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: 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.

HOT SPOTS in CA: The Brown Derby

The easiest go-to for young lovers on date night has for some time now been the tried and true "dinner and a movie." However, if one happened to live in Hollywood in the glory days, occasionally this age-old ritual transferred to "dinner and a movie star." La La Land was, during the prime studio era, jam-packed with restaurants and eateries frequented by the glitziest faces in the biz. Chasen's, Googie's, Miceli's, The Cafe Trocadero... The list goes on and on. However, the most infamous of all these places, and the one that seems to come up as a reference in almost any Hollywood bio you read, is the The Brown Derby.

The original Derby at 3427 Wilshire.

Shaped like a hat and situated at 3427 Wilshire Blvd, the first branch of this illustrious food chain would open up in 1926 across the street from The Ambassador Hotel. It is said that the hat motif was the brain-child of co-owner Richard J. Cobb, who was once told by partner Harry Samborn (ex-hubby of Gloria Swanson) that if a restaurant was run well, the food could be "served out of a hat and you'd still make money." Cobb took this literally, and now that the duo had a hook for their diner, they set up shop-- or hat rather. Soon enough, business was bumping. While celebs like Mary Pickford and Bebe Daniels had more than a few meals at this branch, The Brown Derby didn't become synonymous with Hollywood until another restaurant was opened at Hollywood & Vine at 1628 N Vine Street in 1929. This eatery was not shaped like the famous hat, but it bore the same moniker, and since it was located in the midst of movie central, it became the go-to place for celebs and fans alike to grab a bite . Sometimes, actors would appear at the restaurant in wardrobe, because there was too little time on their lunch break to change. This restaurant is also credited with establishing the phenomenon of telephones at every booth, so that business could be conducted more efficiently by dining execs-- a tactic picked up by future eateries and clubs such as 21.

Hollywood Brown Derby at Hollywood & Vine

It was also at the Hollywood branch that the infamous "Wall of Fame" would be begun by a Polish artist, whose name was allegedly so hard to pronounce that he was referred to only as "Vitch," (first name Edward).  He started what was to become a restaurant trademark by offering to draw people's caricatures for a bowl of soup. His keen eye for accentuated facial features and his ability to capture the essence of a famous face in but a few broad strokes made him a celebrity of his own, and soon cartoonish, exaggerated pictures of Clark Gable, Marlene Dietrich, and Humphrey Bogart adorned and covered the surrounding walls (William Powell is seen left). (Other artists, most particularly Jack Lane, would continue the caricature tradition up into the eighties). Jimmy Durante would be the only star whose picture took up two pieces of paper, due to his notorious schnoz. Jimmy had a favorite corner booth, and if the table was taken when he came in for a bite, he would simply turn around and leave. Wallace Beery could also be counted on to sit in his favorite booth and order the specialty corned beef hash.

The menu at The Brown Derby was fancier than one may imagine. Offering much more than burgers and fries, the restaurant served a various assortment of ethnic masterpieces, salads, soups, and desserts. This is because various guests started adding their own favorites to the menu. Dorothy Lamour contributed her recipe for Shrimp Creole-- taste tested by her own mother-- and the different varieties of international foods can be attributed to the other universal clientele. The most famous meal perhaps is the Cobb salad, which Cobb himself is said to have haphazardly concocted on a whim. The story of its creation varies, and is the stuff of legend, but the accepted tale is thus: when he and Sid Grauman-- theater owner and showman-- were hanging around late one night, they both got hungry. Cobb took various leftover scraps of chicken, lettuce, avocado, etc, and added the famous House French Dressing. History was made, and the salad became a hit when Sid came in requesting it again the next day. The Cobb was even featured in an episode of "I Love Lucy" (right) when the gang finally goes to Hollywood and has a meal at the Derby. Seated between Eve Arden and William Holden, Lucy is, of course, star struck as she overhears the tasty Holden order the delectable Cobb. Needless to say, all Hell breaks loose and food winds up in Holden's lap and not his plate. (Watch hilarious clip here). Jack Warner was allegedly a huge fan of the salad and used to order it by the quart.


But the Derby represented more than a place to grab a bite. It was a kitchen away from home for many celebrities, many of whom have significant memories that occurred there. Here are a few worth mentioning:

The First Date
Prior to her big career breakthrough in I Wanted Wings, Veronica Lake was being wooed by esteemed art director John Detlie (both left).  After receiving bouquets of flowers from the anonymous admirer, John finally called Veronica up and asked her out on an official date. Wanting to impress the seemingly un-impressible Ronni, where did he take her? The Brown Derby- the meal locale of the who's-who of Hollywood. While Ronni was not easily flattered by superficial tomfoolery, she did enjoy her meal and was smitten enough to begin a romantic relationship with the man who was to become her first husband. Her mother, Constance, was also impressed, as she had tagged along to monitor her daughter's courtship. Love with a side of "Good-grief, Ma!"

The Proposal
Clark Gable and Carole Lombard (right at the Derby) had been romantically involved since 1936 when they bumped into each other at the Mayfair Ball. The two had appeared in No Man of Her Own together in 1932, but it wasn't until John Hay Whitney threw this little shindig that the two would click romantically. Carole was recently divorced from William Powell, with whom she remained friendly, but Clark was still very married to "Ria" Langham. Nonetheless, a love affair proceeded, during which legendary shenanigans involving doves, broken down cars, and Carole's usual pranks ensued. Soon, Carole was in over her head and head-over-heels in love. She pursued the man of her dreams with a vengeance, despite his shuffling and procrastination in obtaining a divorce: it was solely a monetary issue, for his marriage to the 17-year senior Ria had been in name only for some time. Even the studios tried to keep them apart, fearing that scandal would destroy both of their careers. Needless to say, many MGM faces turned bright red when the infamous "Hollywood's Unmarried Husbands and Wives" Photoplay article was published, insinuating Clark and Carole as two of the culprits, in the company of such others as Barbara Stanwyck and Robert Taylor. Perhaps with so many obstacles between them, the relationship would have gone up in smoke,but Clark realized that he indeed loved his dizzy, blonde Tom-boy too. After three years of waiting, on March 7, 1939 Clark obtained his divorce. Now a free man, he placed a call to Carole direct from his current location-- The Brown Derby-- and asked her to marry him. After thinking about it for a millisecond, she said "Hell, yes!" They were married a couple of weeks later on March 29.

The Wedding
No actual wedding took place at the Derby, that I know of... But Judy Garland's first act of matrimony came pretty close. David Rose was a songwriter who had won Judy's heart through his sincerity and kindness (both left). Since Dave was over ten years her senior, Judy also thought that he was a man who could protect her from her overbearing mother, Ethel. The two had first met when Judy was to do a radio show for Bob Hope, for which Rose was also scheduled. However, love seemed like a long shot for the two. Judy was still smarting over the recent marriage of Lana Turner to Artie Shaw, a good friend of Judy's with whom she was very much in love. Crying hysterically and banging her head against the wall, it appeared that Judy would be unable to perform. Rose helped to calm her down, even bringing her a piece of his mother's chocolate cake, once she had stopped with the waterworks. Since Judy had been on a very regimented diet nearly her entire life-- again, thanks to Mama Monster-- she broke out in a big smile and said, "How did you know that this was exactly what I needed?!" Soon enough, the two were dating and became engaged, though the studios were trying to stall the nuptials for as long as possible. Judy was still playing teeny-boppers in movies like Babes in Arms, and having her publicly proclaim herself as a grown-up could severely affect box office. One night, while dining out at the Derby (June 27, 1941 to be exact), Judy and David decided that they could stall no longer. Perhaps it was the romantic lighting, perhaps it was the fact that, as David discovered, the way to Judy's heart was through her stomach, but after dinner, they grabbed the check, hopped a plane to Vegas, and said "I do!" MGM was not happy, and sadly Judy was to have no Honeymoon. Furious, the studio demanded that she return the next afternoon to finish shooting on Babes on Broadway. Luckily, Judy's box-office appeal went unharmed.

The Brawl
It wasn't always hearts and clovers, however. John Gilbert (right) had a very embarrassing incident happen to him at the Derby. In the late Twenties, as the glory days of the silent film were hanging on by a thread, so too was one of its leading men. John's destruction lay not in the nature of his voice, which history has incorrectly remembered as being too squeaky for Talkies. His true enemy was Louis B. Mayer, who-- little did John know-- was already laying the trap for his downfall. Many theorize that the publicity surrounding John's inability to transfer to sound films was initiated by Mayer, with whom he had a long-running animosity. Mayer planted the seed of doubt, and soon enough it was accepted as truth that John was a hack and a far cry from his macho, leading man persona. One piece of evidence to support this is the article that Mayer (supposedly) had Jim Tully write for Vanity Fair, in which he labeled John as a lecherous mama's boy. This poison pen article was specifically used to tarnish John's ladies' man image and serve as the first nudge to propel his career on its downward spiral. John, a self-made man who had a very tumultuous relationship with his mother, was disgusted when he read the article. So sickened was he, that he actually threw-up. Thus, when he came face to face with Tully years later at The Brown Derby, he started a fight with the author. However, because Tully had a background in boxing, it was John who was left lying on the floor, his ego bruised more than his eye. It was a humiliating experience, and the drunk and disorderly John had to be removed from the premises, while Tully returned to his meal. Years later, Tully would admit that he had nothing against John, and had in fact never met him when he wrote the article, therefore having to basis upon which to make his lewd statements. It was simply a job and a job too well done. John and his career would soon disappear under the heap of lies, but not until after the insult of all insults: he was forced to act opposite Tully in Way for a Sailor of 1930.

The Beginning and The End
The Brown Derby would finally serve as a macabre bookend for the remaining days of Thelma Todd (left).  Her introduction to and her last public meeting with the man who is most often labeled as the mastermind of her bizarre, untimely death would occur at none other than The Brown Derby. Thelma's marriage to Pat DiCicco, a Hollywood agent with mob connections, was well on its way to divorce court from almost the moment they said "I do." Pat was secretive and abusive, and it was becoming abundantly clear that his charms had been covering up a selfish and sadistic personality. Thelma was fed up with the lies and his emotional distance from her: Where did he disappear to all the time? Who was he with? And why? She got her answer one night when dining with friend and ex-lover Roland West at the Derby. Ironically, the two were discussing the creation of a restaurant of their own: Thelma Todd's Sidewalk Cafe, which would soon take root on the Pacific Coast Highway. In the midst of conversation, Thelma caught sight of her hubby across the way, talking to a man she couldn't see. She boldly walked over to give him a piece of her mind, or at the very least elbow her way into his life. She was shocked by what she saw: Lucky Luciano. Though far from handsome, Lucky and his power were intoxicating, hypnotizing, and Thelma found herself stuttering under his piercing gaze. He held out his hand, introduced himself, complimented her beauty, and then offered her a drink. Since Thelma was overcoming issues with alcoholism and a drug addiction, she refrained, but when Lucky insisted, one didn't refuse. This meeting would being the rapid countdown to her final days.

Thelma's own Sidewalk Cafe.

Apparently, all of Pat's secrecy had been for Thelma's protection. He knew Lucky (right) had an eye for his movie star wife, that he loved blondes, and that he was also a dangerous and far more abusive man than Pat himself would ever be. Yet, before he knew it, Pat and Thelma were divorced, and it was Luciano who had crawled into her bed like a serpent. The affair was not a joyous one. More physical abuse began, as did more sneaking, lying, and cheating. Thelma finally had her fill when Luciano tried to get his hands on her Cafe in order to use the upstairs room as a headquarters for his gambling racket. Thelma wasn't having it, and she tried to break off the affair. Again, Lucky never took "no" for an answer. He had already succeeded in sending Thelma back into her debilitating addiction to prescription pills, uppers, and booze, now he was trying to tamper with her business. One night, the duo met publicly, as Thelma had stipulated, at The Brown Derby. Again, Lucky tried to force his way into her business, but this time Thelma let it be known once and for all that she was through with him for good, even threatening to use the knowledge she had about Lucky's illegal business deals as blackmail. Legend has it that Thelma stood up to leave, shouting out, "You'll take over my restaurant over my dead body!" She made her exit, briskly and proudly. Under his breath, Lucky allegedly muttered, "That can be arranged." Soon after, on Dec. 16, 1935, Thelma Todd was found dead, bloody and bruised, in the front seat of her car in the garage above The Sidewalk Cafe. Cause of death: Accidental Suicide. Yeah, right...

Needless to say, the Derby was a busy place. And, for the most part, despite a couple of the aforementioned tales, it produced an attractive and positive atmosphere. Thus, two more branches would open, one in Beverly Hills farther West on Wilshire and a Drive-in version in Los Feliz (left). But, nothing good lasts forever. As times changed, the very first Derby was moved from 3427 to 3377 Wilshire, but a change of venue couldn't save it. All of these eateries were vacant by the eighties and half of them were demolished. The Hollywood branch, the most kickin' of them all, is completely vanished from Vine Street, perhaps the greatest loss. The space originally known as The Brown Derby in Los Feliz still stands as a Louise's Trattoria. Originally scheduled for demolition, this locale was saved by history buffs who made it a cultural landmark. The original was too destroyed, but the curious dome that was once the top of the giant hat still sits at the top of The Brown Derby shopping center at 3377 Wilshire. It is currently a Korean restaurant, so one can technically still eat in the Derbies of Los Feliz and Los Angeles, even if one is not technically at the Derby.

3377 Wilshire and the remnants of the giant ol' Derby hat.

As silly as it might be to want to hold onto something that represents but cannot bring forth the past, there is still a nostalgia felt for the most famous of Hollywood hats. The thrill of sitting at a table once enjoyed by Jean Harlow and William Powell would certainly be something any film buff would enjoy. As it is, we have to take refuge in the faded memories alone. For those hungry for more, you can still wander to that corner of Hollywood and Vine and imagine life as it was. You can even order your own Brown Derby cookbook, (I just made the "Cobb" and it was to die for) or a replicated caricature of your favorite star. Sadly, that's the most one can hope for, but perhaps it's enough. Even in Hollywood, you can't go home again. Too bad. I could really use a dish of Grable with a side of Grant...