Golden Holden, The Conclusion

In August 1959, William Holden, his wife Ardis, and their three children boarded a flight for Europe. Holden never looked back. He was joining a group of Hollywood stars who had discovered the tax break that came with living abroad for a portion of the year. When his business manager suggested Switzerland, Holden jumped at the chance: "Great! I'll start looking for a house." Holden had been ready to leave Hollywood behind for a while. He'd been traveling about 100,000 miles each  year, and had seen and experienced much of the world. Now Holden could see even more--and profit from it. Holden drew ire from critics who viewed him only an opportunistic movie star, but he didn't care. As biographer Bob Thomas put it, Holden considered himself a citizen of the world.

In 1960's The World of Suzie Wong, Holden's artist falls for Nancy Kwan's prostitute.

Bill Holden's first film after the decision to move to Europe was The World of Suzie Wong. Directed by the underrated Richard Quine, Suzie Wong tells the story of an American artist who settles in one of the seamier parts of Hong Kong. The hotel he lives in operates as a kind of flop house for prostitutes, of which Suzie Wong is one of the most popular. Holden played Robert Lomax, an artist who falls in love with Suzie, though complications arise before the traditional happy ending. Despite the film's unbelievable plot, Suzie Wong was a hit with stateside audiences to the tune of over $7 million 1960 dollars, making the film number seven on Variety's yearly box office champions. It was to be Holden's last bona fide success for several years.

Holden as the screenwriter in Richard Quine's Paris When It Sizzles, 1964.

Holden had no films in circulation in 1961, but 1962 saw the release of three films in which he appeared: Leo McCarey's Satan Never Sleeps, George Seaton's The Counterfeit Traitor--by consensus the best of the three--and The Lion, directed by Jack Cardiff. None of these was a success, but The Lion introduced Holden to one of the great loves of his life, the French actress Capucine. (Born Germaine Lefebvre in 1935 France, Capucine was a top-line model before her film career. After moving to New York, she was scouted by the Charles Feldman Agency, eventually appearing in a succession of films, including North to Alaska opposite John Wayne and Walk on the Wild Side, a less-than-faithful adaptation of the book by Nelson Algren.) After completing work on The Lion, Holden embarked on a massive drinking spree, the effects of which he was still feeling when he found himself face-to-face with former love Audrey Hepburn.

Two stars with a back story on what appears to be a trying day
on set during Paris When It Sizzles

To say William Holden was not psychologically or physically prepared to take on such a challenge is a massive understatement, for Holden was in one of the worst places in his life--on the outs with Ardis and involved with Capucine. To be thrown into a situation with a lover he had never really got over was more than Holden could take. His alcohol intake was so great during Paris When It Sizzles that the production was close to shutting down when director Quine persuaded Holden to dry out for eight days at a hospital that specialized in alcoholics. Desperate to keep filming, Quine recruited friend Tony Curtis to fill in with some last-minute scenes. Filmed in the summer of 1962, Paris When It Sizzles was not released until 1964 when it bombed, becoming Holden's fourth money loser in a row.

Holden's next four films fared no better than Paris When It Sizzles, and by 1968 when Variety compiled a list of stars whose high salaries didn't warrant their bankability at the box office, Holden's name appeared alongside former heavyweights like Tony Curtis, Marlon Brando, and Yul Brynner. On top of professional embarrassment, in 1966 while in Italy, Holden was involved in a two-car accident that killed the driver of the other vehicle. Most observers assumed Holden would get off with a fine, but the verdict found Holden guilty of manslaughter with a sentence of eight months in prison. The sentence was suspended, and he settled with the other vehicle's widow for $80,000. Holden's reckless lifestyle--one largely kept secret from his public--had finally caught up with him. Not quite 50 years of age, William Holden had reached a personal and professional nadir.

The comeback in The Wild Bunch

By the late Sixties, Holden's affair with Capucine had run its course. Ardis and he finally divorced in July 1971 after nearly thirty years of marriage. But, as fate would have it, Holden was actually on course to career resurrection. Sought out by the notorious hell raiser, director Sam Peckinpah, Holden was cast in The Wild Bunch. Bloody and controversial, The Wild Bunch set the gold standard for movie westerns much like John Ford's Stagecoach did thirty years earlier. Not a huge box office winner, The Wild Bunch was a succès de scandale due to its bloody excess and slow-motion depiction of violence. Even critics who deplored the film, however, had to give Holden credit for his most committed work on film in ages.

For the next few years Holden worked on interesting, but not particularly successful, films like The Revengers, a run-of-the-mill western; Blake Edwards' The Wild Rovers, another western and still-underrated film in which Holden gives a poignant portrait of a man who has outlived his time; Clint Eastwood's Breezy; and big box office winner, The Towering Inferno. Holden recognized Inferno as a bit of nonsense but "disaster" films were popular at the time (Inferno would be the second biggest hit of the season behind Jaws). And appearing alongside the stellar cast of Paul Newman, Steve McQueen, Faye Dunaway, Fred Astaire, and Jennifer Jones among others did nothing to hurt his reputation.

1974 was to be a good year for William Holden. Along with the success of The Towering Inferno, he won an Emmy for Best Actor for a television adaptation of Joseph Wambaugh's The Blue Knight. Next up for Holden was a role he was not initially considered for: 1976's ever-prescient Network. Starring with Faye Dunaway, Robert Duvall, and a scene-stealing Peter Finch, Holden once again reminded film audiences why he was still a top screen presence. In the role of Max Schumacher--a part first offered to Jack Lemmon--Holden gave his best performance in twenty years, as an aging television executive in charge of a failing network's news division and a failing marriage.

His best work in over twenty years:
Sidney Lumet's Network which netted Holden his first Best Actor nomination in 23 years.

Network is a great film in a year of great films--All The President's Men, Taxi Driver, The Omen, Seven Beauties, Carrie, The Bad News Bears, Silent Movie, 1900, The Outlaw Josey Wales, The Shootist, Robin and Marian, Obsession, and the year's best picture Oscar winner, Rocky. In Network Holden did possibly his best work ever, yet his performance was basically overlooked. While it's true that he was Oscar-nominated, most of the press went to Finch for his "mad prophet of the airwaves" and Dunaway for her heart-of-stone network programmer. In this sea of loud performances, Holden had the role of a man at a crossroads in his life, fighting age, trying to help his friend Finch, and falling for the tough-as-nails Dunaway. Holden underplays as only he could and reveals a side he grappled with in real life--the unfaithful husband, successful on the outside, lost on the inside and deeply dissatisfied, looking for fulfillment in the arms of another (younger) woman. Oscar voters rewarded Finch, Dunaway, and Beatrice Straight (as Holden's wife). Holden went home empty-handed but with a renewed sense of pride and recognition from the industry that had nearly forgotten him. Life imitated art as he also found love in the arms of a woman much younger than he, actress Stefanie Powers. The two were together nearly ten years before Holden's alcoholism drove too deep a wedge between them.

With Marthe Keller in the underrated Fedora, director Billy Wilder's take on the price of movie fame

After Network, Holden worked regularly in mostly forgettable movies like Damien: Omen II; When Time Ran Out, another Irwin Allen disaster picture with a stellar cast; and Escape to Athena. A couple that stand out is in the underrated, under-seen Fedora, in which Holden reunited with Billy Wilder, and his swan song, Blake Edwards' S.O.B. Holden plays a filmmaker in both--a producer in Fedora, a close descendant of Sunset Boulevard's Joe Gillis (i.e., a down-on-his-luck, cynical yet hopeful), and a director in S.O.B. In Fedora, Holden gave his last great performance, and it would have been a fitting swan song. But his final farewell belonged to Blake Edwards' S.O.B. in which Holden played a film director subservient to his producer pal played by Richard Mulligan. Whereas Fedora was a bittersweet valentine, S.O.B. is strictly bitter. Edwards' Hollywood is quite different from Wilder's. Fedora is a throwback to when film stars had a real aura--even if that aura was maintained in the medical clinics of Europe--and how a persona can suck the life right out of them. On the other hand, S.O.B. is--hilariously--all orgies, pot smoking, corpse stealing, and revenge getting. Through all the madness and wild agendas S.O.B. shows us, Holden's character Cully, a seen-it-done-it-all, could have been Holden himself. By this time--1981--Holden had seen any- and everything Hollywood and the world had to offer. No longer out to prove himself, Cully, like Holden, just wants to survive, live and let live. For Cully life is too short to get caught up in studio politics and intrigues. As another of the film's characters aptly puts it, "He's probably shacked up with a couple of broads and a bottle of Jack Daniels. What the hell does he care." Sad thing is that after S.O.B. premiered in July 1981, that's essentially what Holden did.

But it wasn't a bottle of Jack Daniels, it was a bottle (or two) of vodka and a few beers. And he didn't have "a couple of broads" with him. He was alone. Doing what he must have done hundreds of times: breaking the sound barrier, drinking himself into a stupor before collapsing into bed. Only this time William Holden didn't make it to bed. Completely trashed, Holden tripped on a throw rug and hit his head on the edge of the nightstand. Not realizing the seriousness of his wound, Holden tried to stop the bleeding with several tissues before passing out and dying from loss of blood. Loner that he was, it was several days before his body was discovered. Billy Wilder reflected, "I really loved Bill, but it turned out I didn't know him.... To be killed by a bottle of vodka and a night table--what a lousy fadeout for a great guy." It's an assessment that's hard to argue with, though looking at his life, it's an entirely apt end. Bill Holden, international film star, rich beyond anyone's wildest dreams, lover to some of the worlds most desirable women, died alone and drunk. It's who Bill Holden really was, feeling himself unworthy of the accolades and fame, still the frightened beginner that Barbara Stanwyck mentored on the Golden Boy set way back in 1939 when he was close to being fired. Despite all he had done and the worldwide recognition he had gained, William Holden was, at heart, still that terrified youngster, vulnerable, and insecure. Ironically, it is these characteristics that made him such a good film actor, always underplaying a scene, always believable, careful not to push a scene too hard for fear it would spill into overacting. Holden was like Spencer Tracy or Robert Mitchum or Gary Cooper in that you couldn't see him acting. He was just being. Embodying, breathing, reacting, being the person he was pretending to be. Any performer worth his salt will tell you that is the hardest thing to do. And Bill Holden did it better than anyone. His life may have had a tragic end, yet he left us the gift of his talent and the legacy of his films. He did not die in vain.    

Sources: See blog post Golden Holden, The Rise

Underrated Gem: Inserts

It's fair to say most folks--even my fellow film fanatics--have never heard of the film, Inserts, much less seen it. Starring an up-and-coming Richard Dreyfuss as "Boy Wonder," and supported by a stellar cast, Inserts plays out on a one-room set, bringing into focus the movieland setting. Rated X upon release, Inserts was rechristened with a less titillating, more establishment NC-17 in that rating's mid-1990's heyday. The strong rating is a result not only of the film's bounteous nudity but also its racy subject matter. Inserts is undoubtedly a product of its (1970s) time. Indeed, I cannot think of a single Hollywood distribution outfit that would back this movie today.

 

While it's not a classic (assuredly it is not), Inserts does bring an interesting attitude to the table. The setting is Hollywood circa 1930, a town in transition. Silent film is dead, and everyone save Chaplin has gone crazy for the talkies. Dreyfuss plays a washed-up film director who we know only as "Boy Wonder," once brilliant, now alcoholic, moping about his rundown palazzo in his bathrobe with a bottle of booze in one hand and a movie camera in the other, making "nudies," starring Helene (Veronica Cartwright), a heroin-addicted forgotten silent film star (a "ghost story," in the film's parlance). Joining them is Rex (Stephen Davies). Nicknamed "The Wonder Dog" due to his limited mental capacity, Rex, whose full time job is working for a mortician, is still naive enough to think a studio executive he is scheduled to meet at his hotel room will put him on the studio payroll with no strings attached.

One particular morning, after getting the first scene of the day "in the can," producer Big Mac (Bob Hoskins) arrives with Helene's fix of heroin and his girlfriend, a wannabe actress named Cathy Cake (Jessica Harper). Cathy knows Boy Wonder's work from the silents, and wants to meet him and see the filming of a stag film. Unfortunately for her, Big Mac and Cathy's arrival coincides with Helene's heroin overdose. When Rex refuses to have sex with Helene's corpse, Cathy agrees to serve as Helene's body double and film the titular inserts. While Rex and Big Mac dispose of Helene's body, Boy Wonder and Cathy begin filming and forming a bond.

Richard Dreyfuss as Boy Wonder, a washed up, alcoholic silent filmmaker
coming to grips with his lot in life

Although some books had been published about Hollywood's dark underbelly--most prominently, Kenneth Anger's Hollywood Babylon--by the mid-1970s, any time the major studios considered Hollywood's Golden Age, the films, including W.C. Fields and Me, Gable and Lombard, Nickelodeon and Won Ton Ton, The Dog Who Saved Hollywood (interestingly, along with Inserts, all released in 1976), tended to depict the more mainstream elements of that earlier time. Not that these films found their audience (they didn't, some deservedly so), but mainstream moviegoers, me included, still wanted to believe wholly in the facade of that so-called Golden Age. Inserts was one of the first films to focus on the less-than-golden parts of that Hollywood heyday. And focus it did. The film included full-frontal nudity and four-letter words that had seldom, if ever, been spoken in a mainstream film before. 

First-time director John Byrum, who also wrote the script, is dealing with difficult material here. Even Hitchcock found it challenging to film a movie on one set, trying twice before succeeded with 1954's Rear Window, and it goes without saying Byrum is no Hitch. But the film does have its fascinating moments, particularly when it references early Hollywood, including dialogue concerning Jack Pickford (Mary's brother, death by drugs), Wallace Reid (more death by drugs), Erich von Stroheim (a victim of his own directorial excess) and "that new kid at Pathe" (Clark Gable), who is desperate to meet Boy Wonder. With clever references to old Hollywood and contemporary references to 1970s' popular culture (Big Mac wants to make it rich in hamburger chains [get it?]), how could this film not succeed? Who knows? But it didn't. No one went to see it, and most critics shrugged it off. But that doesn't mean there is not some cinematic gold to be mined from this off-beat, wildly eccentric vehicle.

Left to right: Jessica Harper's Cathy Cake, Bob Hoskins' Big Mac, and
Stephen Davies' Rex cannot believe what Boy Wonder (Richard Dreyfuss) is suggesting. 

The cast is first rate and is the best reason to see the film. Veronica Cartwright's Helene is a heartbreaking mix of Marie Prevost, Mabel Normand, and all those no-name early film starlets who came to Hollywood to make it big, only to fall short for a variety of reasons--lack of drive, talent, luck. Helene is too sensitive and too impractical to survive in hard-hearted Hollywood. Cartwright--always underrated--gives heart to Helene's (lack of) status. Stephen Davies' Rex, "The Wonder Dog," is a basically good-natured, simple guy who should have stayed back in Iowa or wherever he came from. Bob Hoskins' pre-Roger Rabbit, Cotton Club, and Super Mario Bros (remember that one?!) is perfectly cast. I'm a sucker for all the American tough guys he played. Cult favorite (Phantom of the Paradise, Pennies From Heaven) Jessica Harper as Cathy Cake seems a tough case at first glance, with little, if any, empathy for what she witnesses at Boy Wonder's palazzo; however, as her character transitions from passive bystander to active participant (eventually--in a neat twist--directing Dreyfuss's director to allow his "rope to rise"), Harper gives depth to Cathy Cake's ambition. I've had a crush on Miss Harper ever since I first saw her in the 1974 Brian DePalma film Phantom of the Paradise. With her big eyes, pale complexion, and willowy frame, she fits perfectly into the Hollywood Byrum strives to recreate. Then there is Richard Dreyfuss. I love nearly everything the guy has done, up to and including his short-lived, underrated 2001 television show, The Education of Max Bickford.  As Boy Wonder, Dreyfuss brings his usual characteristics to the table--a nervous, quirky, energetic, Jewish personality--here combined with a heartbreaking pathos I find effective and engaging. 

Cathy Cake (Jessica Harper), embraces the idea of doing "inserts" of the dead Harlene
and offers her services to Boy Wonder (Richard Dreyfuss). 

Nearly half of Insert's running time consists of a tete-a-tete between Boy Wonder and Cathy Cake in which roles reverse, and Miss Cake directs Boy Wonder, getting his "rope to rise" by using the same techniques on him that he has used on his actors. Here Boy Wonder, a master cynic who is nevertheless drawn to Miss Cake's seemingly innocent yet curious inquiries into how these nudies are made, finally meets his match. She draws him out, seduces him, and brings out the vulnerable side that he would never admit to having.

When Inserts opened in early 1976, it received mostly scathing reviews and barely made a nickel at the box office. While not a feel-good movie--at times it seems deliberately offensive--Inserts gave, and continues to give, some movie lovers a jaundiced view of Hollywood's Golden Age that is a world away from the glamour usually presented in films about that era. The film has a lot of humor, mostly supplied by Dreyfuss, but it is cynical, dark, and ironic. This cynicism combined with the setting is a major reason I am drawn to it. Forgotten and neglected until very recently (Twilight Time released a Blu-ray in June 2016), Inserts will not appeal to the casual movie viewer. If your idea of a good movie is the latest superhero blockbuster, Inserts probably won't hold your interest. But if you enjoy an off-beat, dark humored, tough yet vulnerable, and well-acted film, you could do a lot worse than to open up and let Inserts invade your cinematic soul. 

Sources

• IMDB
• Wikipedia

The Void or, "Did I tell you I am feeling unwell?"

For decades, going to the movies has been one of my greatest pleasures. Beginning when I was 15 years old, I would go to the cinema every week, sometimes more. Wonderful films unspooled at local movie houses. I remember going to see my first R-rated movie, the scandalous Warren Beatty film, Shampoo, in 1975. I was not quite 16. Movies captured my imagination from a young age, as they do for most people. But few go deeper into the making--art, craft, personalities, and critiques--of movies than I. Obviously critics have, along with the opinion-sharing, 21st century phenomenon known as bloggers (ahem). There are tens of thousands like-minded folks who blog about film. Some are the fan-boy comic book type who love best when the latest superhero or sci-fi extravaganza hits the nation's cineplexes. Others comment only on a particular film or series of films, like Star Wars or Planet of the Apes. Some fixate on the work of one director like a Stanley Kubrick or Michael Bay (really?). As for me, I dwell primarily in the land of classic Hollywood cinema. I still go to the movies about 10-15 times a year, depending on my interest in a film's story; who is starring and directing it; whether I can find the time to go; and how long that film is playing in my town.

Lately, that has been more difficult to find. You see, I have been feeling unwell. 

I came of age in the 1970s. I am biased, and my recollection is heavy with nostalgia, but the way I remember it, that was a time when movies meant something. Seventies' cinema was about content and meaning and thought. I remember walking away from films and wanting to talk about them, mull them over, discuss them at length with the people I knew who had seen them. Movies mattered to their audiences, to their creators, to me. They were more than just visceral thrills. Today, I feel like most movies--most Hollywood big-budget movies that get major studio promotion and exposure anyway--don't stand for anything. Back in the day, a summer season of films meant many things to many people. In 1975--41 years ago, when dinosaurs roamed the earth--theaters around the nation offered escapist fare like Return of the Pink Panther, Freebie and the Bean, James Bond's latest, The Man With the Golden Gun, Mandingo, and of course, Jaws. Simultaneously, however, the summer also included late spring releases like the Mike Nichols-Warren Beatty-Jack Nicholson bomb, The Fortune; John Schlesinger's adaptation of Nathaniel West's Hollywood novel, The Day of the Locust; Woody Allen's Love and Death (when he still knew how to be silly); Robert Altman's classic, Nashville; and Robert Mitchum starring as Raymond Chandler's famed sleuth, Philip Marlowe, in Farewell, My Lovely. In other words, an abundance of choices was available to movie audiences: some good, some bad, some mindless, some not, but variety, nonetheless, came from the big studios. But all that has changed now.

Did I mention that I feel unwell?

The Hollywood system is broken. It has been for some time and doesn't seem to be getting any better. Well-constructed yet entertaining products with a serious, thoughtful slant only come out at certain times of year. From late September to Christmas Day, movies that don't rely on the popcorn munching, soda gulping crowd are more likely to be released to a public that either no longer goes to the movies or don't care about more serious fare. Worse than that, however, is the fact that the studios are unwilling to make movies outside the most mainstream for fear of losing money. Not that this is new. As far back as the Depression, Hollywood studios were against making movies that might play over their audiences' heads. In Elia Kazan's 1976 film, The Last Tycoon, an adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald's unfinished novel, the lead character, Monroe Stahr is the production head of a major Hollywood studio. He tells his fellow executives, including his boss, studio chief Pat Brady, that the $2 million production of a high-brow film may lose money with the unhappy ending he is proposing to remain true to its story, prompting every suit at the table to look at each other in disbelief. "What is he thinking?! Times are tough! The country is in a depression, Monroe!" Stahr replies, "We've been playing it safe here for two years. I'm going to make this movie, with its unhappy ending. It's about time we took a chance and made a film that may lose money. Write it off as good will." Needless to say, this idealism is seldom found outside of fictional Hollywood.

Don't get me wrong. Bad movies, dumb movies, silly ones have always existed. Hollywood has reveled in its bloated epics for decades. The 1950s saw a big increase of inflated spectaculars, but I'm not convinced that such a film was ever accepted as the norm--what to expect in entertainment--until the last thirty-to-forty years of increasingly big-budget entertainment. Today, the people who flock to these mindless, unfeeling, witless spectacles do not know any better. American movie audiences have been spoonfed these tiresome excuses for entertainment for the generations now, leading audiences to expect it. And now they're asking for more, resulting in Suicide Squad, Batman Vs. Superman, Iron Man 1, 2, 3, reboots of Star Trek and Star Wars, Tarzan and now I hear, a Harry Potter prequel. Why? No simple answer exists. Franchise movies are cash cows for the major studios (although recently some of these movies have not been profitable due to excessive budgets) with built-in audiences for their instantly recognizable characters. For these movies, too often a coherent screenplay is optional--the least of concerns.

  

Did I forget to mention I have been feeling unwell?

With Labor Day just around to corner, I hope to be on the mend soon. A few, upcoming films seem entertaining, challenging, even fun. Hell and High Water just opened and looks to be a serious--and seriously violent--film that harks back to the days of Sam Peckinpah. Sully, with Tom Hanks, has potential as does Oliver Stone's Snowden; Warren Beatty's Rules Don't Apply; Allied, Robert Zemeckis' romantic thriller starring Brad Pitt and Marion Cotillard; and La La Land, which  looks like it will transport its audience to that magical world of romance, grace, and beauty that musicals so often do. After all this, I still have faith. I look forward to attending this movie catholic's place of worship, sitting in the dark with my fellow congregants, and hoping to be healed of the malady that has taken hold of me. Because when one or more of these ambitious, vital films fail to find its audience, it makes it tougher for other movies with a unique perspective to see the light of day and make movie-going the memorable and thrilling experience it still has the chance to be.

Golden Holden, Part One: The Rise

William Holden was a star of the first rank for over forty years. From his screen debut in 1939's Golden Boy to his last in 1981's S.O.B., Holden personified the solid, steady American male. He hit his peak as a box office name in the 1950s, appearing six times on Quigley Publication's Annual Top Ten and topping the list in 1956. By the time of his death, however, few would have predicted such a sad and lonely demise.

William Holden at his peak in the mid-50s

Born on April 17, 1918, William Holden, after early success in 1939's Golden Boy and 1940's Our Town, spent most of the 1940s in routine films. In 1943--after eleven features of dwindling quality-- Holden enlisted in the United States Army. Upon his return to Hollywood, Holden found the going rough for a returning G.I. whose best work was nearly eight years earlier. His first film back was a routine western, Blaze of Noon, in 1947. While he stayed busy in post-war Hollywood, Holden made little impression on it, commenting later that in these films--another eleven from 1947 to 1950--he played "Smiling Jim," the clean-cut guy with a nice smile and no substance. As often happens in the movie business, though, along came a role that changed his career and his life in a film he wasn't even originally considered for: Billy Wilder's Sunset Boulevard. 

Holden as screenwriter Joe Gillis, floating through Sunset Boulevard.
"The poor dope. He always wanted a pool."

Montgomery Clift was director Billy Wilder's first choice to play the down-on-his-luck screenwriter, Joe Gillis, in Sunset Boulevard. The sensitive and troubled Clift backed out at the last minute, however, leaving Wilder without a leading man. The director considered several others for the part of Gillis without actually approaching any of them for the part--Fred MacMurray, Gene Kelly, Marlon Brando. One by one, Wilder crossed them off his list. William Holden, under contract to Paramount where the film was made, was a name that intrigued Wilder. In spite of Holden's previous bland performances, he was attractive and appealing, and he looked like he could be a writer, or so Wilder thought. Wilder met with Holden and gave him the role. (He continued to struggle with the casting of an actress for the film's female lead character, Norma Desmond. Wilder saw everyone from Mary Pickford to Mae West [can you imagine?], yet none of them would commit. Eventually Gloria Swanson proved perfect casting as the aging silent screen star. )

To call Sunset Boulevard a game changer in Holden's career is an understatement. Fact is, without that great film, Holden probably wouldn't have had much of a film career. But due to that film, he was subsequently presented with many more opportunities. His performance in Sunset Boulevard is one of the two or three best he ever gave. Holden was nominated for a Best Actor Oscar--one of eleven the film captured--but lost to Jose Ferrer in Cyrano de Bergerac. In my opinion, Holden was robbed on March 29, 1951, when Academy voters bowed to the high-toned Cyrano. No matter, though. Holden's Oscar loss was cinema's gain.

Nancy Olson as Betty Schaefer with our boy, Bill, as Joe Gillis.
"Who wants true? Who wants moving?"

The tide was finally turning on Holden's screen career. Later in 1950, Holden appeared in another success, George Cukor's classic adaptation of Garson Kanin's Broadway stage comedy, Born Yesterday. He kept busy the next couple of years in solid-yet-unmemorable, bread-and-butter pictures, but in 1953, Holden had major success with two features--Otto Preminger's scandalous-for-its-time sex comedy, The Moon is Blue, and the big one, Billy Wilder's Stalag 17.  Wilder's comedy about a group of Americans in a Nazi POW camp was originally a successful Broadway play. In the film version, Holden plays Sergeant J.J. Sefton, a cynical, isolated G.I. con man who only looks out for himself. When a spy is suspected of giving the German's information on an escape plan, Sefton is the natural suspect and must find the real spy to prove his innocence to his fellow prisoners. When Wilder approached him for the film Holden was intrigued but skeptical. Ultimately, however, Holden trusted Wilder's instinct and valued his talent as writer and director, and took the role. The film was a kind of precursor to the 1960s television comedy, Hogan's Heroes, with some buffoonish comedy stuck in between a genuinely serious theme. Released in July 1953, Stalag 17 was a popular and critical success, and in early 1954, Holden was up for an Oscar again. Competition was tough. Montgomery Clift and Burt Lancaster were also nominated for 1953's big winner in the Oscar sweepstakes, From Here to Eternity. Also nominated was a Shakespearian Marlon Brando in Julius Caesar and newcomer Richard Burton in the Cinemascope extravaganza, The Robe. Unlike the 1951 ceremony, this time Holden prevailed. Professionally, he was on top of the world, and his biggest financial successes were still in front of him.

As Sefton, his Oscar winning role in Stalag 17

1954, the year Holden won his Oscar was also another huge one for him on screen as he appeared in five high-profile films (a testament to the efficiency of filmmaking in the mid-20th Century, this could never happen today) with three of them landing on Variety's Top Twenty Moneymaking films. The films varied in subject and content, including the comedy, Forever Female; the western, Escape From Fort Bravo; and the all-star drama, Executive Suite. But the two that stand out for me are The Country Girl and Sabrina. In these two movies, Holden did not play the lead, yet he contributed his distinctive presence.

Released in the fall, Sabrina, with Audrey Hepburn in the title role, is undoubtedly the best remembered of the two. Humphrey Bogart--stepping away from his usual tough guy roles--plays Linus Larrabee, a Wall Street whiz to Holden's playboy younger brother, David. Directed for the third time by the expert Billy Wilder, Holden has less to do in the film as it progresses, though he plays the integral role of bringing together Linus and Sabrina. Some feel Bogart was miscast in this Cinderella-like, romance, but I feel that the craggy Bogart is believable as the all-work, no-play executive who finally falls under Sabrina's spell. As David, Holden is winning as the ever-smiling, carefree brother. Of course, Sabrina is one of Hepburn's signature roles along with Roman Holiday and Breakfast at Tiffany's. The film scored a slew of Oscar nominations and a bucketful of box office gold for Paramount Studios.

Lunch time on the Paramount lot with Holden, Hepburn, Wilder,
and unknown man on the left.

The Country Girl stars Holden along with Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly as an alcoholic, out-of-work former Broadway musical star and his dowdy wife (played by Crosby and Kelly, respectively), and  details what happens when Crosby's Frank Elgin is offered a plum comeback role by director Bernie Dodd, played by Holden. Based on a play by Clifford Odets (the same playwright who wrote the original material behind Holden's first success, Golden Boy), the film was a stretch for Crosby and Kelly, and they both received Oscar nominations. In all these 1954 releases, Holden is in very good company--at times even overshadowed, though all of them would be poorer without him. Interestingly, as big a star as he was at the time, Holden only received top billing in two of these five 1954 releases. Nevertheless, his name was a draw: in 1954 Holden appeared at number six on the Quigley Box Office Top Ten list for the first time.

Holden with wife, Ardis (a.k.a., actress Brenda Marshall) on Oscar night, 1954

Through the early years of his career, William Holden's private life was as busy as his public one. He married Ardis Ankerson, an actress, in 1942. Together the couple had two sons, Peter and Scott. Though she made eighteen features under the professional name, Brenda Marshall, including the Errol Flynn adventure, The Sea Hawk, in 1940, Ardis essentially retired after 1943 to devote full time to marriage and family. The couple had a variety of friends, including actors Glenn Ford and Broderick Crawford, and portrait painter Paul Clemens. They were present at the wedding of Ronald Reagan and Nancy Davis in 1952 where Holden, a good friend of Reagan's, served as best man. At the studio Holden enjoyed the company of his fellow actors like Dean Martin, whose sense of humor he especially enjoyed.

Holden likened his life as an actor to that of a successful businessman. He was on the Screen Actor's Guild Board of Directors; he was a member of the Parks and Recreation Commission; and he attended PTA meetings whenever possible at his children's schools. But as his fame grew, his marriage started to fray. Things got so bad at the Holden residence that he bought scuba gear, so he could sit at the bottom of the pool when things became too tense with Ardis. His fondness for large quantities of liquor (few would argue that he was an alcoholic) and his numerous affairs (Grace Kelly, Capucine, Audrey Hepburn) contributed most significantly to the end of his nearly thirty-year marriage in 1971. Also, it is apparent Holden had a real wild side that he tried to suppress. He loved fast sports cars and motorcycles. Eventually, many of these dangerous and bad habits would catch up to him.

1955 continued a hot streak of hit films for Holden: the big, timely Korean War film, The Bridges at Toko-Ri, with Grace Kelly again and Fredric March; a big, romantic, interracial love story, Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing with Jennifer Jones; and a big, all-star version of William Inge's stage success, Picnic, with Kim Novak, Rosalind Russell, Cliff Robertson, Betty Field, and Arthur O'Connell. These were all box office winners. By 1957, Holden was looking for ways to get out of the house more and with location work in far away countries becoming more frequent by movie companies looking to capitalize on the popularity of new widescreen technology, he spent more and more time outside the U.S. Holden found that he enjoyed seeing other parts of the world and living like a bachelor since Ardis usually stayed behind with their children. David Lean's epic World War II film, Bridge on the River Kwai, offered him such an opportunity. The film's theme, "war is madness," is well played out on location in Ceylon with Alec Guinness in his Oscar-winning role of Colonel Nicholson, a rigid, by-the-book, prisoner of war of the Japanese. In charge of the POW camp is Colonel Saito played with gusto by famed Japanese actor Sessue Hayakawa, who has ordered the prisoners to build a bridge over the Kwai River. Holden plays an American named Shears, who escapes from Saito's prison camp, reaches a base hospital, and declares himself a coward in an attempt to be dishonorably discharged. However, Shears is talked into going back to the Saito's prison war camp to blow up the bridge Colonel Nicholson is building. A huge hit in its day, netting more than 18 million in 1957 dollars in its first year alone, Kwai holds up as an excellent anti-war statement and first-rate entertainment. Holden's percentage of the box office gross deal also ensured that he never had to worry about money again. From the Kwai location, Holden was off to London for The Key, a film in which co-starred with new international sex symbol, Sophia Loren, and British actor, Trevor Howard.

Holden's next film, the Civil War action picture, The Horse Soldiers, paired him with John Wayne for director John Ford. The film was not exceptional, with no one claiming it as the shining hour of anyone involved, but it was popular--number 14 on Variety's 1959 Moneymaking List--and the stars each received $750,000 plus a percentage of the gross. It was one of the biggest deals Hollywood had yet to offer any star, with the deal--an early version of "the package,"in which an agent or agency puts some of its biggest names in one film--more significant that the finished product.

(Stay tuned for the next part of this look back at William Holden's career, which will pick up with Holden's ups and downs in the 1960s and beyond.)


Sources
Books: Golden Boy: The Untold Story of William Holden by Bob Thomas
            William Holden, The Pyramid Illustrated History of the Movies by Will Holtzman
            The Films of William Holden by Lawrence J. Quirk
            Reel Facts - The Movie Book of Records by Cobbett Steinberg
Internet: Wikipedia
               All photographs

Essential William Wyler: 1940's The Letter

Film director William Wyler may be the least appreciated auteur from the Golden Age of Hollywood. Despite repeated honors from the Academy, including three Best Director Oscars for Mrs. Miniver in 1942, The Best Years of Our Lives in 1946, and Ben-Hur, 1959's epic to end all epics, Wyler's reputation has suffered since his retirement in 1970. While these three films alone should solidify Wyler's star in the cinema firmament, film history and its gatewatchers occasionally do not give the greats their due. While the reputations of Nicholas Ray, Howard Hawks, Alfred Hitchcock, Sam Fuller, and even Budd Boetticher have improved over the last forty or fifty years, Wyler's has not. William Wyler's best defense in the face of a lessened reputation, however, is--as Andrew Sarris said of director George Cukor--his filmography. From 1936 to 1965, Wyler's films equaled the best of his generation: Dodsworth and These Three, Dead End, Jezebel, Wuthering Heights, The Little Foxes, and The Heiress constitute an incredible run of good-to-great cinema--and this list only covers 1936 to 1949.

For me, Wyler is an amazing director, seemingly without a personal style. His films did not distract with arty camera angles and unique editing styles; rather, he set himself apart by maintaining a visual style that did not call attention to itself. Wyler favored long takes, usually in medium or two shot, sometimes employing the "deep focus" technique favored by his favorite cinematographer (and one of Hollywood's best), Gregg Toland, with occasional closeups to emphasize a dramatic moment or important bit of information. Wyler's reluctance to move the camera became his own visual style. This is one of the reasons The Letter with Bette Davis may be my favorite of the director and star's three collaborations. For me, The Letter stands side-by-side with Dodsworth (1936), Wyler's impressively mature adaptation of the Sinclair Lewis novel, and The Best Years of Our Lives, the classic Best Picture Oscar winner from 1946 as the best of Wyler's work.

The Letter fascinates me. Made and released in 1940, the film is a remake of a 1929 goodie, starring the legendary Jeanne Eagles in the lead role (played by Davis in the remake). Like the remake, the original film also starred Herbert Marshall, albeit in the role of Leslie Crosbie's lover/victim, who is never actually seen in Wyler's remake except in shadow as he is shot by Davis' Leslie. Wyler's version is about as lurid as a major Hollywood studio like Warner Brothers could get away with in 1940 as the plot unfolds to include the marriage of a European man and an Asian woman, the depiction of a kind of opium den in a Chinatown shop, and the victim's widow--the aforementioned Asian woman (Gale Sondergaard, playing the widow of the murdered man as a silent, intense, honorable, passionate, wronged woman in what, for me, is one of the most appealing aspects of the film)--hell bent on gaining revenge for her husband's death. (The letter of the title implicates Leslie as the lover of the man she killed. The price to buy the letter is $10,000, all the money her husband has in savings. The letter is obtained, Leslie is found not guilty, yet her marriage is destroyed. In the film's final scene, the victim's widow takes her revenge on Leslie.) 

The great Gale Sondergaard as the widow and owner of The Letter

This is all highly melodramatic stuff and not easy to pull off, but William Wyler and his production team were up to the challenge and delivered one of cinema's most operatic films. Max Steiner's over-the-top musical score is delicious in its grandeur and contributes greatly to the heightened dramatics. All the players are exceptional with Bette Davis as the stand-out performer. Bette Davis was at the peak of her reign as queen of Warner Brothers when the film was made in spring of 1940. With recent hits including Dark Victory; The Old Maid; the costume epic Juarez; and Jezebel, which was Jack Warner's gift to Davis after she lost the role of Scarlett O'Hara in Gone With the Wind, and also directed by Wyler. Davis had wanted to work with Wyler again (the two had an affair during Jezebel, but Wyler had since married) and sought him out as director. Though Wyler was under contract to Sam Goldwyn, one of Hollywood's main independent producers, Warners and Goldwyn worked out a deal for The Letter, and Wyler came to work in May 1940.

This scene caused a big rift in the film's production between Davis and Wyler.

Filming went relatively smoothly until Wyler and Davis clashed over the key line of dialogue. "With all my heart, I still love the man I killed!" Leslie tells her cuckolded husband, Robert (Herbert Marshall). Wyler wanted Davis to say the words while she looked Marshall in the eye. Davis thought she should turn away in shame. "If you try to soften the blow, you shouldn't say it at all," Wyler told her. At an impasse, Davis walked off the set. But of course she came back and "did it his way." For the rest of her life Davis thought her way was right, but she lost, she said "to an artist." The Letter was released in November 1940 to great acclaim and solid box office, and, in early 1941, seven Oscar nominations, including Best Picture, Best Actress for Bette Davis, and Best Director for William Wyler. Ultimately, however, the film won nothing but the admiration of the movie-going public.

The ever-present moon

As I said, The Letter fascinates me. Wyler was not known for his striking camera and lighting. The Letter refutes any notion that his camera and lighting styles were pedestrian. The opening is a tracking shot outside the Crosbie house where their rubber plantation workers sleep. As the camera passes the tired men in hammocks, the oppressive the heat and humidity is palpable. Wyler's camera tracks to the end of hammocks when the silence is broken by gunshots. Even more visually impressive is the moon as it makes its ominous presence felt not only in the sky but through window blinds, generating shadows that remind us of the prison bars. No one--not even Wyler--knew what he wanted in a scene until he saw it. That instinct for what is right and true in a scene was Wyler's gift. His friend and fellow director John Huston wondered "where Willy got it." Perhaps The Letter screenwriter Howard Koch said it best: While wrestling with the front office--something that happened more and more over Wyler's meticulous filming method as his career progressed--the director, perhaps unable or unwilling to please the money men, "pleased himself." Luckily, it pleased us too.


Sources

Books: A Talent for Trouble by Jan Herman
            Bette Davis, The Pyramid Illustrated History of the Movies by Jerry Vermilye
Internet: IMDB
               Wikipedia
               Turner Classic Movies
               YouTube

Astaire!

I seem to be in a musical frame of mind. This is not unusual, though I haven't been on a real all singing/all dancing/all talkie binge for a while. My previous post was on Cukor's semi-musical refashioning of those 1932 and 1937 chestnuts, A Star Is Born. Then I stumbled across this bit of info: May10th was Fred Astaire's birthday.

The Man, himself

Fred Astaire, I found, is an acquired taste. His air is perceived as too rarefied and his persona too dandified (though that used to be called elegant). Hollywood's other male dancer extraordinaire--and Astaire's only rival--Gene Kelly, had a more muscular, "masculine" style. And despite some lovely female co-stars, Kelly's best musical numbers were usually either solo (think Singin' in the Rain's title song and dance, and The Pirate, in which his best work is partnerless) or with another male dancer (Frank Sinatra in Anchors Aweigh and Take Me Out to the Ballgame, for example, or Donald O'Connor in Singin' in the Rain). Kelly's personality was more working class--down to earth with a bit of sexual rakishness and shanty Irishness. By comparison, the jaunty Astaire is thinner, smoother, and more sophisticated, though no less fun. For a kid from Omaha, Nebraska, Astaire had the uncanny ability to project a remarkable amount of sophistication and more than a little joie de vivre. Astaire is also famous for making his dance partners, usually exceptional, look even better. His first co-star was Joan Crawford of all people, seldom remembered for her great dancing roles.

Going Bavarian with costar Joan Crawford,
here's Fred in his film debut, MGM's Dancing Lady (1933).

"Can't act. Slightly bald, also dances." This succinct description was the reaction to Astaire's MGM screen test. If ever a performer evaluation was an understatement, this is it! In Fred's screen debut, after more than twenty years of performing onstage with his sister Adele, he had a supporting role (billed sixth) in 1933's Dancing Lady, a fun, yet undistinguished movie. From there, he was swept away in Flying Down to Rio, pairing him for the first time with the talented, young yet experienced song-and-dance veteran, Ginger Rogers. Brought together by chance, the duo's show-stopping dance number "The Carioca," ensured they would be paired again soon. The next year, Astaire and Rogers appeared--this time as the leads--in The Gay Divorcee, which was based on one of Astaire's Broadway successes.

Together, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers made a total of ten musicals together, all but one for RKO; all but one in glorious black and white (the one at MGM was in "glorious" technicolor, natch); and all but one made during the tough years of the Depression. Their last film together, The Barkleys of Broadway, made in 1949 for MGM, came ten years after their previous pairing, The Story of Vernon and Irene Castle. The Castle film is the one Fred & Ginger movie I still haven't seen.

Since it's impossible to pick just one, I offer two of my favorites: 1935's Top Hat--generally considered their best--with Swing Time (1936) a close second. (Unfortunately, Swing Time contains a number called "Bojangles of Harlem." Meant to be a tribute to dancer Bill Robinson, with Fred in blackface, it's mostly embarrassing.) By the end of the decade, Astaire and Rogers were two of Tinseltown's biggest stars. Together they were a peerless team that danced love, romance, and dreams. The films they made were all love stories: boy meets girl; boy falls in love; girl is hard to get; boy gets girl. Simple but classic.

While a team, Rogers made six other movies; Fred only one--1937's A Damsel in Distress alongside non-dancer Joan Fontaine. After Shall We Dance in 1937, the last two films the dance team made for RKO were a pale reminder of the past successes as audiences began to find younger performers like Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney more appealing. Against considerable competition, Rogers went on to win 1940's Best Actress Oscar for Kitty Foyle. She remained a solid box office attraction throughout the 1940s. But Fred Astaire's future without Ginger Rogers was far from certain.

   

After those early years with RKO, Astaire was never tied down to one studio again. Like Ginger, Fred was lucky with his first film after their split. With Broadway Melody of 1940, Astaire was teamed with the movies' number one tap dancer, Eleanor Powell. Their take on Cole Porter's "Being the Beguine" is about as good as tap gets.

Fred's next film, Second Chorus, was described as "dismal" by film scholar Stephen Harvey. And without a doubt, the pairing of Astaire with the non-musical Paulette Goddard is puzzling even if it is unique. From here Fred partnered Rita Hayworth in two very popular musicals, You'll Never Get Rich (1941) and You Were Never Lovelier (1942). Hayworth, at the peak of her beauty and well on her way to becoming the movies' "Love Goddess," was one of Fred's best partners, matching him step for step. Between the two movies with Hayworth, Astaire made a Christmas season favorite, Holiday Inn, with Der Bingle, Bing Crosby. After this initial burst of mostly good films, Astaire's output seemed to have some missing element, whether a lack of good songs or off-beat casting. Still, Astaire's films always had at least one good moment in which song blended with dance to create a memorable viewing experience. The Sky's the Limit from 1943 is a good example, with memorable songs like "My Shining Hour" and "One For My Baby (and One More for the Road)."

1946's Ziegfeld Follies was a milestone in Fred's career--his first encounter with the legendary Freed Unit at MGM.  That was the name of producer Arthur (The Wizard of Oz, Meet Me in St. Louis, Gigi just to name a few) Freed's collection of highly talented (mostly) young people, many of whom came from Broadway. It was only a matter of time before the best musical producer in the movies met the best dancer in the movies. Their first collaborations, however, left some folks scratching their heads wondering what all this cinematic, technicolor dreamscape was about. Florenz Ziegfeld was Broadway's premier of musical extravaganzas, and Hollywood--MGM in particular--had a fascination with him. The company had used the Ziegfeld name in their 1936 Best Picture Oscar-winning The Great Ziegfeld, a bio of the man's life.

With another master of dance, Gene Kelly, in Ziegfeld Follies (1946)

MGM's own version of the Ziegfeld Follies is a gaudy, tuneful, outrageous, tedious, funny, stupid, colorful, one-of-a-kind confection that took years to complete with a score of directors, writers, and performers. By the time the movie hit the screens in the spring of 1946, much had been left on the cinematic scrap heap.

Filming started in March of 1944 with a budget of $3 million, an enormous amount for a time when movie tickets cost 35 cents. Movie attendance was approaching an all-time high ninety million patrons per week. Starring Judy Garland, Gene Kelly, Lena Horne, Esther Williams, Kathryn Grayson, Fanny Brice, and many others, Astaire was the film's de facto lead, sharing time in four musical vignettes one with Gene Kelly, two with Lucille Bremer, and the opening number with Lucille Ball and various women dressed in cat suits (the film is nothing if not flamboyant). Astaire has four numbers, including "Limehouse Blues" with Lucille Bremer and "The Babbitt and the Bromide" with Gene Kelly, combining song with great dancing.

Tony Duquette's amazing design for the "This Heart of Mine" sequence in Ziegfeld Follies (1946)

Follies was mostly directed by Vincente Minnelli, a fresh talent hot off the success of Meet Me in St. Louis. Astaire's next hot-house concoction, Yolanda and The Thief,  was Minnelli's and Freed's as well. Yolanda is a fairy tale with its eccentric characters (Bremer's flamboyant aunt, Mildred Natwick, is all dither and fuss), Dali-esque dream sequences, and elements of fantasy (Leon Ames' mysterious Mr. Candle). The film alienated fans when it was released, and is still regarded as a curious, bizarre, failed project. Many considered the film a vanity production to show off Freed's lover, the lovely and talented Lucille Bremer. Its failure, blamed on her, was a hit her career never recovered from. However, the film does have many virtues, including its leading lady, production design, costumes, choreography, and vibrant technicolor. The number, "Coffee Time," still entertains.

Astaire and Lucille Bremer in the Dali-esque dream sequence
from Vincente Minnelli's Yolanda and The Thief.

After this less-than-auspicious start to the Freed-Astaire working relationship, Astaire quickly tapped his way to Paramount Studios and a reunion with Bing Crosby for the colorful, entertaining Blue Skies. Featuring the songs of Irving Berlin, Blue Skies tells of Bing and Fred rivalry for the affections of leading lady Joan Caulfield. Despite its tired plot, Astaire and Crosby do what they did best: entertain us. Fred's "Puttin' on the Ritz" routine is especially memorable. The film was profitable, one of the biggest of 1946.

At this point that Fred Astaire decided to hang up his dancing shoes. A chronic worrier, Astaire thought he had gone stale, and that newer film fans found him passe. Then fate intervened. Over at MGM, Gene Kelly and Judy Garland planned to team up for the third time in Easter Parade, a Freed Unit presentation with Minnelli as director.  Several things changed this talent line-up. First up was Minnelli. As Garland's husband, Vincente Minnelli had guided her from the young girl in her Mickey Rooney collaborations to the lovely young woman in the three films they made together between 1944 and 1946. At this point Garland's personal demons began to emerge in a frightening way. MGM's Louis B. Mayer figured the studio would get more from Garland if her husband weren't around, so Charles Walters replaced Minnelli on the Easter Parade production. Then, on the eve of production, Gene Kelly broke an ankle playing baseball. Freed made a frantic call to Astaire. Would he replace Kelly? With Kelly's blessing, Astaire agreed. Easter Parade was an instant classic upon its 1948 release. Using the Irving Berlin song catalogue, Garland and Astaire made a great team. With support from Peter Lawford and, especially, Ann Miller, Easter Parade has become a perennial holiday favorite of generations (I once knew a girl who said it was her favorite film). Easter Parade also gave Astaire's career a new lease. Garland and Astaire were set to team up a second time on 1949's The Barkleys of Broadway, but Judy's fragile health forced her bow out, which sparked Freed's idea of reuniting Astaire with Ginger Rogers after a ten-year hiatus. It proved a popular decision.

"We're a couple of swells...." With Judy in the classic routine that Garland later adapted
for her stage show. From 1948's Easter Parade.

With these two musicals, Astaire headed into the 1950s with a revitalized film career, even as the musical genre peaked--early Fifties musicals included An American in Paris, Singin' in the Rain, Kiss Me, Kate, and The Band Wagon--and diminished. Successful musicals from the mid-Fifties forward were big (at times bloated), slow-moving adaptations of major Broadway hits. It was in this atmosphere that Astaire agreed to get aboard The Band Wagon, my favorite Fred Astaire movie.

In Vincente Minnelli's The Band Wagon (1953),
 here's Astaire with the best dance partner he ever had, Cyd Charisse

Directed once again by Vincente Minnelli, 1953's The Band Wagon is not just a simple story--its characters near cliches, the dialogue ordinary. The physical production; the tuneful, classic songs by Arthur Schwartz and Howard Dietz; the great choreography by Broadway's Michael Kidd; and scene-stealing turns by an irrepressible Nanette Fabray, Oscar Levant and his neuroses, and Jack Buchanan as the egomaniacal director all combine to create one of the last great movie musicals. Partnered for the first time with the sublime Cyd Charisse, Astaire is at the top of his game. From the "Dancing in the Dark" number to the film's ultimate musical-in-a-musical number, "The Girl Hunt Ballet," the pair are entirely attuned each other. Not since Ginger Rogers had a dance partner of Astaire's worked so perfectly.

1953 was Astaire's twentieth year in film, and at age 54 he contemplated retirement--again. The movies' premier song-and-dance man nearly hung it up, feeling he had gone stale. His Band Wagon character, Tony Hunter, has a clear connection to Astaire: old hoofer from Hollywood in a career slump, goes east to try and revive it, and finds love in the process. It's true Fred ended the 1940s on an upswing, but the 1950s found him in more pedestrian ventures.

Dancing to the great song "All of You" by Cole Porter.
Charisse and Astaire do it one more time in 1957's Silk Stockings.

In 1954, Astaire's wife, Phyllis, died of cancer. He returned to Hollywood for Fox's Daddy Long Legs in 1955 and then made his last two musicals in a one-two punch: Paramount's Funny Face with Audrey Hepburn and MGM's Silk Stockings, a showcase for Cole Porter's songs, that reunited him with Cyd Charisse. Astaire, the male lead in both movies, is nearly upstaged by his female co-stars. The stories are about the women, and the films belong to them. While both films were warmly received by critics, audiences favored Silk Stockings over the stylish Funny Face. Except for his turn in Francis Ford Coppola's version of Finian's Rainbow in 1968, Fred Astaire never made another musical on the big screen. With his wife gone, his two children grown, and his song-and-dance-man years pretty much behind him, Astaire looked for new challenges. He found it in his next film.

It's the end of the world as they know it....

Stanley Kramer's films are well known for their social awareness. The director--who began as a producer--was known for his tackling difficult subjects like 1925's Scopes "Monkey" Trial in the film Inherit the Wind (1960); racism and bigotry in The Defiant Ones (1958); Nazi war criminals in Judgment at Nuremberg (1961); and, with On the Beach, nuclear destruction of Earth. Without naming who exactly is at fault, the film takes place in Australia and deals with the last known survivors. Though the film suffers from some very poor Australian accents (apart from Gregory Peck's Commander Dwight Lionel Towers, all the characters--played by American actors--are meant to be Australians), On the Beach rewards patient audiences with good performances, including Astaire's as a scientist who helped make the bomb during World War II and is grappling with his role in the devastating event. When released, On the Beach was extremely timely, though a slight disappointment on release late in 1959. Astaire's dramatic turn brought some acclaim but no Oscar gold.

At a rehearsal hall with Gene Kelly (early Fifties-ish)

Fred was 60 now. Time was getting short, but he still had some dance steps. When movies were no longer an option for musical performances, Astaire moved on to television. With Barrie Chase, a collaborator more than thirty years his junior, Astaire made four television variety specials between 1958 and 1968. Astaire adapted rather well to television, as his co-starring role as Robert Wagner's gentleman-thief father in the popular suspense/comedy show, It Takes a Thief, shows.

Movies were still a part of his life as well. In 1974, Astaire starred in two very different movies. The mega budget The Towering Inferno included Fred along with the all-star cast of Steve McQueen, Paul Newman, Faye Dunaway, William Holden, Jennifer Jones, Robert Wagner, Richard Chamberlain, and O.J. Simpson. The Towering Inferno was a box office blockbuster, gaining several Oscar nominations, including a Best Supporting Actor nomination to Astaire for his performance as a shady yet gentlemanly con man who falls in love with Jennifer Jones. It was the lone Oscar nomination of his forty-year film career, and Fred was undoubtedly the sentimental favorite. I remember watching that Oscar show and being pretty surprised when the winner was Robert DeNiro for The Godfather, Part II. (It was one time when the Academy got it right. DeNiro's work in Part II is nothing short of amazing.) Astaire's work in Inferno was good but not Oscar-worthy. No surprises; not even a real good last scene.

Fred's other 1974 movie was the classic showbiz documentary, That's Entertainment!, a film so popular it spawned sequels in 1976 (again with Fred) and 1993. That's Entertainment! was instrumental in the creation of the great nostalgia wave of the early-to-mid 1970s. Fred Astaire's farewell to film was the well-regarded horror film from 1981, Ghost Story, in which he starred with Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., Melvyn Douglas, and John Houseman.

In 1950, Ginger Rogers presented Astaire with an Oscar for lifetime achievement. It's nice to know Fred wasn't empty handed when it came to Oscar. 

Fred Astaire received the American Film Institute Lifetime Achievement Award in 1981. At the time, Astaire was only the ninth film legend awarded the honor. He was also the first recipient of The Kennedy Center Honors in 1978. In 1980, Fred--a widower since his wife's death in the mid-Fifties--married horse race jockey, Robyn Smith. The marriage lasted until his death in June 1988 when he was 89.

The immortal team: dancing love, dancing magic, and dancing dreams

Fred Astaire was unique to the movies, and he still is. It seems that style and grace are not really a part of our world anymore. Seen through contemporary eyes, Astaire's demeanor and old-fashioned manners and charm are out of touch in an American society that prizes boorishness. Astaire is from a time when movies--all movies, not just love stories--were romantic. Fred Astaire and the films of his generation laid the groundwork that subsequent generations have been trying to recreate for fifty years. As Gene Kelly said at an AFI dinner in his honor (to paraphrase) up there on the screen you dance dreams, you dance joy, and you dance love. Today's films are technically superior, yet they are often cold and lack emotion. Movies used to have song, joy, magic, and love. Now it seems all they offer are green screen-generated special effects. We shouldn't leave a theater feeling empty. In his day, Fred Astaire wouldn't have let us.
 

Sources
Books: Fred Astaire, Pyramid Illustrated History of the Movies by Stephen Harvey
            Ginger Rogers, Pyramid Illustrated History of the Movies by Patrick McGilligan
            Joan Crawford, Pyramid Illustrated History of the Movies by Stephen Harvey
            Rita Hayworth, Pyramid Illustrated History of the Movies by Gerald Peary
            Starring Fred Astaire by Stanley Green and Burt Goldblatt
Internet: IMDB
              Wikipedia
              Images of Astaire
              YouTube