Favorite Actresses, #9: Jean Arthur

That's right, another favorite actress named Jean.


First Movie I Saw Her In: Shane (1953)

Three Favorite Movies: Mr. Deeds Goes to Town (1936); Easy Living (1937); You Can’t Take It with You (1938)

Honorable Mention: Only Angels Have Wings (1939)

Favorite Performance: Easy Living (1937)

Why I Like Her: My reasons might be reactionary in that everything I like about Jean Arthur is what her detractors dislike! They say she wasn’t pretty, whereas I think she’s beautiful. Others dislike her speaking voice, yet I adore it. And seeing as Arthur so often played comedic roles, it suited her perfectly, but she’s equally tremendous in dramatic parts, adding a sense of urgency to the characters she’s playing (Only Angels Have Wings is a fine example of this).

Jean Arthur was an underdog in every sense of the word, with those aforementioned “handicaps” presumably working against her, she still managed to be involved with many of the 1930s greatest films. Her work with Frank Capra alone would cement her immortality in these eyes. Her impeccable line delivery is a joy to behold. You can “hear” her thinking when she’s a character. Arthur, (along with Irene Dunne) had this quality where you never saw her acting. Comedic actresses who take on dramatic roles almost never get the credit or awards that predominantly dramatic performers get for the odd comedy part. Comedy always gets the short end, doesn’t it?

One of her best attributes was being able to “sell the drama” in any given situation. When Arthur did this, there was no sign of the daffy screwball comedienne; it was an impressive transformation. She was excellent at the dramatic speech in that she could give an impassioned “pep talk” to the likes of Gary Cooper or James Stewart in what could be viewed as a sort of “strong woman behind the man.” She often came off as the female best friend of the protagonist as well as their conscience. Not many actresses from the Golden Age had these multilayered character traits.

Jean Arthur’s last film was 1953’s Shane, though she was largely retired from movies at the height of her career in 1944. Arthur appeared in 1948’s A Foreign Affair (dir. Billy Wilder) and 1953’s Shane (dir. George Stevens), working for two legendary directors wasn’t a bad way call it a movie career. Arthur would try her hand at television with 1966’s The Jean Arthur Show, which lasted all of eleven episodes.

Jean Arthur also qualifies for Miserable Sod status, as she came off as perpetually unhappy in her private life, with two failed marriages and endless doubts about her abilities as a performer: “I guess I became an actress because I didn't want to be myself.” Whatever it was that bothered her, it didn’t interfere with Jean the actress, whom I’ve grown to enjoy a whole lot in only a short time.

Does anyone have an unadulterated copy of this photo?

The Tragedy of Gig Young

I’m afraid it’s time for another entry in the Miserable Sod series.

Gig Young (1913-1978) (born Byron Elsworth Barr) is best known in classic movie circles as the “other guy” in so many 1950s movies. Young often played the dapper, likable second banana to the major stars of the time. He took the name “Gig Young” from a character he played in the 1942 film The Gay Sisters, a Barbara Stanwyck film. I fondly recall his role in Desk Set alongside Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, as well as Young at Heart, Teacher’s Pet, and That Touch of Mink. But to me, he’ll always be Martin Sloan, the harried businessman who yearns for his lost childhood in the haunting Twilight Zone episode, “Walking Distance.” Young’s durability as a character actor ensured that he would continue working into the 1960s and 70s. He would win the Best Supporting Oscar in 1969’s They Shoot Horses…Don’t They? Young would also appear as the bored sadist in Sam Peckinpah’s Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia, where Young’s character took the name Fred C. Dobbs, in a joking reference to John Huston’s Treasure of the Sierra Madre.

Gig Young was a great actor. His early roles showed that he had an effortless charm, a sort of everyday “suave guy next door”, if there even is such a thing. Young always played the other guy who graciously gave up the leading lady and seemed so damned affable doing it. Later, after he earned his well-deserved Oscar, his career turned towards darker, sinister roles. Young himself had a dim view of success, as he said in 1951: "So many people who have been nominated for an Oscar have had bad luck afterwards."

Young was married to Elizabeth Montgomery from 1956-63, a marriage that strained Elizabeth's relationship with her father, Robert Montgomery, who opposed the union. Young’s alcoholism continued to spiral out of control, and hastened the end of this already-abusive marriage. Young married five times and fathered a daughter in 1964, though he denied paternity until a five-year court case proved otherwise. Remember, no DNA testing then.

On October 19, 1978, Young shot and killed Kim Schmidt, his 31-year-old wife of three weeks. Young then turned the gun on himself. He was sixty four. In his will, he left his Oscar to his agent, but virtually nothing to his teenaged daughter.

What a jerk.

I’ve said before how I hate to discover that my favorite performers were miserable and Young is no exception. His performance in the Twilight Zone is one of my favorite TV roles ever and he brought such a tragic sadness to the Martin Sloan character. Young was an actor who got better as time went on, "getting gritty" with the changing times, reminding me all over again that stars of the 40s and 50s were merely projecting a convincing illusion which they no longer had to maintain with the death of the Hayes Office.

Sadly it would be Young's personal problems--not his self-fulfilling prophecy about Oscar nominees--that doomed him. His career was steady after his Oscar win, but it was Young’s drinking that did him in. He was fired from Blazing Saddles—he was to play The Waco Kid, later to become Gene Wilder’s role-- when he collapsed on set after an attack of the DTs (the story is here). Despite the horrors I’ve relayed here, I still choose to remember Gig Young as a quality character actor who only got better with age, though how he left this life is burned into my memory…how could it not be?

Watch Gig's performance in The Twilight Zone episode "Walking Distance" here.

A Broken Man: A dissipated Gig Young

Burt Lancaster: Against Type

That’s right, another miserable sod! I’ve been re-reading Against Type: a Biography of Burt Lancaster by Gary Fishgall (1995). It’s the first comprehensive Lancaster biography I’ve seen and the only one I’ve read, though I’ve been meaning to snag a copy of Kate Buford’s Burt Lancaster: an American Life. Against Type's narrative largely consists of behind-the-scenes anecdotes about his movie work, as well as the state of the world and the film industry as it was during Lancaster’s career, which spanned nearly fifty years. I’m glad the coverage of Burt the performer is emphasized over Burt the human being, because the latter was a difficult man to like: cold, ruthless, insensitive, and at times, downright nasty. As a result, Against Type plays like a broken record: Lancaster neglected his wife and children, carried on numerous affairs, bullied his co-stars and directed his directors, which led to a tense set, but when the project wrapped, there was nothing but kind words about Burt’s professionalism and drive for perfection, but never Burt the human being. There was no mistaking him for a nice guy, even if he gave his time and money to the civil rights struggle and championed liberal causes.

What I found to be the most fascinating thing about Burt Lancaster was that just like another Hollywood Dreamland hero, Cary Grant, he had his share of fears and insecurities. Lancaster covered his with an air of superiority and arrogance. Lancaster was not formally trained but had the charisma, natural ability, and keen intelligence to learn his craft and use his natural talents to blast most other performers off the screen. Still, when faced with formally-trained actors like Montgomery Clift, Lancaster’s knees literally shook with fear. He never got over that insecurity, even after establishing himself as one of the best actors of the 1960s. When making 1977’s The Island of Dr. Moreau*, Lancaster had the same fear of classically-trained Michael York, who was also twenty-eight years younger than the aging Lancaster, a former acrobat used to doing many of his own stunts, and who felt the onset of age acutely. When Lancaster was cast as Ned Merrill in the film adaptation of John Cheever’s short story, The Swimmer, Burt was throwing up off camera before filming when it struck him how tough it would be to play the film's affluent WASP protaganist, a background so different from his own. Director Frank Perry, who fought with Burt throughout the filming of The Swimmer, got a sense of satisfaction at seeing the big star afraid to screw up a most challenging role, as Burt was throwing up on the set before shooting began. Lancaster also was deeply depressed about growing older. A professional acrobat who did many of his own stunts, Lancaster nonetheless saw the proverbial writing on the wall and made the move to playing character parts in the late 1960s, rather than the traditional leading man roles which were appropriate for actors half his age.

It is the anecdotes about Lancaster overcoming his personal insecurities on a professional level that make for a fascinating look into Lancaster the man, because it was his fiery determination and ability to get the best possible performance out of himself from a part that may not have been ideally suited to his range that makes Lancaster an interesting actor to watch. Against Type is aptly titled. Just read it with an interest in Burt Lancaster, the artist; the man himself will only disappoint you.



*Yours truly saw The Island of Dr. Moreau in a drive-in theater (still extant!) at age five and was duly traumatized by the mutated humans and had nightmares about it for days afterwards---okay, years afterwards--in fact, I recently watched the film's trailer and couldn't believe how some of that imagery still disturbed me, particularly when the real animals are attacking the Hum-animals. I think the concept itself is what creeps me out, not the obviously-latex masks worn by the actors. Just don't tell anyone that I was disturbed by a Samuel Z. Arkoff production, okay?

Cary Grant Was a Miserable Sod

Cary Grant, the quintessential movie star, onscreen sophisticate, idol of millions, impossibly wealthy, the fantasy of countless women (and more than a few men), was in fact largely unhappy, possessive, insecure, unsophisticated, emotionally distant, and used LSD hundreds of times in psychological therapy. If this man, who only became more distinguished looking, respected, and beloved with age couldn’t find happiness, then who on earth could? I guess being a filthy rich, beloved, talented chick magnet isn’t everything, is it?

It looks like society is sending me mixed messages again…

The 2004 documentary, Cary Grant: A Class Apart originally aired on Turner Classic Movies, which was when I first saw it. The documentary is now included as a bonus feature on the 2-disc edition of Bringing up Baby. When I first saw A Class Apart, I was left with an empty feeling. I was more familiar with Grant’s movies than I was about his personal life, so I was only vaguely aware of Grant’s alleged affair with Randolph Scott, and I learned of his LSD use from a 1988 rock song by a long-forgotten group called “The Godfathers.” Former wife Betsy Blair came off as an angry and bitter shrew (though I don’t blame her) and the whole experience was somewhat traumatizing. It was one of those times that I’d wished I hadn’t bothered to look deeper into a favorite artist’s life. I found it disturbing that a man who seemingly had everything wasn’t the happiest camper. I guess the old adage, “No matter where you go, there you are” holds true, even among those who seem to “have it all.” There are some actors I adore for their ability, like Jack Nicholson, for instance. But the little I know about his personal life doesn’t interest me at all. Same goes for Fred Astaire; just play the Top Hat DVD again, thank you. Gene Kelly was a jerk? Who cares? Let’s watch him melt our hearts with Leslie Caron again. Huh? Elia Kazan was a weasely informer? Oh, well, at least he was a great director. His spineless, self-serving behavior won’t deter me from watching Gentleman’s Agreement for the umpteenth time.

As for Cary Grant, I’m over that initial disillusionment and besides, his hang-ups were his problem, not mine. Actually, they’re not his either, since he took the night train to the big adios years ago…

The moral? Don’t let yourself get too wrapped up in this stuff…it's supposed to be fun.

Archie Leach: Don't let his insouciance fool you