Rose Marie, Jerry Lewis, Lou Reed

A new study in Evolutionary Psychological Science found that men were more likely to think of an opposite-sex friend as “a member of the opposite sex to whom I am attracted and would pursue given the opportunity” while women were more likely to think of them as simply “a friend of the opposite sex.” New research from the University of Guelph and Nipissing University shows that people who help others are more desirable to the opposite sex, have more sexual partners and more frequent sex. The study was published recently in the British Journal of Psychology. "This study is the first to show that altruism may translate into real mating success in Western populations, that altruists have more mates than non-altruists," said Pat Barclay, a psychology professor who worked on the study with lead author Prof. Steven Arnocky from Nipissing. Arnocky added: "It appears that altruism evolved in our species, in part, because it serves as a signal of other underlying desirable qualities, which helps individuals reproduce." However, "it's a more effective signal for men than for women," Barclay said. The study found that while altruism is a desirable quality among both genders, it affects men's lifetime dating and sex partners more than women's. "Also, given the importance we place on attractiveness, resources and intelligence, it would be worthwhile to explore how individuals 'trade-off' altruism against other desirable qualities," Arnocky said. Source: www.sciencedaily.com

Rose Marie "left them laughing" (and applauding) for nine decades, having traversed through every 20th century entertainment medium that ever was, as a singer and brilliant comedienne. With "The Dick Van Dyke Show," she was part of the cast of one of the most iconic television shows of the 1960s and what's more, she played a lady TV writer who held her own with the boys, thus, planting the seed in the minds of viewers, that girls could grow up to have interesting and creative jobs too! She professes to still go over her act in her head, since at age 94, she isn't booking tours anymore...

WAIT FOR YOUR LAUGH tells the story of the longest active career in entertainment, but it also looks at what it was like to be a female performer in the 20th century (she has opinions on the casting couch mentality), to work through periods of extreme personal heartbreak and it also casts an eye on how Rose Marie and her fellow nonagenarians Dick Van Dyke, Carl Reiner and Peter Marshall, still have the drive to create today. The film contains amazing behind-the-scenes color footage from Rose Marie's personal collection, chronicling what went on backstage on "The Dick Van Dyke Show" and other sets.

Far more than just sassy Sally Rogers on "The Dick Van Dyke Show," and the top center square on "Hollywood Squares," Rose Marie worked in every facet of showbiz. She was "the darling of the airwaves" at the age of four and went on to work in vaudeville, Vegas, Broadway, movies, television, theatre, concert halls and nightclubs. Along the way she was known as "the kid" by the mob. Though unlikely to reach nearly as broad an audience, this film will be warmly received by the TCM crowd. Sounding a bit like that network's late, beloved host Robert Osborne, narrator Peter Marshall (host of long-running game show The Hollywood Squares) begins with what will be news to most viewers younger than, say, 75: Before Shirley Temple was even born, Rose Marie was a comparable child-star sensation, touring the country singing with a grown-up voice under the moniker Baby Rose Marie. Belting tunes out in a style like that of "Last of the Red Hot Mamas" Sophie Tucker, she was a hit on the radio, with listeners demanding to see her in person to prove she was actually a child. It didn't hurt that she was adorable, with bobbed dark hair and easy poise.

As far as her personal life goes, Wise is most interested in her apparently blissful marriage to Bobby Guy, a stout trumpeter who was a standout in Bing Crosby's band. Vintage film and photos of the two capture a truly charming couple, but Guy contracted an unexplained blood disease and died in 1964. Even today, Rose Marie weeps when she tells the story. Her friends include the best show business has to offer: Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Johnny Mercer, Jerry Lewis, Johnny Carson, Jimmy Durante, Milton Berle, Doris Day, Rosemary Clooney, Margaret Whiting and Bing Crosby to name a few!! Unbeknownst to fans, the woman always looking for a man was actually married for almost 20 years to the love of her life, Bobby Guy, one of the best trumpeters in the business. His untimely passing and its impact on "the one who makes you laugh" is recounted by her friends Peter Marshall, Carl Reiner, Dick Van Dyke, and Tim Conway. Source: www.broadwayworld.com

Morey Amsterdam, Rose Marie's costar in The Dick Van Dyke Show, phoned Jerry Lewis to inform about Bobby Guy's doctor prognosis. Rose Marie got on the phone and Lewis was very supporting, not trusting the diagnosis of cancer of the liver given to his husband. Lewis sent his personal doctor Marvin Levy to the hospital in Santa Monica Boulevard and asked Rose Marie if she needed money. Jerry said: 'If you need money and don't tell me, I'll never talk to you again.' Rose Marie, appreciating his kind gesture, started to cry and thanked her friend. Dr. Levy examined Rose Marie's husband and made arrangements to move him to Cedars Sinai hospital, where Jerry Lewis called and visited Bobby frequently. Dr. Levy figured it was an overpowering blood infection. Lewis kept in touch daily with Dr. Levy and asked him to get in touch with all the specialists in the country, offering to pay for all the bills. Finally, Levy operated Bobby Guy, removing his spleen, but he couldn't save him. 

"Jerry Lewis was an angel to me. Loved him & will never forget what he did for me during one of the worst times in my life. RIP, Love Roe," tweeted Rose Marie when Jerry Lewis died. "A lot of people only saw the ego & harshness that he used as a defense to push people away due to his fears," replied one of her followers. "I hear people talk ill of Jerry. I don't care what anyone says to me. I will never forget his kindness and thoughtfulness at the most horrible time of my life. I will be grateful to him forever. He is truly one of my special angels," she had written previously in her memoir Hold the Roses (2003).

"I’d never been what you’d call a ladies’ man—all the more so since I had married at 18," Jerry Lewis wrote in his autobiography. Esther Calonico had been married to singer/band leader Jimmy DiPalma (Jimmy Palmer) in the early 1940s. Esther entered into a singing career using the stage name Patti Palmer. A fledgling comedian (Jerry Lewis), who was working the East Coast Vaudeville circuit with his "record mime" act, met the divorcee Patti in 1944; and after a short romance, they got married. In September 1980, thirty-six years after they first met in Detroit, Patti filed for divorce in California Superior Court, asking for $450,000 a year in alimony, custody of and support for sixteen-year-old Joseph, and half of their community property. These demands would have been hard enough for Jerry to meet, but he was also facing a mid-October trial date in Los Angeles Federal Court stemming from bankruptcy. His entire life’s earnings were in jeopardy. His checking account just contained $140,000. 

Patti claimed she had written her book I Laffed Till I Cried to help support herself. But there was clearly a measure of revenge involved; the book may even have begun after Patti heard the news that Jerry and SanDee had adopted a baby girl. Jerry never said a word about the book in public. And Patti determinedly tried to maintain an air of dignity. Publishers Weekly reviewed I Laffed Till I Cried in 1993, calling it "this shapeless script, presumably a history of Patti's marriage to Jerry Lewis, provides too few details of the story promised." In 1983 Patti Lewis was forced to put the Bel Air house on the market. Asking $7.5 million for a house in less than pristine condition, she had to wait nearly three years before she sold it, afterward buying a smaller home in nearby Westwood and filling it with the mementoes she and Jerry had accumulated on St. Cloud Drive. Patti Lewis lives now in an assisted living facility, and has occasional visits from family members. 

Americans had never seen a grown man behave this way before. Jerry Lewis created a number of comic masterpieces, most notably The Nutty Professor and The Patsy. Even his worst films have their moments of redeeming comic brilliance. No wonder then that Jerry has influenced the very shape of modern comedy. Comedians from Robin Williams to Woody Allen to that vile epigone Jim Carrey have drawn inspiration from the free-form id-driven comic style Lewis created. By his late 20s, despite a nasty split with Martin, Lewis was the most popular entertainer in America. Twenty years later, he was a ridiculed has-been. Lewis accused Martin of being aloof. Dean Martin saw Jerry Lewis sometimes as a hostile guy with a big temper. But Lewis was a brilliant talent, an immense humanitarian, a difficult boss/interview, and a quixotic sort of genius, as often inspired as insipid, as often tender as caustic. The scrim of individual identity keeps the essential Jerry at an impassable distance. —"King of Comedy: The Life and Art of Jerry Lewis" (1997) by Shawn Levy

During his early years in Syracuse, Lou Reed's mannerisms came from his idols Dion, James Dean, Jerry Lewis, and Lenny Bruce. 'Who else but Lou Reed,' Lester Bangs wrote for Creem magazine in 1975, 'would look like a bizarre crossbread of Jerry Lewis and a monkey on cantharides?' Born Lewis Allan Reed on March 2, 1942, at Beth El Hospital in Brooklyn, Lou Reed's problems began with his complicated and antagonistic relationship towards his parents, Sidney Joseph and Toby Reed. Sidney was a smart ambitious accountant, and Toby a housewife whose beauty was remarked upon by all who knew her. She had been chosen “Queen of the Stenographers” at one of the many local beauty pageants in New York at that time. Her photo ran in the Brooklyn Eagle, and she was crowned queen at the Stenographers Ball held at the Manhattan Center. Sidney Reed was an opinionated man who despised organized religion. He was something of a loner, and the family did not have many close friends. And when Sidney Reed was offered the job of treasurer at Cellu-Craft, a Long Island firm that, in the true spirit of The Graduate, manufactured plastics, it seemed as if the Reeds were finally getting their shot at the American dream. So in 1952, the Reed family moved to Freeport, Long Island. The Reeds’ home was an undistinguished three-bedroom ranch-style house at 35 Oakfield Avenue. Reed’s gay posturing in his parents’ and others’ presence was a defiant, conscious provocation, and, along with his mood swings and general recalcitrance, it elicited a crushing response. 

Allan Hyman described Reed’s affect during and immediately after the electroshock treatments. “When I saw him during the holidays, he was very withdrawn,” he said. “He was never a friendly, outgoing type, but he was totally hostile and more sarcastic than ever. He was dark. He had always had this rebellious side to him, but that was kind of comical. It was fun. Now he had a nasty edge to him that he had never had before. Very cynical.” Lou Reed's first girlfriend Shelley Albin said about his sexuality: "I think by nature he was more driven to women because of his relationship with his mother. That’s what he thought was normal. It was comfortable.” Reed, Shelley said, was “a romantic. He could be very sweet. He’s probably the only person who ever literally gave me a heart-shaped box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day. But he wasn’t happy unless he made somebody more miserable than he was. Misery made for his best work, whether it came from me or somebody else. He wasn’t anybody I wanted to live with and put up with. It wasn’t worth it. It was too much grief.” As for his reputation as a sexual player, that, too, was something of an image. “I got the impression that he never really had a girlfriend in high school,” she said. “I think he put on an aura later of being a ladies’ man. Hardly at all. That didn’t fit with the guy I met. He didn’t do as much in college as he pretended later. I met him after he’d been at college for a year. He was awkward. Boys I went out with in high school were smoother.” 

What drew her to Reed was his sensibility. “I liked his brain,” Shelley said. “We could talk for hours and hours, days and days. We connected. He was an incredible romantic. So we connected on that level. It was very much a creative-mind thing. I was crazy about him. He was a great kisser and well coordinated. His appeal was of a very sexy boy/man. Lou was very insecure, and he needed a nurturer. Like many men are, Lou was basically looking for a replacement for his mother with a little sex thrown in.”  Lou's deep, passionate love of doo-wop and that kind of adolescent swept-away-on-the-wings-of-love, it was a very essential emotion for him. But he definitely enjoyed getting under particularly his father's skin—he was acting out almost in performative terms. There was an incredible level of fear of abandonment and terror and that's what motivated his violence—coming out of a kind of desperation, it was less about hostility than about a kind of self-hatred and fear. As Lester Bangs wrote: "I never met a hero I didn´t like. But then, I never met a hero. But then, maybe I wasn´t looking for one."

At the time of its release, the box set Between Thought and Expression (1992) did not make much of an impression, either commercially or critically. Before the release of the box set, Reed had delivered a book of his lyrics, titled Between Thought and Expression: Selected Lyrics of Lou Reed. Published by Hyperion in 1991, perhaps the most striking aspect of the book is its dedication: “For Sid, Toby, Bunny / And most of all / For Sylvia.” Including his family in a book devoted to his most prized vision of himself—that is, as a writer—suggests an ongoing effort on Reed’s part to come to terms with his upbringing and his past. Bill Bentley, who handled Reed’s publicity at Sire, accompanied him to a book signing for Between Thought and Expression at Book Soup in Los Angeles. “Lou built a real toughness around himself,” Bentley said. “He would be polite, sign everything. He could be rude but he wasn’t a hard person. At that signing, one lady said, ‘My sister had cancer, and Magic and Loss really got me through it.’ Lou would never show a whole lot. But afterwards he went into a private room in the back of the store, and just sat down, fell into Sylvia’s arms, and started to weep. That image has always stuck with me. He’d been so touched by what people said. These were his words: 'I’ll never forget that.' I remember looking at him and thinking, ‘That’s a Lou Reed that very few people have ever seen.’ I would always think of that when another side of him would come out. It made me really appreciate the depth of his feeling for other people. Lou Reed was no fool.” —Sources: "Transformer: The Complete Lou Reed Story" (2014) by Steve Bockris and Fresh Air Podcast (NPR Music) by Terry Gross

Jerry Lewis: “I do comedic shtick, but the French call it Art." In The Comic Mind: Comedy and the Movies (1979), film historian Gerald Mast explained: "Where American critics and audiences see Jerry Lewis as banal, for the European critic, Lewis's comic strength is the comically accurate depiction of the American mentality, its brash overzealousness." During the disastrous production of the Broadway show “Hellzapoppin” (1976) wich teamed unsucessfully Jerry Lewis with Lynn Redgrave, several backstagers were witnesses of how often Jerry Lewis displayed symptoms of profound exhaustion and grief, being seen while weeping openly at least fifty times offstage. The “Hellzapoppin” stage play was modeled on the 1941 film version directed by H.C. Potter, following the story written by the comedy team of John Olsen & Harold Johnson about a millionaire pretending to be poor so a girl will love him for himself. Kevin Kelly wrote in the Boston Globe in 1977, “The evening’s beckoning, wide open, gap tooth smile finally is revealed as a mock tic paralyzed in place,” commenting on the disconnection of Jerry Lewis from his audience. As Victor Hugo pondered in his novel The Man Who Laughs (1889) of Gwynplaine whose mouth has been mutilated into a perpetual grin, “What a weight for the shoulders of a man, an everlasting laugh!” —"King of Comedy: The Life and Art of Jerry Lewis" (1997) by Shawn Levy

Marilyn Monroe & The Kennedys

With the recent release of the long sought-after JFK documents, there’s been a renewed interest in all things related to the 35th president. Few things of the Kennedy era are more recognizable than the dress Marilyn Monroe wore when she serenaded him with her sultry “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” The dress has remained out of the public’s view for most of the time since that night in 1962. That all changed last year when Orlando-based Ripley’s Entertainment purchased the dress and other items from the birthday gala. The dress sold for a whopping $4.8 million – with the auction fees, it clocked in at over $5 million, making it the most expensive dress ever sold. The Jean Louis-designed, champagne-colored dress has over 2,500 crystals and 6,000 rhinestones hand-sewn on it. “This is the most famous item of clothing in 20th-century culture,” says Ripley's VP of Exhibits and Archives, Edward Meyer, who is responsible for acquiring items for Ripley’s for nearly four decades, including the dress. “It has the significance of Marilyn, of JFK, and of American politics.” Ripley’s Orlando Odditorium will also screen Marilyn Monroe films on select Saturdays throughout December. The exhibit is scheduled to remain in Orlando through the end of the year. Source: www.orlandoweekly.com

“One of the bright spots in Ladies of Chorus (1948) is Miss Monroe’s singing,” wrote critic Tibor Krekes. “She is pretty and, with her pleasing voice and style, she shows promise”—hardly a rave, but nevertheless a gratifying first review that did not alter Harry Cohn’s decision. His major star was Rita Hayworth, just as Fox had Betty Grable and MGM had Lana Turner; none of them was listening to Harry Lipton or Lucille Ryman when they spoke of a potentially sensational new movie star named Marilyn Monroe with unusual qualities. “Under Marilyn’s baby-doll, kitten exterior, she was tough and shrewd and calculating,” was Lucille’s assessment. ‘Hollywood will never forgive me—not for leaving, not for fighting the system—but for winning, which I’m going to do,’ Marilyn told Susan Strasberg. 

At a New Year’s Eve party given by producer Sam Spiegel, in 1948, Marilyn had been introduced to Johnny Hyde, executive vice-president of the William Morris Agency and one of Hollywood’s most powerful representatives. Hyde was besotted and prevailed on Marilyn to accompany him on a short vacation to Palm Springs, where he spoke of her career prospects. Johnny Hyde was desperately in love. Despite Johnny Hyde’s strong recommendation of her to MGM, production chief Dore Schary did not offer a deal for more work. His excuse was that the studio had Lana Turner under contract and therefore no need of a rival blonde; to colleagues like Lucille Ryman Carroll, he expressed a quaint moral outrage at the Hyde-Monroe affair. Ladies of the Chorus was already a forgotten second feature, and The Asphalt Jungle, despite some critical acclaim, was too bleak to win much popular favor.

When not studying with her drama coach Natasha Lytess, Marilyn posed for pinups in evening gowns or swimsuits, scoured the trade dailies and was seen in the movie colony’s dinner-party circuit with Johnny, with whom life became increasingly difficult as his health became ever more fragile. Despite this, he refused to limit himself, escorting Marilyn to an endless round of social and corporate events, presenting her proudly as valuable and available talent. More poignantly, Johnny also wanted Marilyn known around town as his fiancée, the desirable young woman he still hoped to marry. Fearful of displeasing or alienating her, Johnny acted the nervous, benighted lover, taking action perilous in his condition: he was often breathless and in pain after trying to satisfy what he presumed were her sexual needs. Johnny Hyde had no opportunity to resolve with Marilyn the tension that underlay his unrequited love, and she had no chance to express her gratitude. “I don’t know that any man ever loved me so much,” she said in 1955. “Every guy I’d known seemed to want only one thing from me. Johnny wanted to marry me, but I just couldn’t do it. Even when he was angry with me for refusing, I knew he never stopped loving me, never stopped working for me.”

A passionate love affair between Marilyn Monroe and John F. Kennedy has been assumed for so long that it has achieved as solid a place in public awareness as almost any other event in the man’s presidency. All that can be known for certain is that on four occasions between October 1961 and August 1962, the president and the actress met, and that during one of those meetings they telephoned one of Marilyn’s friends from a bedroom; soon after, Marilyn confided this one sexual encounter to her closest confidants, making clear that it was the extent of their involvement. In October 1961, after a photography session for a magazine, Marilyn asked Allan Snyder to deliver her to a party at Patricia and Peter Lawford’s Santa Monica beach house. The occasion was a dinner party honoring President Kennedy, and among the other guests were several blond movie stars—Kim Novak, Janet Leigh and Angie Dickinson, for all of whom the president had a keen appreciation. All contrary allegations notwithstanding, this was the first meeting between Marilyn Monroe and John Kennedy; hearsay about any earlier introduction simply cannot be substantiated. The schedules of Monroe and Kennedy since his January 1961 inauguration reveal wide geographic distances between them. That October night, Marilyn was driven back to her apartment by one of the Lawfords’ staff.

The second encounter occurred during February 1962, when Marilyn was again invited to a dinner party for the president, this time at the Manhattan home of Fifi Fell, the wealthy socialite widow of a famous industrialist. She was escorted to the Fell residence by Milton Ebbins. The third meeting occurred on Saturday, March 24, 1962, when both the president and Marilyn were houseguests of Bing Crosby in Palm Springs. On that occasion, she telephoned Ralph Roberts from the bedroom she was sharing with Kennedy. “She asked me about the solus muscle,” according to Roberts, “which she knew something about from the book The Thinking Body, and she had obviously been talking about this with the president, who was known to have all sorts of ailments, muscle and back trouble.” That night in March was the only time of her “affair” with JFK. “A great many people thought, after that weekend, that there was more to it. But Marilyn gave me the impression that it was not a major event for either of them: it happened once, that weekend, and that was that,” said Roberts. Accounts of a more enduring affair with John Kennedy, stretching anywhere from a year to a decade, owe to fanciful supermarket journalists and tales told by those eager for quick cash or quicker notoriety: those who fail to check the facts of history and are thus easily dispatched as reliable sources.

“Marilyn liked [President Kennedy] the man as well as the office,” according to Sidney Skolsky, among the first friends to be informed of the March tryst; he added that she also enjoyed the fantasy that this experience carried—“the little orphan waif indulging in free love with the leader of the free world.” And as she soon after told Earl Wilson, Rupert Allan and Ralph Roberts, she found John Kennedy amusing, pleasant, interesting and enjoyable company, not to say immensely flattering. As for Mrs. Kennedy, as Skolsky added, “Marilyn did not regard her with envy or animosity.”  The posthumous revelations of Kennedy’s philandering revealed the impossibility, for obvious reasons, of pursuing any serious romance with one woman. The exaggeration of his “affair” with Marilyn is part of the myth of King Arthur’s Camelot. There was a need to believe in the tradition of courtly intrigues and infidelities—Lancelot and Guinevere, Charles II and Nell Gwynn, Edward VII and Lily Langtry. But in this case there was but one rendezvous between the attractive, princely president and the reigning movie queen; to follow the Arthurian simile: the mists of Avalon are easily dispersed by shining reality’s clear light onto the scene. It is important to establish definitively the truth of this matter not only for the sake of historical accuracy but also because of a far more damaging rumor that began after Marilyn Monroe’s death. 

The unfounded and scurrilous accounts of a concomitant or subsequent sexual affair with Robert F. Kennedy, has been even more persistent than that of the presidential liaison. It has also led to the completely groundless assertion of a link between Robert Kennedy and Marilyn’s death—a connection so outrageous as to be hilarious were it not also injurious to the man’s reputation. The rumors of an affair with Robert Kennedy are based on the simple fact that he met Marilyn Monroe four times, as their schedules during 1961 and 1962 reveal, complementing the testimony of Edwin Guthman, Kennedy’s closest associate during this time. But Robert Kennedy probably never shared a bed with Marilyn Monroe. Guthman, a Pulitzer Prize–winning investigative reporter and journalist, was Special Assistant for Public Information in the Kennedy administration as well as senior press officer for the Justice Department. The travel logs of the attorney general’s schedule for 1961–62 (preserved in the John F. Kennedy Library and in the National Archives) support the detailed accounts provided by Guthman. These, collectively, attest to the fact that Robert Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe enjoyed a socially polite relationship—four meetings and several phone calls over a period of less than ten months. But their respective whereabouts during this time made anything else impossible—even had they both been inclined to a dalliance, which is itself far from the truth on both counts.

Marilyn’s first meeting with Robert Kennedy occurred several weeks before her introduction to the president. “On either October 2 or 3, 1961,” said Guthman: “Kennedy and I were attending a series of meetings with United States attorneys and members of the FBI in Albuquerque, Phoenix, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland and Seattle. The attorney general and I attended a dinner party at the Lawfords, and around midnight Marilyn decided to go home. But she had drunk too much champagne, and we were worried for her. Bobby and I would not let her drive her car, and we did so together, delivering her safely to her door.” The second meeting between the attorney general and Marilyn occurred on Wednesday evening, February 1, 1962, when he and his entourage dined at the Lawfords en route from Washington to the Far East on a diplomatic journey. “That evening,” according to Guthman, “Marilyn was quite sober—a terrifically nice person, really—fun to talk with, warm and interested in serious issues.” Pat Newcomb, also present at the dinner, remembered that Marilyn really cared about learning. The day before [the dinner party], Marilyn told me, “I want to be in touch, Pat—I want to really know what’s going on in the country. She was especially concerned about civil rights. She had a list of questions prepared. When the press reported that Bobby was talking to her more than anyone else, that’s what they meant. I saw the questions and I knew what they were talking about. She identified with all the people who were denied civil rights.” —Marilyn Monroe: The Biography (ekindle, 2014) by Donald Spoto

Lana Turner & Marilyn Monroe: Magnetic and Disturbing Creations of the Star System

After Lana Turner's first years in the star machine, a personal transformation took place. The lovely young girl became a glamour queen, wise to the world, even cynical. She became the kind of woman whom men most desired, dangerous in a thrilling way, but safe and companionable, too. In Lana Turner the public found what they like best in a movie star: ambivalence, a mysterious mixture of good and bad. Her image was undeniably one of glamour, satin, furs, and diamonds, but it was sitting on a drugstore stool. She was the perfumed boudoir, but also the ice cream parlor. She was glamorous, but also girlish. She was a tigress, but also a kitten. Turner’s childhood was every bit as unstable and deprived as Marilyn Monroe’s, but unlike Monroe, Turner elected not to make it an issue. There was once a myth that you could attend Hollywood High School, get discovered and become a movie star. Lana Turner was the girl who turned that myth into reality. Billy Wilkerson from The Hollywood Reporter, then 47, discovered Lana Turner in early 1937, who had skipped typing class to have a Coke with friends at the nearby Top Hat Malt Shop. That this happened at Schwab's Pharmacy is persistent fiction. 

Wilkerson saw Turner, a self-possessed 16-year-old, and told the cafe manager that he'd like to speak with her. Turner was suspicious, agreeing only reluctantly. A meeting with Turner and her mother was arranged at Wilkerson's office and, just like that, a star was born. By 1938, Lana Turner was making movies with Mervyn LeRoy under a $100-per-week contract ($1,700 today). Mervyn LeRoy actually was a mentor to her: He was a good person, highly respected in the film industry, and he protected and guided the unskilled girl. His decency and experience ensured Lana's future. LeRoy himself directed her early steps through the star machine process. First, her name had to be changed. Turner was okay, but Julia Jean Mildred Frances wasn’t going to cut it on marquees. When LeRoy was lured away from Warner Bros. by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer in 1938, he asked if he could take Lana Turner with him and Jack Warner told him to go ahead. 

Since MGM couldn’t control Lana Turner or her bad publicity—and since the public obviously ate it up and wanted more of her—the studio just let it happen. The combination of her private life's peccadilloes, and her role as a temptress in The Postman Always Rings Twice pushed Turner over the top. It was now 1946. Lana Turner had been a star since 1941. Whenever the movies wanted to invoke a symbol for their own particular brand of sex appeal, it was Lana Turner’s name that was used. She is mentioned in Cairo (1942), Lucky Jordan (1942), Meet the People (1944), Anchors Aweigh (1945), and even Tom and Jerry cartoons. In Goldwyn’s Wonder Man (1945), a girl on a park bench justifies her looks by saying, “Some people think I look like Lana Turner.” In Without Reservations (1946), directed by her old mentor, Mervyn LeRoy, for RKO, her name is mentioned so often it’s as if she had stock in the picture. (“Lana Turner?” says a character. “That’s a glandular attraction.”) This popularity made Turner a national treasure during World War II. A young GI wrote to his mother that “somehow it is better to be fighting for Lana Turner than it is to be fighting the Greater Reich.” It was a sentiment even the Germans could understand. President Franklin D. Roosevelt invited her to his annual birthday ball, and when she left early to go dancing elsewhere, he was heard to sigh, “I wish I were going along.” 

Magnetic and disturbing, Lan Turner had become a powerful image. An undercurrent of violence and recklessness (which seemed fatally linked to her sex appeal) became more overt. By now MGM realized fully that Lana Turner was not simply a product of their system. She was “Lana,” a name that despite her popularity never caught on as a name for babies. What sensible mother wanted a “Lana” on her hands? Turner was no role model. This was a part of her movie star development that hadn’t been fully envisioned by the studio bosses. Lana Turner had become a household name, which wasn’t itself unusual for a movie star, but she was a household name associated with questionable offscreen behavior, and a complicated personal life. Audiences wrote in to complain about her “morality.” MGM solved this problem by casting her as a villainess. As a change of pace, she played Milady deWinter in a lavish costume drama based on Dumas’s The Three Musketeers (1948). Turner does full justice to the juicy role of a truly evil woman. (“Beware of strange men, dark roads, and lonely places. That woman will destroy you.”) Except for her brief appearance in DuBarry Was a Lady, The Three Musketeers was her first Technicolor film. 

In 1951, Lana Turner was named the most "glamorous woman in the history of international art" and the next year she was excellent in The Bad and the Beautiful. For once, a glamorous movie star is played by one. She understands the role, and she makes it hers. Yet she wasn’t nominated for an Oscar, and MGM refused to reconsider her potential. It was the moment for her—if recognized as the actress she might have become, things could have changed. But no. Despite her success in The Bad and the Beautiful, MGM persisted in its plan to make Turner into a musical comedy star and lighten her image. After the Stompanato trial, not only was Lana Turner’s private life in a mess but her professional life was also up for grabs. Time magazine referred to her as a “wanton,” describing her sex life as a men’s room conversation “everywhere from Sunset Boulevard to Fleet Street.” Her love letters to Johnny Stompanato (pitifully childish) were published in the papers. 

As she aged, the pain of these years was seldom mentioned by her, but near the end of her life, she commented, “Whoever started the idea that we [stars] are public property? We give the public performances, glamour, and a dream. But we are all human beings, and we should have moments that are our own. If I were just an ordinary working girl and someone asked me some of the questions I’ve been asked, I’d say, ‘Get lost, Buster!’ But I just take a deep breath and try to answer. I resent stupid questions, but I can’t do anything about the Lana Turner image. I’ve lived with it too long.” Ironically, about the time she was breaking down on movie screens all over America, she was breaking down in real life. Fascinated movie audiences felt they were experiencing her private anguish, reenacted for their benefit. The last years of Turner’s stardom, from 1957 to 1976, illustrate what is left to a female movie queen who is aging and locked into roles that reflect her own life after the system that built her, nourished her, supported her, and defined her, throws her out—and then itself collapses and disappears. Her offscreen life, or what people thought it was, became the only role she was allowed to play.

She was indeed “bigger than life.” At the end of her life, Lana Turner had figured out and accepted the realities of her goldfish bowl life: “When a small-town girl makes a mistake, her family covers up for her. But me, nobody covers up for me.” She realized that this was a price she had to pay for stardom: “We are unconscious of what Hollywood may do to us. At the same time, it is unfair to blame this on Hollywood.” She was always known to be vulnerable: “Why do people want to hurt me? I can’t understand it.” She kept that softness because she was a kind person basically, but she finally worked out her own private rules to live by: “Never look back is my philosophy. What’s past is past, and I can’t let it destroy me.” She never whined to the press about how tough things were when she was young. It was inevitable that a girl with Turner’s looks wasn’t going to stay poor and unknown. She had to end up jeweled and gowned. She wasn’t found down and out in Bellevue. She didn’t kill herself, and she ended up a wealthy legend.

Comparing Turner to other female movie legends—Elizabeth Taylor, for instance—it is clear that where Taylor was spoiled and dependent on men, Turner was spoiled and independent of them. Although totally feminine, Lana Turner was one of the first film stars to openly take the male prerogative for herself. She was less a slave to sex than she was its master. Originally, Metro thought Turner might inherit Joan Crawford’s roles. Like Crawford, Turner had behind her the escapist daydreaming of a lonely and poverty-stricken little girl. But she was smarter than everyone thought she was, because she outlived the star system by making her dream image into a real image. In April 1975, the Town Hall in New York invited her to appear on their stage in person to discuss her career in a series called “Legendary Ladies,” featuring Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, and Myrna Loy. No one knew exactly what would happen; nobody thought she was a Davis or Crawford. But the evening was a sellout. She was introduced as “star of screen, radio, television, and stage.” A packed audience quivered in anticipation, and when she walked out onto the stage, dressed all in white, she received a prolonged, thunderous standing ovation. 

Once asked what she would like to be remembered for, Lana Turner said, “I just want to be remembered as a sensitive woman who tried to do her job, that’s all… I would like to think that in some small way I have helped preserve the glamour and the beauty and the mystery of the movie industry.” As her career had rocketed during the early 1940s, Lana Turner was managed by Johnny Hyde, ‘a dear friend for years’ according to Lana's daughter Cheryl Crane. In 1949, Hyde met Marilyn in Palm Springs, and was instantly smitten, taking her on as a client. Lana Turner was a significant influence on the young Marilyn Monroe. In her stunning pictorial biography, Lana: The Memories, the Myths, the Movies, co-written with Cindy De La Hoz (author of Marilyn Monroe: Platinum Fox), Lana’s daughter Cheryl Crane states that her mother ‘thought Marilyn Monroe was a fine actress besides being a fascinating personality’. 

Studios ran strings of types successfully, discarding each one in turn as she lost popularity. Anita Page led to Alice Faye who led to Betty Grable who led to June Haver who led to Sheree North who led to Marilyn Monroe. These women were not cookie cutters—each has her own distinctive quality—but they’re all sexy blondes who can sing and dance. Betty Grable didn’t drop out as Fox’s leading musical blonde until 1955, and June Haver had already succeeded as her official replacement. Haver’s own replacement, Sheree North, was being developed at the same time, but, most important of all, a dark horse, an unexpected blond champion, arrived out of left field and claimed Fox’s publicity machine as her own. Her name was Marilyn Monroe. Marilyn skyrocketed to spectacular fame, and she was one of the last—if not actually the last—truly big female star to be “built up” by the star machine the old-fashioned way. During the years 1951 to 1953, she began to appear in bit parts, and then moved on to big-budget movies and magazine covers.

Allegedly, Marilyn Monroe came out of nowhere, but that “nowhere” was the usual time of development and growth, in her case a four-year apprenticeship in bit parts and walk-ons. In 1950, Marilyn appeared in Right Cross, All About Eve, and The Asphalt Jungle. In Right Cross she’s sitting in the background of a fancy restaurant/bar, playing a girl Dick Powell has just decided to stand up. It was her two small speaking roles in The Asphalt Jungle and All About Eve that caused everyone to notice her. David Thomson adds, “Gossip would not have been slow to provide the means by which she negotiated the executive office.” There is anecdotical evidence of the casting couch during her initial career, due to Marilyn's chronic sense of insecurity. Fox, experienced at grooming successful sexy blond stars, chose to pull Marilyn Monroe out of the ranks and give her everything they had in the buildup, even though some of her directors really didn’t see her as all that unusual. 

Fritz Lang, who directed her in 1952’s Clash by Night, said, “She was a peculiar mixture of shyness and uncertainty—I wouldn’t say ‘star allure’—but she knew exactly her impact on men.” The stories of Barbara Lawrence and Marilyn Monroe illustrate the vagaries of stardom malfunction. Monroe was unique, but she, too, could have gotten lost in the system as her early movies illustrate. The star machine did its work for both women, but Monroe could bring something to her moments that Lawrence, as talented as she was, could not. The audience knew the difference, and once the machine polished up Monroe and set her up as proper bait, the audience bit and Monroe took it from there. But Monroe had no impact on audiences the way Debbie Reynolds in her “Abba Dabba Honeymoon” number in Two Weeks with Love (1950) did. No one went “oooh” or applauded or left the theatre in awe. I saw and heard a lot of audiences during the years 1948 to 1958, and Marilyn Monroe didn’t reach them the way she touched people after her death. Her still photographs had flesh impact in a way her moving image did not. Her movie image was strangely enlivened by her death, made dimensional by offscreen facts. 

Manohla Dargis: "Once, we created gods and goddesses in our image, idealized visions of our most perfect selves. In time, our gods started to descend, mumbling with Method-actor sincerity about how they wanted to join us on Earth. We welcomed them initially, but after a while we grew to resent them and hold them in contempt. We still love them, but we hate them too, because now the mirror image they hold up is irreparably cracked." As the studio system began its slow collapse during the 1950s, it took a while for Hollywood to grasp what was happening. By the end of the 1960s, most moviemakers realized that “movie star” magic was losing credibility. In 1960, the names on the list, in the order of popularity, were Elizabeth Taylor, Rock Hudson, Doris Day, John Wayne, Cary Grant, Sandra Dee, Jerry Lewis, William Holden, Tony Curtis, and Elvis Presley. With the exception of Presley, who became a movie star because he was a rock music phenomenon, every name on the list was developed by the studio system. By 1970, however, the number of great movie star personalities developed by Hollywood’s star machine begins to wane. Paul Newman, John Wayne, and Jack Lemmon are on the list—but the other seven names reflect change: Clint Eastwood, Steve McQueen, Barbra Streisand, Dustin Hoffman and Walter Matthau-two Broadway actors who weren’t traditional handsome leading men-; and Robert Redford, the only new glamour boy in the group. The last two names on the list are Lee Marvin and Elliott Gould. As the old system collapsed, and censorship lessened, films became more and more violent. —"The Star Machine" (2007) by Jeanine Basinger

Marilyn Monroe: The Private Life of a Public Icon

Based on new interviews and research, Marilyn Monroe: The Private Life of a Public Icon (2018) reveals how Marilyn Monroe's childhood contributed to her struggle with bi-polar disorder, and impacted her career and personal life. Marilyn was a complex woman, bewitching and maddening, brilliant yet flawed. Charles Casillo studies Monroe’s life through the context of her times―in the days before feminism. This biography exposes how―in spite of her fractured psyche―Marilyn managed to transform each celebrated love affair and each tragedy into another step in her journey towards immortality. Just a few of Casillo's revelations: *Despite reports of their bitter rivalry, Elizabeth Taylor secretly called Marilyn when she was fired from her last film to offer moral and financial support. *Film of a rumored nude love scene with Clark Gable was said to have been destroyed―but an exclusive interview reveals that it still exists. *A meticulously detailed account of the events of her last day, revealing how a series of miscommunications and misjudgments contributed to her death. Source: www.amazon.com

A collection of rare pictures of Marilyn Monroe has emerged, including this never-before-seen photograph she sent to Arthur Miller along with the caption 'I know when I'm not there for you.' Margaret Barrett, Director of Entertainment Memorabilia, said: 'It's not the classic, sexy movie star look she's known for, she is in a white shirt with a collar, you can't see any skin but her face. She's completely covered up with a regular dress shirt with buttons and long sleeve with subtle make-up and an odd expression. It's the picture of a regular woman - you rarely see Marilyn like that. You see her as the famous movie star. Maybe it's telling of what Arthur wanted, the regular woman on his desk, not the public perception. She wrote a message on the glass frame to Arthur where she knew he would see it. Who knows what that means? Maybe he felt she wasn't there for him, maybe was he that needy, who can guess?' The auction, which will take place in Dallas next week, also features images of Marilyn entertaining the troops during the Korean War. Source: www.dailymail.co.uk

Marilyn Monroe’s struggle was to reconcile her two identities: Norma Jean, the apple-cheeked girl next door, and Marilyn Monroe, the droopy-eyed Aphrodite. Marilyn: Intimate Exposures (2011) by Susan Bernard, is a stunning collection of images that track Norma Jean’s transformation into Marilyn. In early, rarely seen glamour photographs by Bruno Bernard, you see a 20-year-old Norma Jean with an eager smile and wide eyes, doing pin-up poses with a very un-pinup expression. Bernard’s photos were used as the covers of the pre-teen pulp series “Teenage Diary Secrets” and Laff magazine (a mix between Mad magazine and Playboy), as well as in print advertisements for pharmaceutical companies. Later Bernard photographed her on movie sets, snapping the immortal subway-grate photo from The Seven Year Itch. Voluptuous and soft-voiced, the Marilyn we know exemplified 1950s femininity. Yet she mocked it with her wiggling walk, jiggling breasts, and puckered mouth. There were many Marilyns, not just one. “Marilyn Monroe,” her most famous alter ego, was one among many. As a pin-up model early in her career she posed for her era’s most famous pin-up photo—a nude that became the centerfold for the first issue of Playboy in December 1953. By mid-career she created a new glamour look that combined the allure of the pin-up with the aloof, mature sensuality of a glamour star. —"Marilyn: The Passion and the Paradox" (2012) by Lois Banner

In 1954 and 1955, the number one identified health problem in the United States was ‘emotional disease.’ In 1954, 150,000 adults entered mental hospitals and 700,000 mental patients received hospital care (in comparison, physical disorders accounted for only 600,000 patients). That same year, over a billion dollars was spent for the care of people diagnosed as mentally ill. In 1955, the year minor tranquillizers first became available outside of hospitals, 75 per cent of patients were being treated in hospital settings, over half a million people, compared to 150,000 in 1980. And although the wide availability of tranquillizers meant that hospital stays decreased by the late 1950s, there were still over a quarter of a million people employed in the industry, and hospitals continued into the late 1950s to report staff shortages. Over half of the patients in these hospitals were women, the majority married. —"Small Screen, Big Ideas" (2002) by Janet Thumim

As Robert D Putnam identified in his seminal essay, Bowling Alone, lower participation rates in organisations such as unions had reduced person to person contacts and civil interaction. World War II occasioned a massive outpouring of patriotism and collective solidarity. At war’s end those energies were redirected into community life. The two decades following 1945 witnessed one of the most vital periods of community involvement in American history. By the late 1950s, however, this burst of community involvement began to tail off. The Clinton-era was a period of financial deregulation, including the repeal of the Glass-Steagall Act, the landmark reform passed during the Depression, as well as legislation exempting credit default swaps from regulation. Economically, this period saw the continuation of what's been called the "Great Divergence" which produced stark inequalities in wealth and income. Between 1979 and 2007, household income in the top 1% grew by 275% compared to just 18% growth in the bottom fifth of households. Disruptive technologies changed the workplace and upended the labour market. Between 1990 and 2007, automation and globalisation killed off up to 670,000 US manufacturing jobs alone. The internet and social media, trumpeted initially as the ultimate tool for bringing people together, actually became a forum for cynicism, division and various outlandish conspiracy theories. America became more atomised. The opioid crisis can be traced back to the early 1990s with the over-prescription of powerful painkillers. 

Between 1991 and 2011, painkiller prescriptions tripled. Rather than the compulsive togetherness ascribed to the classic suburbs of the 1950s, when ethnographer M. P. Baumgartner lived in a suburban New Jersey community in the 1980s, she found a culture of atomized isolation and “moral minimalism.” Far from seeking small-town connectedness, suburbanites kept to themselves, asking little of their neighbors and expecting little in return. “The suburb is the last word in privatization, perhaps even its lethal consummation,” argue urbanist architects Andres Duany and Elizabeth Plater-Zyberk, “and it spells the end of authentic civic life.” As sociologist Robert Sampson states: “Lack of social capital is one of the primary features of socially disorganized communities.” The best evidence available on changing levels of neighborhood connectedness suggests that most Americans are less embedded in their neighborhood than they were a generation ago. Indeed, the decline in neighborhood social capital—community monitoring, socializing, mentoring, and organizing—is one important feature of the inner-city crisis, in addition to purely economic factors. Elijah Anderson, an urban ethnographer who studied the inner-city of Philadelphia, has documented a steady erosion in the “moral cohesion” of low-income neighborhoods. —"Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community" (2001) by Robert D. Putnam

Jerry Lewis' Legacy, Intellectual Humility

Men might want to ditch the pickup lines and polish their punchlines in their quest to attract women, new research at the University of Kansas suggests. Jeffrey Hall, associate professor of communication studies, found that when two strangers meet, the more times a man tries to be funny and the more a woman laughs at those attempts, the more likely it is for the woman to be interested in dating. Those findings were among the discoveries Hall made in his search for a link between humor and intelligence. For the past decade, research has debated whether women appreciate men’s humor, which is often cited as one of the most valued traits in a partner, because it allows them to suss out the smarts of potential mates. In the article “Sexual Selection and Humor in Courtship: A Case for Warmth and Extroversion,” Hall said “If you meet someone who you can laugh with, it might mean your future relationship is going to be fun and filled with good cheer.” When men make jokes and women laugh, they may be performing a script in courtship. Men acting like jokers and women laughing along may be part of it, too. “The script is powerful and it is enduring,” Hall said. The results suggest the more times a man tried to be funny and the more times a woman laughed at his jokes, the more likely she was romantically interested. The reverse was not true for women who attempted humor. Source: news.ku.edu

The way your brain functions changes when you fall in love, and not just when you're with or thinking about your sweetheart. Your brain changes again if that love comes to an end—but doesn't go back to the way it was before you ever fell in love. It's a spectacular confirmation of what many of us probably would have guessed, based on how subjectively intense love can be. “Our findings suggest that people who value virtuous motives may be able to reason wisely for themselves, and overcome personal biases observed in previous research,” explains psychological scientist Alex Huynh of the University of Waterloo. “To our knowledge, this is the first research that empirically ties this conceptualization of virtue with wisdom, a connection that philosophers have been making for over two millennia,” says Huynh. “These findings open up new avenues for future research to investigate how to increase a person’s level of wisdom. This is in part due to their ability to recognize that their perspectives may not be enough to fully understand a situation, a concept referred to as intellectual humility.” Source: www.psychologicalscience.org

Jerry Lewis's son Anthony got left out of the will, so he is saying he got whipped twice as a kid, and now he is saying that’s abuse. Years ago he was boasting that he was the only son that never got whipped for bad behavior. So which is it? Jerry Lewis also found out that ex-wife Patti was about to get thrown out of her nursing facility because Anthony was pocketing the money himself, and got really pissed off at him. Jerry then had Patti moved closer to him in another asylum in Las Vegas. This is what Anthony originally said in his mother's book about his father, a whole different picture than what he paints now: "My father was always the strongest person in my life growing up. He was the ultimate role model, the consummate disciplinarian... Sure my father became angry at times. When properly provoked, anyone will. But he was never wild or uncontrollable. Even in the depths of his percodan addiction, he never made insane gestures or spoke abusively.... The act of children making money by defaming their parents should only be classified as mercenary opportunism. God forbid show people should be human.” 

Jerry Lewis was one unequivocal token of American exceptionalism at its finest. I remember a story that Penn Jillette told about meeting Lewis for the first time. Jillette was pontificating to some fellow comedians at an event that Lewis would be appearing at that he never understood why Lewis was worshiped, especially since he hadn't done anything "good" since The Nutty Professor era. Lewis then appeared before him and Jillette wept as if before Christ, and poured his heart out to him, extolling his genius and thanking him for the joy Lewis brought into his life. Jillette's experience really personifies the struggle a lot of us have with Jerry Lewis. Here is a man who revolutionized comedy and became an overnight sensation, playing to shrieking crowds the likes of which wouldn't be seen until The Beatles. Yet, at a certain point, Lewis aged and became a mythical figure who hadn't been involved in a smash project in decades. He was remembered as a clown, whose circus tent had deflated many moons ago. His often disastrous interviews earned him an ire in the critical world.

Yet, after his death, there were many who disparaged Lewis during his life that praised him as a genius after his death. Technical filmmakers bowed to advancements to film because, after all, he practically invented the system known as "Video Play-Back." Prior to the revolutionary tool, the daily "rushes" of that day's filming would be a mystery until they were developed and show on a screen. Lewis invented the system where the scene could be instantly played back and fixed while the cast was still in make-up and costumes. The Total Film-Maker was practically a bible to legendary directors such as Steven Spielberg and George Lucas. Lewis was also a champion of The Character Actor and the genius misfit. In an interview in 1996, Kathleen Freeman talked about working with Lewis as "something quite magical in life to have a friendship with Jerry built on unbelievable respect and appreciation."

Do we see him as The Clown or The Human being? Lewis was once called "The Human Care Package", since he'd donate clothes and assorted goods to many of his collaborators. He's believed to have handed over 400s suits. In his heyday, Lewis would spend as much as $35000 on Christmas gifts. Do we judge him for his faults or extol him for the joy he brought to millions? My verdict is that the legacy of the man will be a personal Legacy. He will mean to you what he meant to you, despite the protestation of others. It's really all lesson in self-actualization when we can stick to our tastes, even when the world is disparaging the object of our affection ad nauseum. Knowing what makes you laugh, above all, is the eternal indicator of a well-rounded human being. We are at our most vulnerable when we laugh and, to true open yourself up to laughter, is a phenomenon that unsettles even the most stentorian of souls.

Jerry Lewis, to millions, was the epitome of laughter, joy, and pure silly fun. "Laughter is healing, it's a spiritual feeling," Jerry Lewis affirmed. In the end, the words of the man himself speak better than any further pontificating: “A lot of people resent that I’ve been in someone’s life for 50 years. Why shouldn’t people have an affection for me and what I’ve done? Didn’t I have to be genuine for them to buy into what I did? There are children who grow up today who will not have that. With whom will they have it? Name an example for me.” Source: www.chicagonow.com

Jerry Lewis learned some painful lessons since breaking with Dean Martin. Here was a likeable refugee from the tough vaudeville-nightclub circuit who became wealthy and famous before he was 30. With his handsome singing partner, Dean Martin, he had a lifetime guarantee to glory. 'I loved Dean almost as much as my family,' said Lewis. Some insiders said their wives (Patti Palmer and Jeanne Martin) clashed. This attitude, more than occasional jealousies and rifts, led to their break-up. After breaking with Martin, Lewis plunged into the most nerve-shattering, career-wrecking of Hollywood ventures – producing and directing his own films. Lewis’ day begins at 7 a.m. His first production was “The Delicate Delinquent” (1957), developing an idea for a chest of drawers that fell apart when slammed and then reassembled itself. “It’s cost $3,750,” the prop man added. 

It’s a tribute to Jerry’s strong family loyalty that his consuming ambition is never at the expense of his wife, Patti, and their boys. The Lewis’ vacations are always family vacations, and Jerry’s business trips are arranged to keep him away from home as little as possible. Jerry was at the Paramount Theater in New York when Ronnie broke his leg. The comedian flew back to Hollywod after his last show, spent four hours at his son’s bedside, then returned East without missing a performance. During an appearance at Chicago’s Chez Paree, Patti phoned Jerry to tell him the children were lonesome. Jerry promptly made arrangements for a police escort to Midway Airport after his last show and a car standing by at Los Angeles International Airport to meet his flight. He had only an hour and a half to talk and joke with his family before returning to Chicago, but it was worth it. 

“Loneliness” is a terrifying word in Jerry Lewis’ world. He remembers his own childhood in Newark, N.J., as one haunted by feelings of desolation. His parents were vaudevillians who had to accept billings far from home. At 8, Jerry was cooking his own meals, keeping house, and spending endless hours in the dark in an empty apartment where each creak magnified to dreadful proportions. His closest companion was his grandmother, who lived nearby. She died when Jerry was 14 and the world closed in tighter. Childhood loneliness, as an Hollywood do-it-yourself psychoanalyst will tell you, is the deep-seated answer to “What makes Jerry run?” Jerry needed success and admiration to protect him from memories of being small and alone. 

Even so, none of these achievements is likely to help Jerry as much as his marriage and family have. Patti Calonico and Jerry Lewis met in a downtown Detroit theater where he was doing pantomimes to records and she was singing with Ted Fio Rito’s band. Love came to Jerry, then only 18. The best he could manage in the way of introductions was to smear a lipstick message on her dressing-room mirror, “How about a date tonight?” The approach was unorthodox but successful. He followed it up by leaving a pair of baby shoes on her dresser with a pink and blue note asking, “How about filling these?” And so they were married. Patti was five years older but that was just as well because she often had to be mother and sister, too. —"What Makes Jerry Run" (1957) by Peer J. Oppenheimer for Family Weekly magazine

I had always thought Jerry Lewis was a great entertainer, never dreaming I would meet him. I thought he was one of the greatest comedians in the world. So I decided to shop for a new dress at the shop in the Flamingo, and then I went to the Colonial Motel on the Strip. My gay hairdresser, Jim,  bleached my hair champagne beige and styled it in a bouffant—a stunning fashion statement. He gave me new eyelashes so I’d look like a showgirl. After looking in the mirror I could see that I looked a whole lot more sophisticated and mature than a girl of only nineteen. Afterwards I went to my apartment, took a shower and slid into my sexy Mr. Blackwell design evening dress. The front of the dress was see-through from the inch choker-neckline to my waist. Delicate black crossed-lace held the front of the dress together, slightly exposing the inside of my voluptuous breasts. I splashed on my hundred-dollar Davinci perfume, popped an Ambar #3 in my mouth and drove my Thunderbird convertible to the Flamingo. I looked around to see everyone staring at me in my six-inch heals. I walked like a model, one foot in front of the other, sashaying my hips and arms like I owned the place. In the lounge we drank together. There were crowds of tourists and gamblers, and every once in a while someone interrupted to ask for an autograph. When we got to his suite, we had cocktails and he ordered a tray of hors d’oeuvres. The tray was loaded with shrimp, crab legs and the finest cheese. 

He was so romantic as we sipped champagne. We went to dinner at the Candlelight Room in the Flamingo Hotel, where he was appearing. It was the first gourmet restaurant opened in Las Vegas.  I wished Jerry wasn’t attached because I felt attracted to him. We had drinks and Jerry took me to his car, a Lincoln. We went for a drive toward downtown and he showed me the recording equipment he had installed in his car. Jerry practiced many of his routines using that tape recorder and played them back while he was driving. Jerry invited me to his show that night. I accepted and really enjoyed it. He saw me in the crowd and looked right down at me. He directed some of the lines and antics in his routine straight at me. He was one of the nicest men I’d ever met. Jerry just liked me. He felt comfortable with me. I knew that being a celebrity on the road could be hard and lonely. I think guys like Jerry thought of me as a breath of fresh air because I saw them as the people they were, and I was down-to-earth with them. 

Harry James owned the Harry James Orchestra during the Big Swing Era. He had hired Frank Sinatra in 1939, giving him his first gig as a vocalist with a known band. Harry told me about his ex-wife, Betty Grable, an international sex symbol. He said she was a nymphomaniac, never sexually satisfied. He said he couldn’t handle her infidelities—she had to have sex with other men to get enough—which led to their divorce. But I never did hear her side of the story. In the 1960s the casinos never allowed girls off the streets inside. If they tried to enter, the vice cops were called and escorted them out or arrested them for vagrancy. But a few of my new friends—Annette, Audrey and Laurie—and myself, who were the new girls, were allowed through the casino doors. We were the queen bees of Vegas—elegant, charming, witty, seemingly carefree, beautiful, and fun. One evening in June, I went to the Regency Lounge at the Sands and I met Harry Goodheart, the Sands casino manager. He was a friendly guy in his early fifties and he always listened to my problems, offering advice and support. He never judged me and I looked forward to seeing him every time I went into the Sands. He also became another big connection; I trusted his judgment and knew he wouldn’t set me up with anyone who wasn’t in good standing with the casino. Annette was one of the elite hustlers in Vegas that I’d met through Jonesy, the pit boss from the Sahara. Annette was an attractive brunette and had worked Vegas for six years. 

The lights went down and the Rat Pack came out on the stage to sing. Just before the end of the first song, the audience turned to the back of the room. I turned too and saw Marilyn Monroe standing in the doorway in a long white gown decorated with flashy beads. The very large Nick Kelly escorted Marilyn down the aisle to our table. She sat in a chair next to me with all eyes upon her. The Rat Pack seemed stunned but continued to sing. When they finished, Frank introduced Marilyn. I thought she was beautiful, though a little fuller in the hips than I had imagined. Marilyn shook my hand as Jilly Rizzo introduced her to me. She said, “Pleased to meet you, Janie,” in her wispy voice. After the show, Marilyn stayed a few minutes to talk with Frank.  One afternoon in February of 1962, George, Frank’s valet, called and told me to come down to the Regency Lounge at the Sands because Frank was back in town. I dressed in my beautiful Ship ‘n Shore designer dress and rushed to meet him. Frank was happy to see me, standing up and giving me a kiss on the cheek. Sammy and Annette were sitting with him at the table and it seemed like the continuation of a party that had never ended. Getting out of the shower, I heard a TV newsman say that President Kennedy had been shot. It was November 22, 1963. I watched for about an hour until there was a newsflash that the president had died from a gunshot wound to the head. This seemed to me the saddest thing that had ever happened in America. 

When I went to the Thunderbird Hotel, the waiters at the seafood bar said the hotel was draping all its gambling tables and slot machines in black to mourn the president. The city was going to turn off all the lights, including those on the Strip, for a long moment that night. That evening the lights did go off, and there was total darkness in Las Vegas. It was eerie. Nothing moved. All the people bowed their heads in prayer. Frank Sinatra complained about the press constantly hounding him about his connections with the mob. The only reason he knew any of the mob was because he used to serve coffee and sing for them as a kid. He told me he was tired of the media’s rumors and false stories. I could tell it was taking a toll on him. He’d worked hard to get where he was and he expected others to follow orders and respectfully do their jobs. I leaned over and whispered, “Frank, let’s get the hell out of this joint and go up to your room and play house. That’ll calm you down.” “This broad has the right idea,” he said, grabbing my arm and pulling me from the chair. Over to his suite we went. I took him to the bedroom, hoping to settle him down. He never wanted to stop but once I got him to relax, he curled up in my arms and went to sleep. —"Rat Pack Party Girl" (2017) by Jane McCormick