Ann Sheridan: Hollywood's Oomph Girl

While her movie fame has been eclipsed by the mega-watt glare of Bette Davis, Katharine Hepburn and Joan Crawford, Ann Sheridan is no less revered by film historians and classic movie buffs of Hollywood’s Golden Age. She is perhaps the most versatile and talented of all the great movie actresses from that era. That she achieved stardom at all, despite overwhelming odds, is a testament to her indomitable Texan spirit and appealing screen personality. In the hard-hitting dramas They Drive by Night (1940) and Kings Row (1942), she was the no-nonsense, street-smart heroine who knew her way around in difficult situations. With her gift of tossing sarcastic, biting lines at a hapless recipient, she proved equally at home in comedy. Her comic performance in Torrid Zone (1940) is a gem. Likewise, her tart portrayal as Cary Grant’s wife in I Was a Male War Bride (1949) is sheer delight from the beginning to the final credits. Not to be overlooked are her complex, conflicted characters in the unjustly neglected film noir classics The Unfaithful (1947) and Woman on the Run (1950). If that wasn’t enough, it turned out the lady could sing in a voice pleasantly reminiscent of Alice Faye’s warm contralto. When she sang, she elevated the silliest plot contrivance in films like Navy Blues (1941) into a moment of unadulterated joy. 

Ann Sheridan had a tremendous appeal that went beyond a striking beauty and shapely figure. Just as she wouldn’t fit into a screen type, she would not be hampered by efforts to mold her into a sex symbol via the “Oomph Girl” label. As pal Humphrey Bogart noted in 1943, the label “has not affected her a bit; by hard work and determination to be a good actress she has managed to rise above it.” Yet it was the “Oomph Girl” designation that highlighted Sheridan’s zest for living life to the fullest. When Joseph Breen’s Production Code took effect in mid–1934, the sexy, playful and naughty qualities of actresses like Norma Shearer and Kay Francis were sanitized and a veneer of respectable glamour was heavily applied. With her breakthrough turn in It All Came True (1940), Sheridan flipped glamour off its high heels. In one fell swoop, the “Oomph Girl” brought sex back at full force onscreen.

Search for Beauty, based on the obscure play Love Your Body by Schuyler E. Grey and Paul R. Milton, was earmarked as a showcase for the American film debut of Ida Lupino. Lupino, billed as the “English Jean Harlow” later called the film “a darling little thing” and noted, “The greatest thing about it was that I met my best girlfriend, Ann Sheridan…. We were both so homesick. We didn’t want to be stars, we just wanted to meet some nice guy and settle down.” Sheridan likewise had fond memories of her association with Lupino. “Ida is a dear, close friend,” she told interviewer Ray Hagen. “I adore her. And she’s a damn fine actress, too.” Sheridan was one of 30 beauty contest winners who made their screen debut in Search for Beauty (1934). Only Sheridan achieved film stardom. Variety prophetically noted, “There’s a girl in an earlier sequence bit, Ann Sheridan, who should be an important screen personality someday if her work here is any criterion.” 

During the 1930s, three studios dominated: MGM, Paramount and Warner Brothers. In terms of star power and box office revenue, no other Hollywood studios came close. Each had its specialty. MGM produced lavish prestige films; Paramount offered sophisticated dramas and comedies, and Warners specialized in backstage musicals, raucous comedies and gritty melodramas “ripped from the headlines.” As child actor Sybil Jason reflected in her autobiography, “In the 1930s, Warner Brothers was like a well-cogged wheel that continually churned out a product that America and the rest of the world clamored for. While watching those movies today, we discover that a good percentage of them have a quality and an appeal that holds up in this era.” This is the main reason why many of Sheridan’s Warner Brothers features still deserve to be seen today.  Jane Wyman recalled in a 1995 Turner Classic Movies interview that working for Warner Brothers was like working as a family. “We all helped each other… and the big stars would help when we were working with them.” James Cagney told TV Guide in 1966, “When Ann came to Warners, she was just a nice kid—chumming around with the working staff… There was nothing aggressive about her.” 

“The good thing about working at Warner Brothers was the spirit at the studio,” Sheridan told John Kobal. “It was a very good group. An absolute family. It was just incredible.” In this environment, Sheridan flourished as a movie actress of box office value. Bogart was likewise fond of Sheridan because of her raunchy sense of humor and ability to out-drink him. Of course, he could not disclose these aspects of her personality publicly. In a 1943 article titled “Sister Annie,” Bogart said that when he met her for the first time on the set, she was a “scared kid, self-conscious and unsure of herself.” He took the time to coach her on her lines and helped ease her nervousness. This act of kindness endeared him to her and they became fast friends. “Sheridan is one of the nicest girls in Hollywood,” Bogart asserted, “because she is real, honest, unassuming, friendly, and natural.”  Edward Norris told Van Neste, “Annie was scared of the camera, she used to walk around the set with a bottle of Coke which was really rum in a Coke bottle. She was very nervous and upset.” During her Warner Brothers years, Sheridan was well-known for her excessive drinking on the set. “She used to be able to drink me under the table,” Norris marveled. “She was such a great gal, the love of my life!” Cagney proved especially helpful in coaching the young actress. “He was grand to me. I was so nervous about everything,” Sheridan told Modern Screen in 1940. In another interview, Sheridan revealed her admiration for Cagney’s professional conduct: “He’s the sort of star who will sit down with you and explain in detail why you should do a thing a certain way. He’ll give you the benefit of everything he’s learned.” Sheridan later became known for exhibiting the same kindness and courtesy to other actors. 

Sheridan was assigned to another inconsequential role in a Dick Powell musical comedy, Always Leave Them Laughing (apparently a favorite title at Warner Brothers as many musical comedies bore this title early in production). The film was based on the same-name original story by Richard Macaulay and Jerry Wald. By this time, Powell was tired of trifling stories like this one and decided not to renew his contract after seven years with the studio. When the film wrapped its shoot in mid–December, the executives, out of pure spite, put the film on the shelf with no intention of releasing it. Department head Bob Taplinger finally struck gold merely by changing the spelling of “umph” to “oomph.” He then staged a “contest” to spotlight the Hollywood actresses who best embodied “oomph.” The publicity stunt was rigged to crown Sheridan victor and boost publicity coverage for Warners. Taplinger assembled a panel of 25 judges (including Busby Berkeley, Bob Hope, Earl Carroll, the Earl of Warwick and Hollywood’s pre-eminent glamour photographer George Hurrell) to “select” the star most deserving of the coveted “Oomph Girl” title. Each contestant had to submit a photograph to be judged by the committee. Hurrell was commissioned by Warners to take Sheridan’s photographs. For the photo shoot, Sheridan recalled that her outfit “had a roll-back collar and long sleeves. It was a crepe negligee, covered all the way up.” 

Hurrell reminisced that Sheridan “was very good-natured about the whole thing. I played rumba and samba records and she was totally responsive. We laughed a good deal because the beauty mark, courtesy of Perc Westmore, kept sliding down her cheek from the heat of the lights.” Years later, Sheridan told Hagen that Hurrell “was the greatest.” Taplinger arranged an award dinner that was held at the Los Angeles Town House on March 16, during which Sheridan was officially declared the winner. Reflecting on that evening years later, she admitted, “It was one of those nerve-wracking things and I actually can’t remember very much of it.” She received a certificate and a bracelet along with the “Oomph Girl” title. It was revealed in 1945 that Jane Wyman and Margaret Lindsay were also under early consideration for the title. Many of the judges offered up their takes on what “Oomph” meant. Busby Berkeley stated, “Oomph is the quality that drives girls to stardom and men to distraction.”

Soon the term was being used to denote “a certain indefinable something, something that commands male interest.” In a 1940 Modern Screen article, Sheridan described her ideal man: He doesn’t have to be handsome, but not ugly, either. An older man, preferably, maybe around 35 or 40, ambitious, interesting, and with a sense of humor. Someone who would be a gentleman at all times, would be careful about his appearance and would not take me, or himself, too seriously! Enter George Brent. Sheridan’s lively personality managed to bring out Brent’s light-hearted nature. He even started frequenting night clubs with his new love. Brent revealed there were several qualities which drew him to Sheridan: “She works hard and enjoys life; she’s more fun to be with than any woman I have ever known; I think, on the whole, the quality of excitement which she possesses and generates is what makes her different from the standard glamour girls—that, and her earthy simplicity.” Sheridan found Brent intriguingly different from her usual night clubbing escorts. “He’s a lot of people—rebel, hard-working artist, playboy, hermit, intellectual, athlete … and what’s most disconcerting, he manages to be a combination of these things all at once. George has an enormous awareness, a flair for being very much alive during every waking hour.” While they shared much in common, it was the classic case of opposites attracting. 

Sheridan ranked as the 18th most popular box office draw in 1940 and was one of the studio’s top-drawing actresses behind Bette Davis. But her salary was hardly commensurate with her new box office standing. Warners was paying Bette Davis $4000 weekly and Olivia de Havilland $1250 weekly, while Sheridan earned a paltry $500; even her pal Ida Lupino was receiving $2000 per week. Based on the commercial successes of her 1940 features, the studio decreed that Sheridan would be given a raise which would bring her weekly salary up to $600 at her contract renewal on April 1, 1941. To Sheridan, this was no April Fool’s Joke. “When I realized that my pictures were making big money at the box office,” she explained to Photoplay, “it seemed no more than right to me that I should have a better salary, particularly in view of the fact that I had been promised raises several times, but hadn’t gotten them.” Sheridan was disgruntled by the studio’s lowball offer of $600 per week and insisted on $2000 weekly. Watching from the sidelines, Brent was displeased with how Warners was handling Sheridan’s career. He gallantly declared to Photoplay, “There is no doubt that, if she is given half a chance, she will become one of the foremost screen actresses. She has all the star qualities: beauty, vividness, intelligence, talent and above all, a realness that the cameras capture.” Having waged many battles of his own with Warners, Brent encouraged Sheridan to refuse all movie projects until her salary demands were met. Among the films she turned down: The Bride Came C.O.D. (replaced by Bette Davis), Million Dollar Baby (Priscilla Lane) and Out of the Fog (Ida Lupino). 

By early fall, the Sheridan-Brent romance continued to baffle Hollywood insiders and gossip columnists. Some predicted nuptials, while others foresaw the relationship’s demise. In a Photoplay article tantalizingly titled “George Tells Why, ‘Ann Sheridan and I Won’t Marry,’” Brent pointed out that the combination of two film careers and marriage rarely succeed. He offered as proof his three failed marriages and Sheridan’s own marriage to Norris. “We’re very happy as it is,” he said. Maude Cheatham told her readers, “This romance has steadied Ann: she’s gained poise and assurance from George’s strength and masculinity.” Cheatham also noticed a difference in Brent as he was “more approachable, laughs easily and often, and the old hurts seem to have faded away.” As the Sheridan-Brent romance was dissected in the gossip columns, Sheridan finally began preparations for her dream role: Randy Monaghan in Kings Row, the best role of her career. It would also provide the clearest rebuttal to those who had downplayed her dramatic abilities. Sheridan later told Hagen, “I loved it. I worked so hard, I worshipped the part.”

Asked about Bette Davis, Ann Sheridan said: “She was just—temperamental? Who wasn’t temperamental? All of us had the greatest admiration for her. She was the queen. One of my greatest, greatest favorites.” Upon the completion of both features, Sheridan barely had enough time to close her makeup kit before assuming a role previously turned down by Ida Lupino. The new project Juke Girl was based on a Theodore Pratt story, “Jook Girl,” which, in turn, was based on Pratt’s Saturday Evening Post article “Land of the Jook.” Motion Picture Herald marveled, “Kings Row comes to the screen as a star-studded, superbly mounted Warners production which has an emotional impact few pictures have ever had.” It emerged as the studio’s third highest grossing movie that year. With box office returns of over $5 million, the feature ranks today as Sheridan’s most financially successful film. Performances from top to bottom received excellent reviews. Dependable actors Rains, Coburn and Anderson garnered their usual fine notices. It was the younger actors, however, who caught the critics off guard. The biggest surprise of all was Sheridan. Motion Picture Herald effusively noted, “Miss Sheridan may now be forgotten as the ‘oomph girl’ and be billed as a top flight actress because of her characterization of Randy.” Variety was likewise impressed: “Miss Sheridan rises admirably to the emotional demands of the later scenes and gives one of her most effective performances thus far.” Photoplay called her portrayal one of the month’s best and the National Board of Review cited it as one of the best of the year. 

Sheridan’s Randy Monaghan rightfully remains one of her best dramatic performances. Kings Row received Oscar nominations for Best Picture, Best Director and Best Cinematography, Black-and-White (James Wong Howe). By mid–August, Sheridan was on location filming another wartime propaganda film, Edge of Darkness, opposite pal Errol Flynn. This situation did not sit well with Brent as rumors quickly circulated about a torrid affair between the two stars. Reportedly, Brent once discovered the two in bed and received a sound beating by Flynn for his untimely interruption. Brent made one final attempt at a reconciliation. Sheridan recalled to Screenland that Brent hadn’t spoken to her for a month. His main complaint: She was more concerned about her career than their marriage. After Brent had finished, Sheridan accepted the futility of the situation and simply stated, “Well, George, it looks like this is it.” It was decided that Sheridan would contact Alex Evelove, the head of Warners’ publicity department and give him a statement for the newspapers. In late December, Sheridan traveled to Mexico for a divorce decree. She was granted her freedom on January 5, 1943, by Civil Judge Acuna Pardo in Cuernavaca. She had been married to Brent for exactly one year. She still maintained a friendly relationship with her ex, Norris, but Sheridan never resumed her friendship with Brent and they rarely spoke well of each other in private. Sheridan often referred to their marriage as a mistake. Once, near the end of her life, she publicly admitted, “I can’t stand my ex-husband.”

For his part, Brent chose to remain tight-lipped about his four former wives. When Don Stanke interviewed him in the 1970s for the book The Debonairs, Brent took the opportunity to reflect on Sheridan’s passing: “What a waste of what could have been a good life.” Sure enough, it was soon discovered that the pitchers of “iced water” that both Sheridan and Errol Flynn drank from on the set actually contained pure 90-proof vodka. Sheridan had also learned from Flynn the trick of injecting vodka into oranges, which she ate on the set. According to Longstreet, “The stars’ behavior resulted in delays, which led to cost overruns, which forced the studio heads to declare Silver River finished. It is the only major studio film I know of for which there is no ending.” By late 1948, her special friendship with her publicist Steve Hannagan was in a rut with no foreseeable resolution. Hannagan had been pressuring Sheridan to give up her acting career and move to the East Coast. There was also the occasional rumor that Hannagan had become jealous of her friendships with several handsome, younger men. All of the expensive gifts could not buy her faithfulness, even though he professed a willingness to overlook her indiscretions. Hannagan headed the nation’s top publicity agency; its biggest client was the Union Pacific Railroad. Although he was in a financial situation to support both of their lavish lifestyles, she was not ready to entertain the notion of giving up her career. 

“I’d like another five years in pictures with good stories,” she said. Sheridan wasted little time in playing the field with the likes of Bill Cagney (James’ brother), Franchot Tone, Cesar Romero and Bruce Cabot. She was at the peak of her beauty and had little trouble attracting men. Rex Harrison was one of many who found her enchanting. “I was struck by her extraordinary magnetism and directness,” Harrison said. “Her distinctive quality of earthiness that never transcends to blatant sexiness.” Sheilah Graham took a rather perverse interest in chronicling the star’s romantic escapades in the gossip columns and magazine features, including one called “Annie, Get Your Guy” for Modern Screen magazine. When asked by Graham if she ever intended to re-marry and settle down, Sheridan replied, “I am too busy to settle down. And why must I get married? A woman can have an enduring friendship with a man and not be married to him, I hope. I like being single because I have so many things to do.” The most persistent suitor was set designer Jacques Mapes, who met Sheridan on the Good Sam set. Sheridan enjoyed Mapes’ sense of humor and good looks. Mapes said he found Ann’s sense of humor “one of her most remarkable qualities. That, and her complete honest sincerity about people and everything she does.” 

Ann Sheridan made her television debut on The Ed Wynn Show on February 11, 1950. Her friend Lucille Ball, who also made her TV debut on that show, may have convinced Sheridan that the new form of entertainment would provide her a new career. The Variety TV critic reported favorably on Sheridan’s brief appearance: “Ann Sheridan, one of the top-billed film stars yet to appear on television proved again the old adage that a talented performer in any part of show business will show well on tv.” In January 1953, Steve Hannagan was on a trip promoting Coca-Cola products in several countries in Europe and Africa. After his arrival in Nairobi on February 2, he cancelled a dinner engagement with famed author Robert Ruark. Hannagan explained that he was experiencing uncomfortable pressure in his chest. Ruark arranged for him to see a local doctor. The next morning, Hannagan was found on the bathroom floor, dead at the age of 53. His body was wrapped like a mummy in preparation to be flown to New York City. A funeral mass, held at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, was attended by over 1500 mourners, including film and stage personalities, presidents of major corporations, business associates and close friends. When Sheridan learned of Hannagan’s death, she was devastated. After a few days, she mustered up the strength to issue a statement for the press: "Once in a while the world is blessed with a man born with great understanding. This is attested to by the number of true friends he gathers during his life. Such a man was Steve Hannagan. My personal loss and feelings, which are extremely deep, must therefore be shared by many others around the world by those who knew, loved and were influenced by the greatness of this man." -"Ann Sheridan: The Life and Career of  Hollywood's Oomph Girl" (2024) by Michael D. Rinella 

RIP Shanen Doherty

💖😥💗

Center Door Fancy (fiction vs reality)

Dick Powell was considered one of Hollywood's most eligible bachelors after his memorable performance in "Blessed Event" (1932). "Dick always seemed to be in good humor. He gave the impression of always enjoying what he was doing," said his short-time fiancé Mary Brian. Out of the blue, Powell quit his commitment to Brian and fell by the spell of his habitual co-star Joan Blondell. By the time they made Broadway Gondolier, they had already appeared in four movies together. They were first spotted dating in late September of 1935, one month after Joan’s divorce from cinematographer George Barnes. On 17 September 1936, they announced that they would be married in two days on the yacht Santa Paula at San Pedro to sail through the Panama Canal. Blondell wrote veiledly about her three husbands in the last chapters of Center Door Fancy (1972). She critizices George Barnes (who started as a still photographer for Thomas H. Ince, the man who died on Hearst' yatch) for being remote and not wanting children. Later, after divorcing him, she finds out he'd suffered a terrible childhood. The most baffling reproachments against the collected crooner are quite contradictory. For example it's clear she was looking for security with Dick Powell, who was a practical family man. 

In fact, Joan (Nora) leads Jim (Powell) to break up with May Gould (Mary Brian) making him doubt of his feelings. When Powell asks Joan if she still loves George Barnes: "Do you still love David?" Joan (Nora) says she doesn't. Her intimate relationship with Powell starts at this moment, when both share a kiss, and she abandons George Barnes, favoring the secure arms of Dick Powell, who had sent her a 1000$ check for her son's childbirth. Blondell also expresses doubts to Sally (Glenda Farrell) about her true feelings towards Jim, saying "he's too nice to hurt." They marry, spending their honeymoon at the Santa Paula yatch, and they consummate their marriage. She seems to find Powell charming when he gives her a playful whack on her behind. Also, she writes: "He smiled and put his hands on my shoulders. He says (naughtily): 'I'm sure that we didn't do it the last few nights because your eyes would look glassy now'." Nora (Joan) feigns not knowing: "Glassy?" "From doing it too much!" Powell jokingly says. In the mid-30s, the press took notice of the odd pairing, giving them nicknames such as "Floozie and Dopey." But Powell was no dope, as his career as a producer, director and tough guy star would prove later.

Joan rolls her eyes and tells to herself: "What did I get into?" Supposedly she was a sex enthusiast and later thinks of Powell as mechanical in bed, but it sure doesn't look like that from her initial account during their honeymoon. When Nora bumps into a table playing with her son and bruises her leg, Jim says worried: "People will say I did some weird sex thing to you, and I can't have that." So he sounds sensible and pretty knowledgeable of sexual matters. Powell wasn't just a hick from Arkansas, he was a very intelligent, amiable man and obviously he had sex-appeal. It's true that Powell was conservative politically and Blondell was a liberal, and she tries to exploit this gap too, trying to characterize Powell as racist and anti-semite. She has Powell ranting: "Damned Jews run this business! Damned niggers get some fancy salaries now. The goddamned government is killing us with taxes! I've got to change agents, the son of a bitch does nothing for his ten percent." She tries so hard to make an impression of Dick Powell as Nixon, it is not even funny. In the last chapter, Joan (Nora) acknowledges that Dick Powell and Ronald Colman (a friend of Barnes) drew up a pension fund for Joan through Lloyds of London, which would allow her to retire at the age of 47. "It's with Lloys of London and when I'm 47, I'll get money enought to live on the rest of my life," she boasts to Mike Todd. And don't get me started on her obsession towards her eternal rival, the sweet and easygoing June Allyson. Oddly, Joan (Nora) barely talks of her terrible fights with her third husband Mike Todd, who was pathologically jealous and threatened with killing her if she ever cheated with him. 

Joan always conceded that Dick made a wonderful father. Such acknowledgment did not stop her from arming herself with lawyers and filing for divorce on 9 June 1944. Joan announced publicly her separation from Dick: “I am going to file against Dick as soon as he returns from the East. . . and after I have talked the matter over with him. The matter of a divorce is final, however.” Norman Powell said in 1996: “My mother said she was taken with the kindness and gentleness that he exhibited toward her, and the fact that he really seemed to love me. I think that’s what attracted her to him more than any other thing.” Once Joan set her sights on Mike Todd, she proceeded to depict Powell as "corny, unsure of himself, a cold fish, a cold-assed Don Juan, and surprisingly prudish," adding that "he will make love only in the dark, furtively." Her memoirs are full of similar braggadocio: "I’ve got a new guy, and Jim [Dick Powell] would die of envy if he knew how we feel." Also, a jealous Blondell tells her mother: "Mom. It doesn’t matter about the little crumb [June Allyson] who’s after him. I heard their voices on the detectives’ recording, and she’s so corny—pleading with him to marry her, to guide her career. It’s like a cheesy B-picture. Doesn’t Jim know about his Amy? Everybody else does. Her reputation is in the public domain. She’s a tramp dressed like a little kid. She was a call girl in New York—exhibitions her specialty. Jeff Flynn [Mike Todd], and even a New York doctor, told me they knew some of the guys she ‘entertained.’ She’s using Jim [Dick Powell]—can’t he see? It would be a giant step for her to get the Star Husband of the Year.” 

After Blondell announces her petition of divorce, Powell yells at her: “I, Jim Wilson, did not marry a bum!” Blondells shrugs: "Jim slammed the door shut and was gone. I was sitting up in bed, my lawyer standing by the window. He had been talking to me for over an hour about the division of property and finances. By law, everything we had should be divided, and the lawyer was urging me to use the proof I had against Amy O’Brien to get what was coming to me. I told him I couldn't prove anything. “I’ll sign it, whatever it is—let’s get it over with. I can’t stand the sight of Jim around the house any longer.” Blondell writes that Powell moved to a rented house in Beverly Hills, and Mike Todd phoned her from New York. Also, Blondell has Frances Marion suggesting that June Allyson slept her way to the top. 

June Allyson wrote in her 1983 memoirs: "Joan's account of this meeting in 'Center Door Fancy', a fictionalized autobiography, is loaded against me. Most of the names have been changed, but the true identities are obvious. Joan is Nora, David is first husband George Barnes, Jim is Dick Powell, Amy is me, Teresa is Marion Davies, and Jeff is Mike Todd. She wrote that I simpered and came down the steps pigeon-toed and cooed that I slept with his letter under my pillow every night. I had no letter. I never wrote a fan letter. I had no picture or letter from him or any star. It was ridiculous, but then, so was her charge that I had stolen her husband away, starting that night. In fact, Richard recorded his own account of our first meeting in his diary, and it differs substantially from Joan's: "Why I bother to put this down I don't know except that she certainly is the cutest thing anybody ever saw. Last night, I went to catch 'Best Foot Forward' and there was this little blonde character named June Allyson who sang so loud that the veins stood out on her neck like garden hose. I sat and guffawed through the whole routine. Really a funny act although I don't know if the producer meant it that way. Anyway, this afternoon I had to attend a formal luncheon and I got stuck with the most stubborn hunk of chicken I've ever had the displeasure of eating. It took all my attention and I was struggling with it until I guess my face turned red. Then, suddenly, I felt someone's eyes on me and I looked up. And there was this same cute little character from the show last night and she was convulsed with laughter. Laughing at me! I don't know whether or not I particularly like that girl, but she sure is cute." 

Once I called Richard's home, Joan did not seem interested and irritably called his husband to the phone. Then she came back on and said, with biting sarcasm: "You want my husband? Well, you can have him." Richard was on the phone and I tried to hide my embarrassment as I said, "I've got a script from MGM and they want me to do this picture called 'Two Girls and a Sailor.' Joan Blondell was convinced that I was after her husband. I wasn't, even though Dick Powell gave me palpitations and shortness of breath just to look at him. I tried not to think of him, except as my mentor. Every major actress gets whispered about. With me it was the nymphomaniac thing. "She's not Goody Two Shoes, she's Goody Round Heels," said the malicious rumors. But the only man who really made my heart flutter was, of course, Dick Powell. And he was determined to protect my reputation." 

Another time, June writes "Richard was taking me to Ciro's and I was ready. But when he saw me, he was speechless with my new sophisticated look. He slumped on a couch in the living room. He pulled me down on his lap. Richard grabbed me and started smooching. "Whew, you scared me this time," he said. "I'm here because being around you is like being in a fresh breeze. So don't go dramatic on me, right?" "Yes, sir," I said. "Goody Two Shoes reporting for duty." "Let's go," he said. "No, wait a minute." He kissed me again. "Monkeyface, I love you." In 'Center Door Fancy', Joan gave me the name of Amy, possibly after the selfish sister in 'Little Women' who steals Jo's boyfriend and marries him. How bitter she must have been to have written about me: "Doesn't he know about his Amy? Everybody else does. Her reputation is in the public domain. She's a tramp dressed like a little kid. She was a call girl in New York, exhibitions her specialty." I could not believe it. How untrue, and how cruel."

Center Door Fancy: So it went—a week of school in Trenton, Dallas, Sioux City, Denver, Seattle, Pittsburgh, Washington. . . “I don’t think she’s really learning anything, Johnny,” Cecilia said. “For instance, what is there to learn? Is arithmetic anything to laugh at? What’s so funny about grammar? History she’ll make. She can read every marquee and billboard we’ve ever passed. Geography she knows. What other kid of her age has been all over the world, and across the U.S.A. sixty-seven times?” On days when there was no school Johnny would see that I was free to walk lovely, tree-lined streets, to peer into shop windows. My own security came from the theater dressing room, its smells, colors, and sounds: greasepaint; L. T. Piver lotion; Cashmere Bouquet soap; Smith Bros, cough drops; putty; Yardley’s sachet; the towels heavy with the scent of makeup; Mum; tobacco; Yankee Clover toilet water; Fels Naphtha. With fascination I watched Mom “bead” her eyelashes with a toothpick dipped into the black wax, Cosmetique, heated in a pan held over a candle. Lump after lump, and presto-chango her lashes looked a foot long. Then she dipped her pinky into a jar of red greasepaint and painted her full lips and rubbed them together until they were smooth and perfect. And that skin! Wherever Cecilia went, people would speak of it. Looking at my mother, I yearned to be beautiful, too. My eyes shifted to my father’s mirror. My skin is dark—so is his. People mentioned the “bigness” of my eyes so often that I wished I could take a needle and sew them up on the sides. Last night Mom said to Johnny, “It doesn’t seem possible Nora’s grown up so fast. Men are starting to look at her. She’s too darned developed for her age.” David (George Barnes) grinned. “Jim takes May Gould (Mary Brian) to the Clover Club every Saturday night.” 

Joan Blondell: "Honestly,  I don’t think men should be movie actors—it isn't natural." He smiled. “Shush, here he is. Hi, old pally!” They whacked each other on the back. I picked up the ice bucket to stave off a Jim Wilson hug. “How’d you get here?” I asked. “I took a plane to Palm Springs—Frank McHugh had an extra ticket he gave me. Taxi wanted twenty-five clams from there, so luckily a fan picked me up and dropped me off about half a mile down the road. You turtle doves having fun?” “Have a drink.” David gave Jim a Coke that had been thoroughly spiked. “I never touch the stuff,” Jim quipped. After a swig and a “Wow!” he turned to me. “Brought my new script, sweetie, thought you could cue me on the ride back.” “I will,” I promised. They fixed their fishing rods. Faye (Frances Marion) lit a cigarette and exhaled swiftly. “Nora, the name Amy O’Brien ring a bell?” “Nope—Why?” “Amy O’Brien is a new contractee here from a New York City musical. I’ve been coaching her for months, so I know her pretty damn well.” “And what, Faye?” She spoke rapidly. “She’s after your old man, but I mean after. She’s beaded down, and she’s gonna leave no stone unturned. I’ve watched her operate. I’ve listened to her phone work, her set work, her commissary work, the whole megillah. This dear little starlet is a nose-to-the-grindstone hustler. No more than she was signed up, she got the lay of executive-land and laid it. Now she’s started to work on Jim. She’s got a small role in his picture, but she’s on-the-spot every minute. I tell you, she’s a dangerous, determined tomato.” I protested: “Jim’s too wise not to see through that. He’s always had fans drooling over him.” Faye insisted: “Take my word. This one’s no fan, she’s got an overall plan.” “Amy O’Brien,” I repeated. “Thanks, Faye.” We parted, and I continued to Stage Ten. 

Amy O’Brien, Amy O’Brien, I said to myself as I walked toward the lights of the scene they were rehearsing. Jim was standing in front of the camera while the makeup man banged powder on his nose. “All right, everybody, we shoot,” called the director. It was a long dolly shot. As Jim sang, the camera pulled back, and I saw someone who looked like a little child with a pink babushka tied under her chin perched on the camera stand below the lens. In all my years in pictures, through all the years of Berkeley shots, I never saw anyone sit there before, I thought. I turned to a member of the crew standing next to me. “Who’s that sitting on the camera, Bill?” “Amy O’Brien.” He paused. “A pain in the butt.” After the take Jim called to me, “One still, and I’ll be right with you, sweetheart.” Then added: “Everyone knows my beautiful wife; beautiful wife, this is Amy O’Brien.” Halfway through my “How-do-ya-do,” Amy clapped both hands over her mouth as if terrified, and ran off the stage. “What was that bit with Amy O’Brien?” I asked after we had ordered our lunch. “She’s some kind of a nut,” Jim answered, saluting Joe Schenck as he passed our table. 

“Hey, Jim—who calls you ‘James?” I asked. “What?” He looked up from his dinner plate startled. “We’ve gotten a dozen or more phone calls here in the last couple of months. The voice is always the same, and so is the conversation—or lack of it. ‘James?’ it says hopefully even when I answer. ‘James who?’ I generally ask. An ‘Ooooh’ or ‘Oh-oh,’ or ’Sorry,’ is hastily muttered, then it hangs up.” “I have no idea,” Jim answered, tackling his salad. “A crank or a fan.” “But you’re ‘Jim,’ not ‘James’—world-famous Jim—and we have a very unlisted phone number.” “I don’t know,” he snapped. We ate our dessert in silence. Those calls from Amy O’Brien are designed to affect no one but me—just bitchiness, I thought, stabbing the apple pie. With an exaggerated hip roll I slunk out of the dining room. “Hey,” Jim called, “what’s with you?” In 1943 Joan Blondell had began going with Mike Todd to the exclusive Cub Room of the Stork Club, that see-and-be-seen nightclub on East Fifty-third frequented by the café society of Broadway, Hollywood, and Washington. Joan socialized only with already established friends, including actresses Glenda Farrell and Betty Bruce. She was still close to Gloria in California, they talked at least once a week, and she was thrilled when her sister met, courted, and wed handsome ad man Victor Hunter. 

Dick Powell was one of the co-producers of Mrs Mike through his company Regal Films. Powell had personally requested Evelyn Keyes for the leading female role of Kathy Flannigan, after their successful pairing in the previous Johnny O'Clock. Evelyn Keyes, like Claire Trevor in Murder, My Sweet, seemed to harbor a big crush on Dick Powell. Keyes alludes in her memoirs to a brief affair with Powell, but, unlike other actors she had dalliances with, she doesn't offer many specifics. While they shooted Mrs Mike in 1949, Dick Powell was reportedly burn-out due to the rumors spread by Confidential magazine of an affair between his wife June Allyson with Dean Martin. In her 1977 autobiography, Evelyn Keyes said Mrs Mike was her best film. She had to fend off studio boss Harry Cohn’s advances during her career at Columbia. Among the many Hollywood affairs she recounted was one with Dick Powell. Evelyn Keyes: "I was voted N#1 Star of Tomorrow in 1946. I was ranked as one of Columbia’s most reliable leading ladies. “Johnny O’Clock”, Robert Rossen’s first directorial job, became another highlight in my career. Dick Powell played an honest gambler in trouble and I was his girlfriend." Amidst the production of Johnny O'Clock, she married impulsively John Huston in Las Vegas. Back on the set, she felt Dick Powell acted somehow jealous. "It was weird. Perhaps it was just the hyped-up, spaced-out mood the benzedrine caused, or maybe only imagination. But it seemed strange, all around me that day. There were congratulations, but with distinct lack of enthusiasm. Dick Powell was particularly lukewarm, almost resentful, as if I had double-crossed him." 

Keyes's onscreen interactions with Powell in Johnny O'Clock show that an intimate spark lighted between them. Mrs Mike was released on December 23, 1949. That had been a bad year for Powell & June Allyson due to the incessant rumors of her affair with Dean Martin, so it's very likely Powell succumbed to Keyes' charms. As surmised by Nick Tosches in Dino: Living High in the Dirty Business of Dreams, Martin could be a bona-fide weasel and was bent on wooing Allyson, the America Sweetheart. Evelyn Keyes: "Variety described my performance in “Mrs. Mike” in its review of December 12, 1949, as a ‘portrayal that has excellent emotional depth and just the right touch of humor.’ So Louella Parsons thought I should have won an Oscar for “Mrs. Mike and lobbied for me.” Unlike Joan Blondell, who clearly came to detest Mike Todd (whom she divorced in 1950), Evelyn Keyes described Todd as attentive, generous and ambitious. In 1953, Evelyn Keyes became the constant companion of the brash, flamboyant and often volatile producer Mike Todd, who lavished Evelyn with attention, gifts and journeys to far-off locales. She worked very little during her time with Todd. Evelyn Keyes states in her memoirs: "Thanks to Mike Todd, I never had to worry about money again. He gave me a 15-carat diamond engagement ring while we worked on our wedding details [late 1956]. All was going well until the day I picked up the phone and Mike blurted out: 'I'm in love with Elizabeth Taylor'. Anyway, I always maintained a fondness for him." Keyes compared Todd favorably over John Huston ("an irredeemable womanizer") and she thought Todd's main faults were his poor manners and a streak of jealousy. Keyes philosophized in 1977: "The good part was that I invested all my money in Around the World in 80 Days, and that set me up for life." 

Indeed, Keyes owned 5% of Mike Todd's film company. "I vaguely knew who Mike Todd was, a producer of shows in New York. I had seen Star and Garter with Gypsy Rose Lee doing her strip act right there on Broadway. A promoter, I believe they called him," she wrote when she was first introduced to Todd. "He was busy getting together a new film technique to be called Todd-AO, a combination of his chutzpah and a scientist at American Optical: a new wide lens camera, to replace the recently introduced Cinerama."  Accustomed to neurotic and possesive partners, Dick Powell appears in I'm a Billboard as that rare specimen who didn't ever try to manipulate Keyes, a chivalrous old-fashioned man who was so gentle with her that she didn't know how to respond to that kind of man. Philip Grimes (the producer whose company has purchased the rights of a best-selling novel) is probably the stand-in for Dick Powell. Grimes displays "a deep sincerity, the kindest smile." What is known is her odd obsession with Mrs Mike and her vague allusions to a courteous romance with Powell seemingly out of a fairly tale, in stark contrast with her other lovers. Powell seemed to have regretted the affair, according to Keyes.

After his divorce from his first (alcoholic) wife Mildred Maund, Dick Powell was going to marry Mary Brian, but Joan played her cards well. When Powell, who was thinking of marrying Brian, asked Blondell for advice, the blonde bombshell made him doubt of his true feelings. Powell broke up with Brian in 1933 and dated Margaret Lindsay, while he initiated a romance with Blondell in late 1934. Center Door Fancy: Jim continued: "You have good common sense, Nora. I’m considering marrying May—what’s your advice?” “Do you love her?” “Well, hell, she’s a hell of a gal—not many around like her.” Jim continued: “I picked her up the other Saturday morning to grab some chow, and she wanted to know if I’d park by the Bank of America on Highland for a minute, as she had to clip some coupons. I sat out there for two solid hours while she clipped and clipped,” he leaned toward me. “My!” “We didn’t wrap our lips around a bite until after three-thirty. What do you think about a lil ole wedding?” I paused. I frankly didn’t care much about either of them. My one evening as a guest at May’s home was barren: no cocktails, barely enough chicken to go around, no butter for the air-holed bread, weak coffee, lumpy ice cream, and every lamp in the house had strips of cellophane covering the shade, though she had lived there for over ten years. I answered his question as truthfully as I could. “I might just take your advice. After all, a gal with her—er—qualifications—well, the first one drank a lot.” “I didn’t know you’d been married before!” “Neither does the press department. Remember me? America’s most desirable bachelor?” He playfully grazed my chin with his clenched fist. “What was she like?” “A beauty—dark, and from my home town. She was seventeen when I took the leap. She was from a wrong-side-of-the-tracks family, but they were okay. Damn glad about the catch their kid made! After all, Nora, I was a thousand-bucks-a-week MC in Detroit, and you know dames. So the little babe was in luck, she didn't have a dime.” I don’t think I like you, I thought. “What happened to the marriage?” “It lasted four years. The first two were fair, and then she started to drink. Jesus Christ, what drinking! I had an important reputation to live up to, so I sent her to one of those cure places—and a pretty penny that was!” He paused. “I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch if she didn’t stop drinking the minute she registered, but as soon as she got home, she’d drain every bottle that wasn’t tied down. “I’ll tell you something, Nora, a guy shouldn't be single in this town. The gals expect too much and the married babes can hound a guy to death.” “Two can live as cheaply as one,” I deadpanned.  

Joan (Nora): I was seated at the dressing table in my lacy lingerie looking into the mirror at Sally brushing my hair. “Sally, I can’t—I can’t go through with it. I don’t love Jim, really love, and he’s too nice to hurt.” “Did you ever tell him you loved him?” Sally asked, still brushing my hair. “No, never. When he asked me if I did, and my answer stuck in my throat, he said, ‘Nora, I love you enough for both of us—your honesty is one of the reasons I want you for my wife, and because you’re a helluva good actress, and you’re beautiful! What more could a guy ask for?’ Will I love him in time, Sally? Does that happen?” “I can give you wisecracks, pal—no answers.” Joan (Nora): “Bring on the wedding drag—I’m getting married!”

In the New York Times, Bosley Crowther wrote: "Cry Danger is a tidy package of fictional extravagance. Usually you don't find much occasion for laughter in a picture that is concerned with revenge and murder. But in "Cry Danger" scenarist William Bowers has found room for some sardonic lines that are tossed off most effectively. This is the story of a man who was framed into a jail term and gets out when a former marine comes up with a convenient alibi. The marine just wants a cut of the $100,000 swag Rocky Mulloy is supposed to have stashed away. Dick Powell plays Mulloy with an air of cocky toughness that inspires confidence in his ability to run down the sleazy characters who fingered him as the fall guy for a big robbery and murder rap. As the chief feminine interest, Rhonda Fleming turns on the charm effectively and Jean Porter is amusing as a blonde pickpocket. This report will not disclose anything more about the plot details of "Cry Danger." Inside intelligence; Mr. Powell is in town—he appeared on the Paramount's stage yesterday—and he can be pretty rough on squealers." The first bump happened around 1949, after the rumors floating about a dalliance of June Allyson with Dean Martin. The Paramount stage could allude to the set where Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis were filming My friend Irma (1949), which was produced by Hal B. Wallis and released on August 16, 1949, by Paramount. A jilted Powell and a conceited Martin may well have exchanged some heated words at that time. After reconciling with Dick Powell following a brief separation in 1957, triggered by a frustrated romance with Alan Ladd, June Allyson filed for divorce in 1961, citing his workaholic nature.

The odd thing is that Dean Martin never owned the fact of an affair with June Allyson, and in her biography June Allyson doesn't even mention Dean Martin's name. Very strange, since Allyson doesn't have any problem at confessing her romantic feelings towards Alan Ladd, Peter Lawford or her special chemistry with James Stewart. So something definitely happened for Allyson giving Martin a whole silent treatment. And another curiosity about Center Door Fancy is the degree of delusion of Joan Blondell in several instances of her recountings. June Allyson has never been exposed by any sensationalist writer, not even Darwin Porter dares to tarnish Allyson's reputation, not even Kenneth Anger, William J. Mann or any of their ilk. Ironically, it's Joan Blondell whose reputation suffers at Porter's hands (in consonance with Glenda Farrell's), it's Blondell who never is sure how many abortions she underwent, never really explains why she lost interest in Dick Powell and later in Mike Todd in only a few years. Also, she torpedoed Dick Powell's relationship with Mary Brian, flirted with Errol Flynn, Bing Crosby and Clark Gable, pursued James Cagney, Humphrey Bogart and John Wayne unsuccesfully and appears to have fostered a dark past, a traumatic family background and an unhealthy obsession with hypersexuality, and whose grudge against June Allyson makes her lose many points of credibility. 

In an interview with Stuart Oderman in 1970 at The New Theatre in NYC, Blondell adds some more pearls: "Ruby Keeler was always a nice girl, a sweet girl, naïve in those days when she got with Al Jolson. She had a musical background, being in the theatre (Sidewalks of New York in 1927) and had been going around with a mob guy who looked after her, as a lot of those girls did. And Al was older, and I guess that meant security. There’s no accounting for taste. Ruby tried to convince me to go into No, No, Nanette, saying it’ll be like the old days… and I stopped her saying, ‘I don’t want to talk about my marriage to Dick Powell. That’s past history." It's startling Joan tells nonchalantly that Ruby Keeler was a protegé of a gangster, when in her recent biography "Too Marvelous for Words: The Life and Career of Ruby Keeler" (2017) there is no mention at all of this factoid. Also, Oderman notices: "The dressing rooms resembled a row of slightly enlarged closets. Joan Blondell’s dressing room, in deference to her leading role, is the first off the stage. Inside her room you’ll find a table, a mirror, and a small sofa. What catches your eye immediately is the framed glossy photo on the wall of Joan’s former husband, producer Mike Todd."

June Allyson was granted an interlocutory divorce in January 1961, which would become final in a year. But Powell had other plans; on the day following the court hearing, Allyson said, “he was sitting at the little breakfast nook, having breakfast and reading the paper.” “And I said, ‘What are you doing here? We just got a divorce,’” Allyson recalled. “He said, ‘No, you didn’t—you just got a paper that said you can have a divorce in a year.’ And he said, ‘You know, I’m never going to let you go. And you’ve spent all that money for no reason at all.’ And he went right on eating his breakfast. And we never did get the divorce. For which I’m very grateful.” —Sources: "Center Door Fancy" (1972) by Joan Blondell, "June Allyson" (1983) by June Allyson, "June Allyson: Her Life and Career" (2023) by Peter Shelley, "Joan Blondell: A Life between Takes" (1993) by Matthew Kennedy, "Glamour, Glitz, & Gossip at Historic Magnolia House" (2019) by Danforth Prince, "Bad Boys: The Actors of Film Noir" (2003) by Karen Burroughs Hannsberry and "Talking to the Piano Player: Silent Film Stars, Writers and Directors Remember" (2004) by Stuart Oderman

Once Upon a Time: The Captivating Life of Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy audiobook

 

Audiobook's Club presents "Once Upon a Time: The Captivating Life of Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy" (2024) by Elizabeth Beller: In this video, we delve into the mesmerizing life of Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy, the iconic figure who captivated the world with her elegance and grace. "Once Upon a Time: The Captivating Life of Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy" explores her journey from a private upbringing to becoming a style icon and beloved wife of John F. Kennedy Jr. Through personal anecdotes and insightful commentary, we uncover the untold stories of Carolyn's life, her enduring legacy and the profound impact she left on fashion and society. Join us as we celebrate the timeless allure of Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy.

"Brats" (2024) by Andrew McCarthy, exploring the Brat Pack, Molly Ringwald's offbeat candor

Brian Tallerico: I have seen so many hagiographic clip reels masquerading as documentaries that I kind of just presumed that Hulu’s “Brats” would be a similar love letter to the young stars of the ‘80s, the actors and actresses who shaped pop culture in the middle of the decade in a way that’s still being felt today. I’m happy to report it’s not that. It’s an ambitious, introspective look at how pop culture and acting careers can be shaped by reputation and even just a nickname: "The Brat Pack". The well-spoken interviewees make an intriguing case that the Brat Pack were the main driving force in an entire cultural shift to stories of young people, which gives “Brats” unexpected poignancy in that these actors and actresses who made such an impact were reduced to an undeniably insulting label. Even if it derailed the dreams he once held, McCarthy appears to find some peace with his membership in this exclusive club—which never really existed, since they never hung out or even knew each other—by grasping that it made him and his “branded” brethren the very thing all movie actors aspire to be: immortal. “Brats” is a reclamation and a reshaping of that label. And it’s overdue. Source: rogerebert.com

Molly Ringwald: "The character of Claire in The Breakfast Club was the most different from me, because I never considered myself a popular kid, and I didn’t come from a wealthy family or anything, so at the time that was a real stretch for me. Also, I have never actually given my panties to a geek." Source: people.com

Pauline Kael review on Pretty in Pink (1986): Molly Ringwald, who possesses a charismatic normality, is enshrined as the teenage ideal in this romantic movie of teenagers, although its script slides at moments with the consistency of watery Jell-O. The spoiled-rotten richies are mean to Ringwald's Andie, a poor-girl high-school senior who lives in a dinky, rattletrap house on the wrong side of the tracks. But she's the opposite of trashy: blessed with quiet good taste, she's proudly conventional. And so she ends up wining both a college scholarship and the rich boy of her dreams. John Hughes, who wrote the script and supervised the work of the first-time director, Howard Deutch, seems to project the Boomers' approach to a teenage romance. In its sociological details, it might have been made by little guys from Mars. With the winsome comedienne Annie Potts as Andie's closest friend, Andrew McCarthy as her rather passive young prince, Jon Cryer as the smartmouth nerd who follows her around, Harry Dean Stanton as her  stricken daddy, and James Spader as a snobby hunk. 

In Sixteen Candles (1984), Kael reviews: Samantha (Molly Ringwald), a high-school sophomore, is having the worst day of her life. It's her 16th birthday, and, in the midst of preparations for her older sister's wedding, the whole family has forgotten about it. And in the evening, when she goes to a school dance and longs to be noticed by the handsome senior (Michael Schoeffling) who's the man of her dreams, she's subjected to the unrequited attentions of a scrawny freshman (Anthony Michael Hall), who's known as Geek--a pesty, leering smartmouth with braces on his teeth. Less raucous than the usual 80s pictures about teenagers, this new comedy by writer-director John Hughes is closer in tone to the gentle English comedies of the 40s and 50s. Hughes devised too much of a farcical superstructure, and a lot of the characters function at a sit-com level, but he brings off some fresh scenes, and he has a feeling for teenagers' wacko slang. The geek confesses that he has never "bagged a babe." And Molly Ringwald has a lovely, offbeat candor, a truly weird creation. 

Anthony Michael Hall as nerdy Brian Johnson in The Breakfast Club: "Dear Mr. Vernon, we accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. You see us as you want to see us... In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain... and an athlete... and a basket case... a princess... and a criminal... Sincerely yours, the Breakfast Club." Pauline Kael's review of The Breakfast Club (1985): "Set mostly in the library of a suburban Chicago high school, this encounter-session movie by the writer-director John Hughes is about five students, a cross-section of the student body, who in the course of serving a 7-4 Saturday detention peel off their layers of self-protection, confess their problems with their parents, and are stripped down to their "true selves." The five are: a champion wrestler (Emilio Estevez), a popular redhead "princess" (Molly Ringwald), a nerd (Anthony Michael Hall), a glowering rebel-delinquent (Judd Nelson), and a shy skittish weirdo (Ally Sheedy). 

With the exception of Ringwald and Sheedy, who have a marvellous comic sprite and transcend their roles until they are jerked back into the script mechanics, the movie is about a bunch of stereotypes who complain that other people see them as stereotypes. Hughes has talent, and when the kids are just killing time the dialogue has an easy, buggy rhythm, but this is a wet enterprise that appeals to young audiences by blaming adults for the kids' misery. Judd Nelson, who is supposed to represent what authorities want to crush, has the worst-conceived role, though Paul Gleason's part as the callous dean is a close runner-up. Each kid in turn tells the group of the horrors of home: the wrestler's father pushes him to compete, the princess is given things but not affection, the brainy grind is pressured to be a straight-A student, the (secretly sensitive) rebel is beaten and burned by his brute of a father, the shy girl—the basket case—has parents who ignore her. It's she who puts her finger on the source of all their troubles. "It's unavoidable," she says. "When you grow up, your heart dies." The dean's heart is dead, all right—he hates the students. He's a bureaucrat who's in the school system strictly for the money. He tells the rebel that he's not going to let anyone endanger his thirty-one thousand a year.

There are stray bits of oddball parody when you can't tell exactly what is being parodied. But the scenes involving the snotty, callous dean ring false right from the start, and though Paul Gleason seems miscast, maybe anybody playing this villain would seem miscast. Judd Nelson's role as the catalyst-rebel—the working-class kid who's good with his hands (he loves shopwork), and is also a hipster, and fearless—is a dud, too. And Nelson doesn't seem to have a speck of spontaneity. After his early scenes, he becomes too self-pitying, and he's given to tilting up his head and pointing his nostrils at the camera. The four other leading performers fare a lot better than Nelson. 

As the straight-arrow jock, Estevez is a little heavy on sincerity—but he does a creditably good job, especially in his long monologue about his father's always telling him to ''win, win." Molly Ringwald's role isn't as festive as her birthday-girl part in Sixteen Candles, but she slips into the well-heeled Miss Popularity languor without any unnecessary fuss. And Anthony Michael Hall delivers a thoughtful, nuanced performance. He excels in math and is active in the Physics Club, but is a frightened, virtuous dork away from his books. And then John Hughes makes his soggiest mistake: the princess takes Allison in hand, scrubs all the black eye makeup off her, gets her out of her witches' wrappings, and brushes her hair back and puts a ribbon in it, and she comes forth looking broad-faced and dull. But she's supposed to be beautiful, and she captures the jock's heart. The Breakfast Club is The Exterminating Angel as a sitcom." For a more extended discussion, read Pauline Kael's book State of the Art (1989) —The Age of Movies: Selected Writings of Pauline Kael: A Library of America Special Publication (2016) by Sanford Schwartz 

Lou Reed, Jeff Tweedy & Wilco

What defines Lou Reed’s best work—besides fearlessness, beauty, intelligence, and switchblade New York City wit—is what places it at the highest level of art making: its empathy. Reed wrote his way into other voices, not all of them pretty, some belonging to “the other half/the irredeemable half”. These kindred humans, regardless of gender, spoke as if with Reed’s own voice, a compassionate ventriloquism that always seemed geared toward understanding both the subject and himself. And when you sensed Reed was indeed writing about himself—in a song like, say, “Waves of Fear,” as visceral a depiction of end-stage addiction and the panic-attack hellscape of withdrawal as any musician is ever likely to record—he seemed to be doing it to commiserate as much as to exorcise. New York, his most consistent and satisfying album attacked the greed and hypocrisy of America’s poisoned political and economic systems as they played out among the haves and have-nots on his hometown streets. And toward the end, in a storybook denouement, he achieved a kind of redemption, and grace, in large part through love.

“It was a devastating thing for me,” Reed said of Kennedy's assassination. “I thought Kennedy could change the world.” Indeed, a generation looked to Kennedy—the youngest president in history, elected at forty-three—and Jackie Onassis as the ultimate inspiration. Even that nascent counterculture skeptic Bob Dylan was impressed. “If I had been a voting man,” he affirmed in one of his memoirs decades later, “I would have voted for Kennedy.” John Cale believed that Reed’s “fears about sanity” led him toward “provocative behavior, actively and purposefully trying his darnedest to set people off. That made him feel he was in control, rather than living in a state of uncertainty or paranoia. This put him in the position of perpetually seeking a kind of advantage for himself by bringing out the worst in people.” Lou Reed often combined Desoxyn with heroin. Desoxyn was straight methamphetamine, stronger and longer-lasting. Either way, speed was the ideal New York City drug. Distributed widely via legit prescriptions from psychiatrists and general medical practitioners, as well through gray-market diet clinics and assorted black-market channels, it’s estimated that between 8 and 10 billion amphetamine tablets were ingested annually in the United States between 1963 and 1969. 

Lou Reed remarked about “Waves of Fear”: “It’s about anxiety and terror about which nothing can be done. Terror so strong that the person can’t even turn a light on, can’t speak, can’t make it to a phone. Afraid to turn a light on for what they’ll see—for what he is.” “What motivation,” Bruno Blum asked, with astonishment, “could you possibly have to approach that subject?” Reed responded flatly and plainly, as if there was just one conceivable answer: “Empathy,” he said to the French author and journalist Bruno Blum. Reed was performatively frank about his tastes. He called the Beatles “garbage” and claimed he never liked them, while the Doors were “painfully stupid and pretentious.” He expressed dislike for Stephen Sondheim (“Broadway music I despise”) but admiration for Randy Newman. Reed was largely dismissive on the topic of Bowie. —Lou Reed: The King of New York (2023) by Will Hermes

Jeff Tweedy: "It’s hard to believe that someone with a reputation for being as relentlessly thorny and unkind as Lou Reed could write something as empathetic and tender as “Candy Says.” But he did. This is all my way of saying that I don’t quite believe the nasty image most of us have of what Lou Reed was really like. I don’t doubt the stories of his mistreatment of people that deserved better. But what doesn’t make sense is the idea that any amount of bad behavior could conceal a heart big enough to write “What do you think I’d see/If I could walk away from me?” I love this song so much. And I love that Lou Reed that belongs to only me, partly fictional as Lou might be for me. That Lou Reed made of a powerful magic able to move one’s mind behind someone else’s eyes. Maybe surrendering to an unwanted emotion is the only way we survive without getting trapped in our sadnesses and angers and jealousies... at least I think that’s how it works." 

Not unlike Kurt Cobain, Jeff Tweedy actively demythologized the figure of the rock & roll hero. Instead of painting a self-indulgent portrait of bravado, Tweedy related tales of social awkwardness and panic attacks overcome by hard work, claiming vulnerability as his defining artistic trait. Jettisoning the hackneyed image of the womanizing rock star, Tweedy defied that archetype, recounting a haunting story about a sexual encounter with a female friend named Leslie (25) when he was just 14. After Farrar left Uncle Tupelo after a bitter quarrel over Farrar's girlfriend Monica, Tweedy and his remaining bandmates formed Wilco, whose album Being There gained critical acclaim. Tweedy met his wife Sue Miller in 1991 at the Chicago club Lounge Ax and they were married on August 9, 1995. In 2001 Tweedy would fire Jay Bennett from the band. Tweedy suggests that he and Bennett were enabling each other's addictions: "I fired Bennett from Wilco because I knew if I didn't, I would probably die." Tweedy's music has never shied away from darkness, but he's also never been afraid to celebrate joy. His personality, like his music, has been alternately sorrowful and triumphant. Source: npr.org

 

Jeff Tweedy: My girlfriend had left Belleville to attend SIU–Carbondale college. She met a guy there during her first semester away while she and I were still technically dating. I was devastated. I’d experienced rejection before, but not that world-shattering feeling of betrayal. That feeling marked the beginning of the first identifiable pattern of depression in my life. When you’re prone to depression, this is the kind of catalyst that can bring it on and turn something upsetting into something debilitating and seemingly insurmountable. I drove down to Carbondale to see her, and I found her walking hand in hand with a guy toward her dorm room. And then I knocked the door. They were already in bed. God, it was a full-on catastrophe. Almost comically hurtful. And as inconsequential as it would be in the grand scheme of things, at that moment I couldn’t see it as anything less than the end of my life. I wrote “Gun” a little while after that: “It hurt much worse when you gave up/which way I oughta run/Crawling back to you now/I sold my guitar to the girl next door/She asked me if I knew how/I told her, I don’t think so anymore.” That was probably the most honest and direct I’d ever been in a song up to that point. Telling the world that I’d sold my guitar wasn’t saying I’ll kill myself, but it was close. To me, it was almost the equivalent of killing myself at that point. I was in so much pain I was willing to give up the one thing in the world that was sustaining to me, the only thing that mattered. That might seem like a martyrdom fantasy—“If I can’t have what I want, I don’t want anything!” It is grandiose, but I was serious about it. The feeling that “anything is better than this,” even giving up the only thing you love if it would just make it go away, is real. I can still identify with that. When I play Gun, that’s what hooks me in.

While Sam Jones's "I am trying to break your heart" documentary progressed, Jay Bennett started pitting people against one another, whispering rumors and stoking paranoia. If you weren’t in the room, he was talking behind your back or diminishing your contributions. I heard about all the nasty things he’d been saying about me when I wasn’t around—I guess it never occurred to him that the rest of the guys in Wilco would compare notes—and when it was just Jay Bennett and me alone in the studio, he said the rest of Wilco wasn’t pulling their weight. I suggested to create sounds that didn’t involve us, like an organ with some keys taped down, or a tape echo feeding back on itself, an electric fan strumming a guitar. The plan was to come back the next morning, turn all of our self-playing instruments back on, and hit record. But when I got to the Loft, Jay Bennett was already there, walking the camera crew and talking about how he’d put it all together, the whole room was buzzing, and he was fielding questions from Sam Jones about 'his' sonic experiments. I didn’t say anything—I knew that was petty and I didn’t want to get into another fight in front of the cameras—but I was furious. That was an idea that I’d suggested. There were many reasons I didn’t want to make music with Jay Bennett anymore. I fired Jay Bennett from Wilco because I knew if I didn’t, I would probably die. I know that sounds like hyperbole, but it’s really not. I told him I knew what was going on. That’s one of the first things I said to him. “You’ve been getting FedEx packages full of pills.” 

The guy who was running the Loft for us would see him there in the mornings, counting his pills on a desk in the back. I told Bennett we would help him. If he wanted to find somebody to talk to about addiction and maybe get into a program, we would pay for everything. But he was incredulous, saying: “If I had a problem I would admit it.” I had to confront my Vicodin addiction in rehab. My thoughts were: “I’m not some junkie who wants to disappear. I have real migraines. I have real panic attacks. And I’m only being responsible by finding a way to control them so I can keep doing my job.” Some fans thought I should have stayed with Jay as a sign of loyalty for the band. But I think that kind of devotion, to something entirely made up like a “band,” is silly and even dangerous. There are only three people I’ve committed myself to completely for the rest of my life: my wife Susie, and my sons Spencer and Sammy. My actual family. 

Jeff Tweedy and her wife Sue Miller (married August 9, 1995)

Jeff Tweedy: My wife is Susie Miller Tweedy. I’m tempted to say that if you aren’t married to her then your life is crap. But hearing her voice in my head, I’m thinking better of saying such a thing. See, even without consultation, she’s been steering me toward a subtler and kinder way of saying what I want to say. Which all goes to show what a force she’s been in my effort to get better. After 29 years of marriage and over 30 total years of going steady, I still can’t believe my good fortune. Somehow the coolest and funniest woman alive thought enough of me to take my hand. I love her more every day and I wouldn’t be here without her. Happy Anniversary, Sukierae! Source: www.avclub.com