HISTORY LESSON: Hollywood at War

Bob Hope performs for the boys in Sicily, 1943.

For a brief period, film existed solely as a pure artistic venture blended with scientific innovation. Almost immediately, this sanctity was corrupted by business, which both heightened its possibilities and tangled its intentions. Cinema as a propaganda device was always forthcoming, but despite the expected birth of celebrity product endorsements, the most influential collision of stardom and salesmanship didn't occur until the Great War. The different ages of American War have revealed themselves in various ways through our movies, but perhaps the most interesting moments occurred not in the later rallying, reactionary cries of the Vietnam or Korean Wars, but in the earlier calls to arms of WWI and WWII. This equally paranoid and frightful time produced in Hollywood a profound moment of unity, patriotism, and brotherhood. On the screen or behind the cameras, an attitude of "One for all, and all for one" reigned supreme. The movies of the day were used to relay this message, as did its stars, who for once proudly took a back seat to the Stars (and Stripes) of the American Flag. Though contention and doubts did exist, an indestructible, unified front was always presented, which was perhaps simply due to the source of the battles being waged-- particularly the genocidal WWII. In a continuing celebration of Independence Day, here is a look back the impact of war on Hollywood, and the impact of Hollywood on the war.

While the Revolutionary War called upon a young and insecure landscape to defy its tormentors (and sometimes its own inhabitants) in order to proclaim itself a union, and the Civil War pitted brother against brother when incongruous versions of scruples and ethics threatened to tear the country apart, The Great War was entered into willingly by a freshly healed and newly thriving society. Its effect would render America not only unarguably the most powerful nation in the world, but-- as it was the lone combatant to emerge without war torn soil-- it too would rise victoriously as the film capital of the world. During a period of low economic peril that would lead to the euphoria of the roaring twenties, the strength and positivity of the nation was echoed loudly through its silent film players. Most memorably, Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, and Charlie Chaplin would embark on a tour selling war bonds (left), using their popularity and charisma to maintain and enhance the country's participation in the movement. The films of the time showcased their dedication, such as Mary Pickford's The Little American, which put America's Sweetheart right in the throes of German atrocities. The picture was passionately directed by Cecil B. DeMille-- a strong supporter of both the war movement and the armed forces-- who had in fact established the Home Guard, via Famous Players-Lasky, as its Captain when the war began in April of 1917. Yet, it is Douglas Fairbanks who was perhaps most indicative of American patriotism at the time. Healthy, virile, in incredible shape, and possessing both an optimistic spirit and a zest for life-- which, if canistered, could probably have provided enough energy to power a large city for 100 years-- "Mr. Pep" was the era's masculine ideal. He proudly made several short propaganda films to get his brethren in the spirit of battle, such as Swat the Kaiser and Sick 'em Sam.

Chaplin too did a great deal to express his feelings about the war, but as a more calculating aesthete and a true humanitarian, his efforts most often revealed themselves through his own compelling work. The strongest statement he ever made about war came about prior to WWII in his defiant, tragicomic masterpiece The Great Dictator (right). While many remained blind to or even embraced the shocking new stratagems of Adolf Hitler during his rise to power, Charlie always remained aghast, dismayed, and disgusted by the Fascist's lunacy. When Hitler's administration mutated into abject madness, Chaplin was not surprised, and The Great Dictator became his impassioned wake up call to America. The artistry of the film remains pure poetry, yet at the time its honesty was under-appreciated: Hitler banned it in Germany and all other Nazi-occupied countries. It was the presence of Hitler, recalled quite accurately as one of the most crazed and demonic beings to ever live, that propelled Hollywood more emphatically into its support of the war, making WWII even moreso than WWI an interesting period to look at cinematically. While it was a Japanese attack that pulled America directly into battle, it was Naziism that more accurately identified the threat of the times. Yet, after the tragedies and losses of the Great War, there was a still a hesitant skepticism about entering into another foreign battle. Not surprisingly, most early support was coming from British actors like Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh, whose homeland was already suffering graphic actualities that America was only theoretically pondering. Then, the eternal day of infamy arrived at Pearl Harbor and erased all doubts. America went to war with a vigor that has yet to be matched.

A very vocal spokesperson at the beginning of America's entrance into WWII was Carole Lombard (selling bonds, left). Everyone's favorite and most beautiful kook definitely had a serious side when it came to Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. She gave her staunch support to the cause and went on a nationwide war bond tour for which she was able to raise over $2 million in one day. Her shocking death while on her way home from this tour had a great impact on the American people in general but most specifically on her Hollywood friends. Jack Benny couldn't even bring himself to perform his radio show when he heard the news. Respectfully, Carole was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by FDR and given the notoriety of being the first woman killed in the line of duty. Carole had been prodding husband Clark Gable to enlist since before the war even began, but he-- fearing that he was not cut out for it-- had demurred. After her death and in honor of it, he did indeed enlist and, as many in his regiment would attest, started volunteering for the most dangerous missions. While fighting, he wore a locket containing the last remnants of his beloved wife: a few sparse pieces of her jewelry collected from the crash site.

Clark was not the only member of the Hollywood community to serve heroically. A large portion of the male actors fought, including Douglas Fairbanks, Jr (who enlisted before war was even declared), Henry Fonda, Glenn Ford, Robert Montgomery, Tyrone Power (right), David Niven, Alan Hale, Mickey Rooney, William Holden, etc. Jimmy Stewart, who had to sweet-talk his way into the war (due to the fact that he was underweight), would become the most decorated actor to ever serve his country. Directors like John Huston, George Stevens, and Frank Capra too contributed by going overseas and filming raw footage, which was subsequently compiled for newsreels and war documentaries. This is not to imply that these fellas were blithely fearless. The old paranoia remained, which is perhaps why Jack Warner, fearful that his studio would be misconstrued from the sky as an army base, had "LOCKHEED" painted on the roofs in large, bold letters. However, the war department demanded that he have the label removed. This was an obvious overreaction on the mogul's part, but there was reason to worry. War is a very real thing, after all. Leslie Howard became another Saint of the cause, joining Lombard, when he and sixteen others were shot down by the Germans when flying over the Bay of Biscay.

The women also did what they could in terms of entertaining the troops, participating in war bond rallies, and making public service announcements and war propaganda advertisements. Veronica Lake (right) participated in a memorable campaign that persuaded women to wear their hair up at the factories, where so many females were seeking employment during the war effort. It turns out, too many of their copied, peek-a-boo hairstyles were getting caught in the machines! War was about social fusion not fashion! (However, it could be argued that this was a mere publicity ploy to publicize Paramount's latest, sexy star). Actresses too encouraged their sisters to ration supplies, including their precious silk stockings. Rarely recalled, as well, is the fact that a young Audrey Hepburn was a courier for resistance fighters in Holland at this time. 

However, there were some men who were unable to serve due to various injuries, ailments, or simply their age. If these reasons were explained thoroughly enough by the press, the public forgave the trespasses, but there was occasional, savage hostility directed at the men whose absence from the front identified them as cowardly or emasculate. Errol Flynn irritatingly received a 4F classification from the army-- a crushing blow to such a screen hero-- due to the ravages of past and recurring illnesses. His lung was marred by an unmistakable shadow-- an effect of TB-- and he too suffered recurring bouts of malaria. There also were alleged problems with his heart, though it was only after he was refused entree into the army that it was truly broken. (He does his part for the effort in The Dawn Patrol with David Niven, left). John Wayne was too left out of the loop due to an old knee injury, and Van Johnson's recent car crash and head injury extricated him from combat. Left at home, these boys carried on the tradition of screen heroism, and their careers boomed as Hollywood churned out more and more patriotically themed films.

John Garfield was another macho guy, ironically left behind due to his weak heart. Frustrated by inactivity, he yearned for a way to do something special for the war effort. He decided to team up with friend Bette Davis (left, serving her autograph to a serviceman) to form the Hollywood Canteen, the dream oasis and dance hall for soldiers with a night off. Instead of cruising around to the nearest local bar, fighters lucky enough to have landed in Hollywood now had a chance to go to the infamous Canteen and talk to, be served by, and even dance with, some of the most famous stars of the silver screen. This memorable hot spot is but one of many examples of Hollywood's selflessness during the war. The way these different celebrities turned the spotlight away from themselves and onto the brave men serving their country added a great deal of gravity and character into an industry that had grown increasingly self-absorbed. The bugle sound of battle had awakened more than just a need to defend human rights; it had brought the city of angels down to earth. Movie stars making thousands upon thousands of dollars a picture were reminded of their good fortune. Thus, the immortals, the untouchables, made a conscious effort to repay a great debt to the viewers who basically allowed them their lavish privileges, and what's more, were fighting for them. Barbara Stanwyck, Ann Sheridan, Jennifer Jones, Marlene Dietrich, and Claudette Colbert were some of the many beautiful ladies who dedicated their time to the soldiers, sometimes dancing with them until their feet started to bleed! But, the men came too, and Gary Cooper, Cary Grant, and the Marx Brothers offered up jokes and laughs, chumming up to the brave men and doing their part. Before Tony Curtis became one of these elite, he came to the Canteen as a young navy officer to stare awestruck at such personalities. As such, John and Bette's landmark achievement became a Hollywood monument, (though it is rumored that Bette was a little overly patriotic in her attentions to some of the soldiers. Not that they complained).

The most dedicated and selfless offerings came from those stars who devoted their time to entertaining the troops. A majority of stars would make such a contribution, particularly to the local California army bases. Those who are truly noteworthy went overseas and into the heart of danger to bring a bit of home to the men abroad. Bob Hope's efforts are legendary as are Jack Benny's. But the army's number one girl during WWII was none other than Carole Landis (hitching a ride, right). The tom-boy knock-out was dedicated to the cause from the get-go, singing at bases, volunteering, and gamely donating both blood and money. She saw the war coming before it had reached American soil, and had even requested an acting job in England so that she could be closer to those who were already fighting. She earned her own pilot's license, hoping to enlist with the ATS, but she sadly withdrew when she learned that she would have to surrender her American citizenship, which was something the All-American-Girl was not apt to do. Her solution was to devote as much time as she could to "the boys." She remained as active as possible, and actually carried a trunk in her car filled with a variety of uniforms and wardrobe options for whichever random event should happen to claim her attention. She motored back and forth to countless benefits. By 1942, she was already made an honorary Colonel by Hollywood Post 43. She became a favorite of soldiers on leave, whom she honestly befriended. She offered up her beach house to them, and many a lucky gang found themselves taking a breather there and being served breakfast by Carole and her mother. (No funny business. She treated them as her own brothers, and they as their sister). Carole also always volunteered for the foxhole tours, which were considered the most dangerous. To her, the fellows here were the most in need.

Carole was aching to do more, and her most memorable gift to the servicemen came when she enlisted the help of actress Kay Francis, dancer Mitzi Mayfair, and comedienne Martha Raye to join her in a trip to entertain the troops stationed in Britain (all Four Jills in a Jeep, left). With her singing talents, the quadruple threat was a welcome relief to many young men whose first words to them often were, "I haven't seen an American girl in months!" Warm, fresh faces from home-sweet-home, and famous faces at that, were a dream come true in the hellish nightmare of war. Taking Cary Grant's advice to pack as many warm clothes as she possibly could, Carole and her talented retinue took on the dangerous task of spreading cheer with heart and courage. And it was dangerous. After a brief and unexpected stopover with the troops in Bermuda, the ladies traipsed on to England and later Africa. Carole documented her memories in a blue notebook that one friendly soldier gifted her early in her travels, which she would later turn into a book, and Fox would turn into a movie: Four Jills in a Jeep. However, this film, which does much to showcase the ladies' talents, does little to reveal the realities of the ordeals they went through. Carole would recall freezing nights, explosions that shook the girls to the bone and blew through their bedrooms, and life-threatening experiences-- such as a near-crash landing with the plane still ablaze! She and the ladies were once thrown into safety by some of their soldier friends, who protected their bodies from flying shrapnel. Though they donned their fancy duds on stage, where they performed a number of exhausting shows nearly every day, they wore army regulation clothing and boots on their off time, wherein they unglamorously clomped through the mud with the boys.

Carole's memories of the war and of the men she encountered would change her life and leave her with bittersweet feelings (with Mitzi at the Biskra Air Base, right). She committed herself fully, and at a cost (she would have recurring bouts of malaria and painful stomach ailments for the remainder of her short life). The height was meeting so many people, befriending them, and touching their lives; the downside was the pain of learning that they had been injured in battle or had lost their lives. Carole visited the hospitals devotedly, memorizing names, palling around with the nurses, and even refusing a private room when she herself became ill. When her tour was halted from proceeding further, Carole and Kay petitioned to Dwight Eisenhower himself for aid in allowing them to continue their mission to the frontline, come Hell or high water. He found it impossible to say no to them, and their persistence eventually got them to Africa. As tiring as the entire process was, doing eight shows a day over and over for thousands of men, traveling to strange and dangerous destinations, and getting little sleep, there was some time for fun. A few of her favorite soldiers took her and Mitzi especially around, showed them what remained of the wrecked local life, and indulged them in jitterbugging. Carole too found time for love, falling for soldier Thomas Wallace, and fulfilling what she must have believed was a patriotic duty in marrying him. The trials she had to get through merely to get this process done was arduous enough in wartime England, but with her usual persistence, a little luck, and the help of friends-- who offered up their wartime coupons, so she could buy a wedding dress-- she completed this ultimate fantasy on January 5, 1943. Another high point was being able to perform for the Queen of England. It was always Carole's singing finales that brought down the house. After four and a half months, Carole and her gal pals ended their unified journey. Carole would never forget it, nor the soldiers her.

Back at home, Carole motored on with radio work, filmmaking, writing her war memoirs, and continuing in her patriotic efforts-- even performing in the rain for an ecstatic public who came to see her. As the war ended-- and her storybook marriage to Tommy-- she found it hard to re-assimilate to the banal existence of a once again self serving Hollywood. It certainly contributed to the depression that would later claim her life. Perhaps she felt the impact of that brief moment of history a little too deeply. Perhaps her knowledge of it was simply more profound than so many others-- who had remained ignorantly comfortable on American shores-- to understand. Existing on war-torn terrain and returning to a land of glamour and phony prestige no longer seemed bearable. But then, this was not the total reason for her end. She had lived for the boys, and she would have continued to do so had it not been for other factors affecting her emotional life. Certainly, when she took her own life, she broke a million hearts. These hadn't been lads who had merely caught a glimpse of her, but those who shook her hand, knew her by her first name, had confided in her their fears, stories about their families, tragic tales about their battles, and the dreams that they had held for the future. (Carole sings in her favorite dress, in which she would also be buried, left). To say that she touched many lives would be the understatement of the century.

Ann Sheridan at the Hollywood Canteen.

Carole was one of the many who saw to it that, for once, this topsy-turvy world was inverted, and that honor was bestowed in the right place. During WWII especially, soldiers became the celebrities. They were the ones receiving admiration and unadulterated respect. That so many Hollywood personalities would step down from their ivory towers to make this known is still a mind-boggling and moving concept. This was an odd and unrepeatable moment of cohesion and certainty, which in our confused, modern world no longer makes sense. Normally our cinema reflects social turmoil, escapist fantasy, and the product of constant human questioning. Movies, thus, become the products of our disagreements. Rarely, as in these periods of war, it becomes instead of medium of complete agreement, when the living heart and the filmic heart beat in unison. When this moment ends, and our bickering continues-- our political debates and communal banter-- it only renders our artistic and actual freedom more perfect. Our ability to vocally, visually, and even vapidly express ourselves and the things that we always fight over, is the very thing we've always been fighting for. God Bless America and American Film!

STAR OF THE MONTH: Carole Landis

Carole Landis

It is funny what celebrity death can do... both to the public and to the deceased. The masses were so distraught after Rudy Valentino's death that at least a couple of the broken hearts tried to take their own lives as well. The tragedies of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe, instead of ending their time on earth, brought them eternal life and the love of devoted fans. Yet, sometimes, despite one's fame, to die is to die. Such is the sad case of Carole Landis, who despite her bright light, her profound beauty, and the fanatic adulation she received during her lifetime, is now remembered-- if at all-- as a sad and balled-up corpse on the bathroom floor. After she took her own life in order to ease her wounded heart, the world was left in shocked silence. Slowly, she became all but forgotten outside the halls of Hollywood's macabre trivia. The time has come to unearth her and give her the respect and embrace she always wanted but was forever denied. As the anniversary of her death approaches on July Fourth, it seems befitting to dedicate our most patriotic month to the woman who, in her life, was America's favorite patriot. Carole Landis, God shed his grace on thee...

Carole was naturally photogenic... and a brunette. 

She went blonde when she went Hollywood.

Just as mysterious and saddening as her end was her beginning. Frances Lillian Ridste was the youngest of five children born to Clara Zentek and Alfred Ridste of Wisconsin in 1919. Yet, from the beginning there was controversy, including a debate as to just who her real father was. While the family was temporarily living in Montana-- due to Alfred's job with the railroad-- Clara met farmer Charles Fenner and, it is assumed, had an affair with him. Since Alfred obtained a divorce from Clara not long after Frances's birth, credence can be given to the rumor. Clara wed Charles after her first divorce, but that union would only last 17 months. Thus, Carole inherited two absent fathers and an equally absent mother, who was forced to spend most of her days working to feed and clothe herself and her 4 children (one of whom, Jerry, had tragically already died). Carole was often left to her own devices: both to entertain herself and to fend for herself. Her childhood lacked the innocence that every youth is owed, but she never belly-ached about it. In fact, her fortitude and her selflessness were well-honed qualities that she would carry with her into adulthood, where their repercussions would eventually and vengefully take hold. A naturally friendly, light-hearted, and popular child, Carole was laid-back and easy-going. After the family moved to San Bernardino, CA, she enjoyed the pleasures of going to school and socializing, excelling at both. She could easily chat with the girls, despite their jealousy over her growing beauty-- which her sweet demeanor rendered non-threatening-- but she preferred to play sports with the boys. Athleticism was always a major part of her life, and the glamorous gowns and delicate figure that she showcased in her later film roles would eclipse a tom-boy's energetic and shapely body. In her youth, the only "dangerous curves" Carole concerned herself with had to do with softball.

In a wardrobe fitting.

Feisty and independent, Carole would survive many tragedies and mature rapidly as a result. She lost another brother, Lewis, when he was accidentally shot at the kitchen table while playing with a neighbor's gun. After her mother suffered a ruptured appendix, Carole, despite being the youngest member of the household, was the only child who neither panicked nor cried. She did what she always did and "got to gettin'." Nonetheless, the scars of these early experiences increased in her a need for escape. One option for relief was through the movies, of which she very quickly became enamored. Singing was also a talent she indulged in, possessing a beautiful voice to match her gorgeous physical features. It was this latter beauty that led to another possibility of escape: men. At 14, she passed for 21, and the fellas noticed, especially after she started winning beauty competitions (for which she had to lie about her age to enter). Luckily, Carole was completely lacking in vanity, and saw this all as a fun joke. She was more focused on creating the first powder-puff football team at her school, (though the Principal didn't go for it because it was "unwomanly"). Then, at the age of 15, she met 18-year-old Irving Wheeler and fell in love. He offered her a life away from her increasingly dependent mother, and more importantly a life of their own. Carole took the bate, and the two eloped on January 14, 1934, though the marriage was soon annulled when both sets of parents found out. Defiantly, Carole wed Wheeler again, whose intentions were more physical than emotional, only to walk out on him by September of the same year. It would not be her last tumultuous relationship.

Twentieth-Century Fox definitely cashed in on Carole's sex appeal, 

which was at times devastating to her sense of self.

The self-starter herein made her first big move: to San Francisco. Still only fifteen, she left school, her family, and all of her friends behind and travelled to the city that was known for its artistry and culture. She hoped to make a name there for herself as a singer. She did. First, she changed her name, taking "Carole" from one of her favorite actresses, Carole Lombard, and "Landis" from baseball commissioner (of course) Kennesaw Mountain Landis. Many have alleged that Carole spent her early days in San Francisco as a call-girl, but these seem to be nothing more than slanderous rumors cooked up by a jealous and unforgiving world. In truth, Carole had no time to engage in this type of vocation, because almost as soon as she stepped off the train, she marched into the famous St. Francis Hotel and asked the manager for a job. When he heard her sing, he was stunned and gratified to hire her on the spot. By working the smaller St. Francis bar, Carole was soon scooped up by the "Carl Ravazza Orchestra," and after enjoying a great deal of success and adulation, she possessed enough confidence to give Hollywood a go. In 1936, now seventeen, Carole was primed to take the industry by storm, though she would have to edit her age again to do so. With the same fearless determination and zestful work ethic that she had shown in San Francisco, Carole made the rounds to different studios and obtained numerous extra jobs until being offered a contract. 

Her athleticism served her well in the physically demanding 

One Million B.C. Eat your heart out, Raquel Welch.

Her first big break came when she was cast in the special effects, B-movie triumph One Million B.C, in which she outmaneuvered dinosaurs in scant clothing alongside costar Victor Mature. It was her athleticism that won her the role. D.W. Griffith himself was brought on board to help cast the film initially, and he hand-picked Carole because, as he put it, "She's the only [girl] who knows how to run." Soon, she was using her natural talent and knack for both comedy and drama to climb the popularity polls in films like Turnabout, in which she plays a man in the body of a woman, I Wake Up Screaming, in which she plays Betty Grable's morally questionable, murdered sister, and A Scandal in Paris, in which she plays such a sexy and devious villainess that she literally sets the screen on fire. Her beauty made her a prime candidate for some of the most popular pin-up photos of the day, though some of hers didn't make it to print due to censorship-- not because they were naughty, but because she was too well endowed. In fact, she became the first "sweater girl," before contemporary Lana Turner took the title. She was so innocently provocative that at least one particular photographer warned her before a shoot, "For God's sakes, don't inhale!" to try to diminish the appearance of her... gifts. Though Carole thought all of this objectification was a lark, she went along with it, simply because she was easy-going; not because she put stock in her sexual appeal. It wasn't until they tried to label her as the "ping" girl that she completely rebelled. She wanted to be a great actress and studied Bette Davis's performances with an eager ferocity, hoping to lend the same depth to her own roles. Sadly, because of her beauty, she was rarely afforded the privilege. Yet, she remained popular, especially among her contemporaries who constantly became smitten by her kindness and conviviality. She counted Patsy Kelly, Cesar Romero, "Mousie" Lewis, and Burgess Meredith as close friends. Even the most temperamental actors found safety in Carole's presence; she just had one of those auras that put people at ease. 

In Turnabout with John Hubbard.

All was not rosy, however. Carole's private life, if not her career, was always a failure. After finally obtaining a divorce from first husband Irving Wheeler, she then married and was divorced from Willis Hunt. She too was in a damaging relationship with Busby Berkeley and an abusive one with Pat DiCicco. Her many gentlemen friends led to rumors that Carole was just another of the many young women sleeping her way to the top. Yet, there is hardly any woman in Hollywood untainted by such a rumor, nor many who are completely innocent of it. Los Angeles doesn't breed angels. Though Carole was free-spirited and far from prudish, the assumption that she was, for lack of a better phrasing, a "studio whore," is unfounded and unfair. This is evidenced by that fact that she was able to make a legitimate career for herself, whereas so many women were simply used and discarded. It is, however, reasonable to assume that she did use the Hollywood game to her advantage, as many did, at least until she achieved enough power to extricate herself from the misogynistic system. It is generally accepted that she was one of the many ingenues Darryl F. Zanuck used for his own pleasure, but she eventually either grew tired of or outgrew this accepted station, and uttered the unfathomable word, "No." Consequently, this led to her casting in silly supporting roles beneath her talent, a tactic for Zanuck's vengeance. Ironically, the thing that saved her was WWII. Just as Carole's desire to please and bring joy to others had pulled her into a life in the entertainment business, so too did her big heart drive her to become the war effort's number one hero-- at the time above and beyond even Bob Hope or Jack Benny. Her tireless efforts in entertaining the troops at home and abroad made her America's Sweetheart and favorite patriot. Due to this, her popularity boomed, particularly after she penned a novel of her war experiences, Four Jills and a Jeep. Zanuck was begrudgingly forced to produce a film version-- albeit a Hollywoodized one-- starring herself and her three female compatriots, who were also worthy of much praise, Kay Francis, Mitzi Mayfair, and Martha Raye.

Entertaining the troops with Jack Benny.

The war changed Carole. Seeing brave men fight and die, befriending them and then losing them, and witnessing first hand the terrors of war, awakened in her a deeper knowledge of herself. No more did the glitz and glamour of stardom matter to her, not that it ever did much anyway. Now she wanted something more meaningful and fulfilling in her life. Most particularly, she yearned for a love that would lend her life gravity and comfort. She sought to attain this goal by wedding a soldier whom she met in England, Thomas Wallace. However, after their whirlwind, mid-battle courtship and wedding, the two returned to American soil and realized that they had little in common. Tommy had married her to fulfill a dream-- to wed a movie star-- only to realize that a determined woman with a career was far too belittling to his own masculinity. Carole's pipe dreams again went up in flames. After Tommy broke her heart, she moved on quickly and wed businessman Horace Schmidlapp, though that marriage too was not to last. The construction of her happy home was thus based on rocky soil. Love is found, not manufactured. The fighter in her believed a little elbow grease and work would create the life she wanted, but in reality she could never really build with anyone the love that she was looking for. 

Carole lies dead, beneath Det. Emmett Jones.

Then, she met Rex Harrison. Handsome, educated, talented, (and married), he wooed her quickly and efficiently. The only trouble was that, besides the Missus, Rex had a dark side. His feelings for Carole were superficial and sexual where hers were deep and emotional. Finding herself lost and unhappy in her career after the war, which left her feeling undernourished and useless, Rex became her all. Making movies, and bad movies at that, was a far cry from the deeply fulfilling humanitarian efforts she had offered up in Europe and Africa. She trucked along, never revealing her inner pains, remaining the devoted and beloved friend every one knew and loved, but inside she was crumbling. There is speculation that Carole tried to end her life more than once but had always been stopped before the mortal damage was done. These attempts, if true, were cries for help from a woman who was unable to articulate her own weaknesses; who knew only how to serve others and not take selfishly from them. The ability she had to push past her pain, slowly but surely crept up on her and reached a climax with hurricane Rex. Finally, tired of being used, of always being the other woman, Carole confronted Rex after a Fourth of July party that she had hosted. It is assumed that the two quarreled and the relationship was abruptly ended. That night, Carole packed all of Rex's belongings, photos, and memorabilia into a bag and left them by the mailbox at Ronald Culver's house, where Rex was staying. Then, she drove home, swallowed 30-50 Seconal tablets, and was not found until the next morning when a stunned Rex appeared before her maid and said, "I think she's dead." He, coincidentally, ran from the scene after the discovery. The eternal image of Carole now is that of a girl in a pretty summer outfit, lying on the floor in a ball, her arms frozen in an awkward, bent position. This posture suggests that she was trying to raise herself back up. She would not make it. Carole Landis: dead at 29 years of age on July 4, 1948. 

In one of her girl-next-door in one-helluva-sweater poses.

This sad, tragic tale is like so many in Hollywood, but is perhaps the most tragic because of the girl it involves. Of all the tormented souls wandering La La Land, or those who are immersed in their own demons, Carole seemed on the outside to be the least likely of its victims. Strong, vibrant, endearing, sensitive, giving, sweet... She was beloved by everyone in the community, save for those salacious studio wives who enjoyed spreading slanderous rumors about her. For her corpse and not her film work to be more remembered, for treacherous lies to be recalled and passed on and not her good deeds and selflessness, is the height of shamefulness. In every role she played, Carole brightened even the dullest of duds. She stole every show, not through effort, but from pure, unadulterated charisma and charm. She was the girl-next-door every service man in America fell in love with, and the compassionate lady every soul-sister wanted to give a big ol' hug. Yet, she forever remained apart. In her youth, she was the "other" child, and later, she became the pretty girl in Hollywood who, no matter how surrounded she was by people, was always alone. You cannot invent love, you can either give it or receive it. Too much of Carole's nature was in the giving and not the receiving, until she gave all that she had and was left with nothing. Her offerings to us, her remaining films, are cold comfort to a world who at one time idolized her and now only sits in ignorance. But, for the precious few who do recognize the true jewel that she was, her entertaining films and performances shall have to suffice. 

STAR OF THE MONTH: Lucille Ball

Lucille Desiree Ball

John Lennon once said that in the world of music, "Before Elvis, there was nothing."  I suppose that it is safe to say, in the world of Television, Before Lucy... there was nothing. Though I normally choose to dedicate my articles to those who helped shape the film world, there can be no denying the impact that Lucy had on that new-fangled contraption called the TV set. Though she wasn't the first performer to appear on the small screen, she would become the biggest. Along with husband Desi Arnaz, Lucille Ball would redefine-- in fact invent-- the situation comedy. Due to her weekly accessibility to salivating viewers, she too would finally achieve the stardom and celebrity she had always craved. In order to be big, Lucy had to get small. In result, she remains one of the most famous and recognizable actresses that ever lived.

In her early career, Lucille was compared to blonde screwball Carole Lombard-- 

a good friend-- whom she closely resembles here (before she went red).

All was not rosy, however. Comedians are perhaps the best actors, adeptly using laughter to detract and distract from their own personal torments. The facade of the hilarious, romantic, and peachy-keen domestic bliss of Lucy and Ricky Ricardo is a testament to the talent of both Lucy and Desi-- whose marriage was crumbling even as their hit TV show was skyrocketing them to fame and fortune. For Lucy, pain and personal tragedy were more familiar that laughs and hijinks. She would spend her life outrunning, out-thinking, and flat-out mugging her way out of obscurity, poverty, and invisibility. A born leader with a one-track-mind kind of ambition since her youth, Lucille Ball always pushed past the downward spirals in life in the belief that achieving her dreams would erase all sorrow. The eldest of three children by Henry Durrell Ball and Desiree Evelyn Hunt, Lucy was the most effected by her father's early, shocking death to typhoid fever. She was then neglected the paternal love she so craved by her new step-father, the gruff Ed Peterson. Shuffled between her mother, her grandparents, and any relative that would have her, Lucy's tenderest years were spent on shaky ground. When she dreamed of the future-- of performing, of being an actress, of being a star-- it wasn't the fame or money that called to her so much as the need for security. Safety. To live without financial worry was incredibly important. To have the adulation of fans was a promise of love. Yet every time she reached a peak, she clutched madly at it, certain that she would lose her grip on the life for which she had fought so hard. This insecurity, the same that fueled her tireless work ethic, was also the one that sabotaged her happiness. Even after becoming the Lucy that we all know and love, she would cry to herself: "Why can't I be happy?"

In an early RKO bit part in Follow the Fleet with Fred and Ginge. 

As with many actors, Lucy's one blanket of safety from her own conflicting and destructive thoughts was performing. From an early age, she had a knack for it. Whether BS-ing her way through a job as a short order cook in her native Jamestown, NY, earning rave reviews for her thirteen-year-old debut in a local musical (for which she was compared to the Jeanne Eagles), or taking on any and every silly role flung her way once she reached Hollywood, when on stage, she was always able to (temporarily) put the blues behind her. But it wasn't easy. Lucy was hard to peg. A hard worker, she was attractive but not "gorgeous," though she did find early work as a model. Her odd ball energy made her difficult to categorize. The studios doubted her leading lady ability, normally casting her as the smart-mouthed best friend in films like Stage Door or tough cookies and bad girls in films like Dance Girl Dance. Her blink-and-you'll-miss-them roles opposite rising stars like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire at RKO were what kept food on the table, as well as her badly written, poorly produced clunkers that made her, as she called herself, "Queen of the Bs." Still, her performances were solid when given the chance. She holds her own against George Sanders and Boris Karloff in Lured, and in The Big Street, her complex and deeply felt portrayal of a crippled show-girl breaks your heart. Yet, after appearing opposite The Marx Brothers, The Stooges, and Hepburn and Tracy, the poor girl still couldn't get anywhere above the title. Time, diligence, and love would later change this.

A match made in Hollywood Heaven and 

Personal Hell: the tortured love of Lucy and Desi.

Lucille Ball was attracted to the handsome Cuban musician Desi Arnaz since the moment she saw him performing on stage in "Too Many Girls." When the two were cast in the film version of this hit, lightning struck them both. Five years her junior, there was something about the passionate, charismatic, and exotic man that fascinated her. Their relationship was tumultuous and full of jealousy from the get-go, but in the early stages this only fueled their infatuation. Quickly ditching the people they were with, their subsequent marriage was more of a dare or challenge than a well thought out plan. Lucille must have had a premonition of what was to come: she wore black to her wedding. Madly in love and angry as Hell most of the time, the two rarely saw each other, merely passing cars on the hill as Lucy drove off to work in the morning and Desi was arriving home from working the clubs the previous night. Affairs were numerous, mostly on Desi's side, but it is also speculated that Lucy dabbled herself. As she clawed for her career, she too fought for the solid family life that had always been denied her. It was like forcing square pegs into round holes-- with their mutual ambitions, a quiet domesticity was never in the cards. Lucy yearned for a child, but with Desi always travelling with his band, getting pregnant was next to impossible. The most she could hope for was her career. In this at least it can be said that the Arnaz's were in union. Despite their bickering, philandering, and contention, they equally recognized each other's talents. In 1951, they would get a chance to showcase them together.

In the Season One Episode "Lucy Does a TV Commercial," Lucy performed in what 

she recalled as the greatest comedic moment of her career-- 

pushing Vitameatavegamin with disastrous results.

Lucy was doing the radio show "My Favorite Husband" when, after much praise, the idea was born to turn it into a television program. Lucy was adamant that Desi replace Richard Denning as her husband and that the show be refashioned to suit his persona. With the help of producer Jess Oppenheimer, writers Bob Carroll and Madelyn Pugh, and CBS, many hours of blood, sweat, toil, and tears, brought about "I Love Lucy." All concerned worked tirelessly to take a shaky premise, constantly rewritten scripts, and an insecure, nitpicking leading lady-- whose perfectionism made her demanding one minute and left her in tears the next-- to create a pilot about a married couple whose relationship is constantly tested by the entertainer husband's patriarchal stances and the wife's madcap attempts to be a part of his show. The finished idea sold, and after some minor changes-- including casting an older landlord couple played by Vivian Vance and William Frawley-- the game was set. For 9 Seasons, "I Love Lucy" triumphed. Desi proved himself to be a gifted businessman, who spearheaded his own show's success, as well as that of other shows that would be produced at Desilu studios, (including "The Untouchables"). The show broke barriers by introducing an "interracial" couple, by showing a wedded couple in bed together (though their twins were pushed together and not legitimately a double), and by daring to have Lucy announce to Ricky that she was "pregnant"-- which at that time was as gasp-inducing as "Murphy Brown's" later out-of-wedlock pregnancy.

From Season 2's "The Operetta." Lucy had no humility or vanity 

when it came to comedy. She would do whatever it took.

On the screen, Ricky and Lucy were in love. Off screen, Lucy and Desi fought constantly, as did Vivian Vance and William Frawley, whose mutual antipathy was mirrored in a much more cushiony version through their characters. Yet, for the sake of the show, everyone grinned and bore it. Frawley gave up booze while filming, though his shakes are often painfully visible to the viewer. Vance, who was constantly undergoing emotional breakdowns, remained a strong force of reason whose keen perception of story helped forge stronger scripts. While originally Lucy was intimidated by Vance, once pulling her false lashes from her face because "Only Lucy has fake lashes on this show!" the two grew on each other. Lucy came to rely on Vance, and Vance grew to understand Lucy's outbursts as indicative of her raging vulnerabilities. Desi enjoyed his position at the studio, becoming very knowledgeable about everyone on staff, helping to expand the empire, and gaining a reputation as a great judge of talent. Yet, in the end, as the Lucy/Desi marriage fell apart, so too did the Ricardos. After they dueling duo could go no longer, they would divorce each other, and "I Love Lucy" would divorce itself from living rooms around the world.

With a constant collaborator (especially in later years), Bob Hope, 

in The Facts of Life.

By the end of "I Love Lucy," Lucille Ball was enough of an icon to retire, had she so wanted. Yet, the perpetual laborer in her continued on. She returned sans Desi in "The Lucy Show," (again with Vance), and later flew solo in "Here's Lucy!", but both shows failed to attract the same adoration. She too took on stage roles and returned to cinema opposite other aging contemporaries like Bob Hope. Her most lasting effort would be with Henry Fonda in Yours Mine and Ours, though she continued working ceaselessly until her death. Lucy, always superstitious, believed that the letters "AR" gave her luck. She herself would say that "Lucille Ball" was a nobody until she became an "Arnaz" and even moreso "Lucy Ricardo." After her divorce from Desi, she would marry comedian Gary Morton, perhaps in the hope that he would bring the same good vibrations. Yet, though Gary offered constancy, the vim and vigor of Desi was irreplaceable. Though horrible as husband and wife and lackluster as parents due to their obsessive careers (they would eventually have two children, Lucie and Desi, Jr), some theorize that Lucy and Desi never truly fell out of love with each other. Their lives were too deeply interconnected to completely split asunder. The best of them remains in the continuing syndication of their best-beloved hit. Even today, new generations fall under the Ricardos' spell.

A brilliant photo depicting the fascinating, mysterious

 duality of Lucille Ball. One perspective reveals her 

determination, the other her vulnerability.

The true honor, however, belongs to the adorable, rubber-faced, accident-prone, but ever-loving Lucy. In one being, she was both Beauty and Bananas. Goofing for her audiences, she hoped that some of the joy she gave would be returned to her; that her audiences' laughter would warm her. For this, she fought until her dying day. It would be easy to say that she was merely a ham, but in her performances there is great depth and awareness, which would allow the show to maintain its power even after the collapse of the nostalgic nuclear family and the heights of the feminist movement. Lucy has become one of the biggest female icons of all time, building her empire out of the tiny box that most actors feared. Her lasting impression is that of joy, of letting go, of finding the humor and innocence in every day life. Groucho Marx would once say that Lucy wasn't a comedienne, she was an actress. Some interpreted this as an insult, but I find it to be a precise observation. There was art in what Lucy did. Orson Welles would agree. When observing Lucy rehearse on her show, he openly stated that he was "watching the world's greatest actress." Her hard work continues to pay off. In black and white, the fiery red head with the big blue eyes continues her reign as the eternal Queen of Comedy. We still Love you Lucy.