic frocks): Many of the nominated films, actors, writers and directors were (double gasp!) actually deserving, and two of the pictures -- There Will Be Blood and No Country for Old Men -- are bona-fide masterpieces. If there was an