Leave John Wayne Alone

December 6, 2010 § Leave a comment

By Lars Trodson

More than 30 years after his death, John Wayne still can’t get a little respect. The latest sideways attack, in the pages of The New York Times, seems as unnecessary as it is unfounded. It came in the form of a formless and unfocused article by Michael Cieply (published Dec. 3), headlined “Coen Brothers Saddle Up a Revenge Story (or Two). Maybe Cieply needed to denigrate Wayne in order to fawn over Joel and Ethan. Who knows?

The topic arises, of course, because the Coen brothers have made a new version of “True Grit”, the film that, in the words of Cieply, starred a John Wayne “well past his prime, (who) won his only Academy Award for portraying Rooster Cogburn.” The use of the word “only” I suppose is there to indicate that one’s career is somehow deficient if you only won one Oscar. Okay. I’ll agree. John Wayne is certainly no Kevin Spacey.
Cieply says that Wayne’s “selection fiercely split those who felt justice was thus served from those who viewed this original ‘True Grit’, released in June 1969, as the last gasp of a Hollywood stuck in its own past.” Hollywood wasn’t stuck in its own past; it was conflicted, as always, about its future. Cieply notes, but does not seem to grasp the importance of the fact that the year Wayne won, the Best Picture Oscar went to the X-rated (at the time), “Midnight Cowboy.” So it wasn’t “stuck”, it was falteringly moving from the past into the future. But for Hollywood, unfortunately, the future never seems to arrive. It’s always today in Hollywood and it’s almost always late about everything.

Cieply then quotes Robert Evans, the legendary producer, who says of the Wayne win: “It was a token Oscar.” At another point, Cieply notes that by the time the Oscars came around, in 1970, “Wayne was being described as a sentimental favorite.”
I wonder, for the record, how all of this makes Jeff Bridges feel. Bridges is inhabiting the role of Rooster Cogburn in the Coen’s new film. Let’s see, Bridges won his “only” Oscar (so far) last year for a movie called … hmmm. What was the name of that movie again? Thank God Bridges wasn’t viewed as a sentimental favorite at all last year.
If you want to go down that road, then take away half the Oscars Hollywood has ever given out. James Cagney and James Stewart only have one little Oscar, and no one would say they won for their greatest or iconic roles. Cagney won for “Yankee Doodle Dandy”, a wartime fave that captured the country’s patriotism. Stewart won for “The Philadelphia Story”, which people say was largely an apology for not awarding Stewart for “Mr. Smith Goes To Washington” from the year before.
Humphrey Bogart, Hollywood’s number one movie star of all time, won for “The African Queen”, having been passed over for “The Maltese Falcon”, “Key Largo”, “The Treasure of the Sierra Madre”, or “Casablanca.” Thank God he wasn’t a sentimental choice.
Al Pacino was repeatedly passed over for his truly groundbreaking performances throughout the 1970s, only to win his “only” Oscar for “Scent of a Woman”, which no one would put at the top of any Pacino list. Hollywood also seems to treat the Best Supporting Actor category as a kiss in the mail for a lot of performers who have been around forever (see Jack Palance or Don Ameche or Alan Arkin). 
Okay. Point made. I just happen to disagree that Wayne’s Oscar was simply a nod to his stature. It may not have been his greatest performance, but he was an active and robust and exciting presence in “True Grit.” People remembered him in this role – and isn’t that the point?
Perhaps it was his conservatism that rankles critics – both his contemporaneous ones and the modern ones. I wouldn’t ever want to be called a conservative myself, but I couldn’t care less about Wayne’s politics, or James Cagney’s or Jimmy Stewart’s, for that matter. 
Cieply takes the time to denigrate the novel and to take a swipe at director Henry Hathaway and even manages to drag in Richard Nixon. This all seems a bit moldy and useless. Oddly, Cieply manages to keep out perhaps the most egregious and unforgivable aspect of Wayne’s personality, which was his horrible racism. I can’t abide by that, and no one should. 
Wayne has, over the years, been reassessed. I’ve agreed with those who felt that he was a better actor than often thought. I’m particularly fond of his work in Otto Preminger’s “In Harm’s Way”, in which he gives a quiet, very beautiful performance. His last performance in “The Shootist” is similarly heartfelt. But I can also watch Wayne in almost anything. I don’t watch him for social or political commentary and I don’t think that is his purpose in our lives.
I’m old enough to remember when “True Grit” came out, and I remember, which Cieply seems to either not have known or forgotten, that Wayne may well have been past his prime, but he was one of the few, if not the only actor remaining from the 1930s who was still connecting to modern movie audiences. Bogart, Gary Cooper, Cagney, Stewart, Grant, Bette Davis, Spencer Tracy, Joan Crawford, Edward G. Robinson – they all retired, dead or irrelevant. Wayne’s only active contemporary may have been Katharine Hepburn.
And Wayne was largely credited, in taking the role of Rooster Cogburn, of having the confidence to mock his own image as a tough guy. Wayne is drunk and fat and old  throughout the film, and he was reliable.
There are a lot of people who have Oscars on their mantles for roles or projects they should feel fairly embarrassed about. John Wayne’s Rooster Cogburn is not one of them so, you know, get over it.

The Survivor: Mamie Van Doren’s Good Life

October 4, 2007 § Leave a comment

Note: This is the first of our two-part interview with screen icon, author and performer Mamie Van Doren.


By Lars Trodson

In Quentin Tarantino’s “Pulp Fiction”, during the famous Jack Rabbit Slim’s scene, Uma Thurman asks John Travolta to get the attention of one of the waitresses so they can order some food. She points to one of the staff, who are all made up to look like 1950s movie icons, and identifies the waitress as Marilyn Monroe.

“That’s not Marilyn Monroe,” says Travolta’s Vincent Vega. “That’s Mamie Van Doren.”

Correct. You can’t, and shouldn’t, get the two mixed up.

Marilyn, of course, had a career shrouded, almost imbued, with tragedy. Her stunning face almost always had a thin veil of sadness floating around it. Not so of Mamie Van Doren. In all her vintage photographs she is smiling, laughing, exuberant. Today, her smile continues to arrive naturally, and that comes not just from having lived a full life — and not one, of course, without adversity; she has been open about dealing with her own depression — and a long life, but a good life. It’s also not just a question of enjoying good luck, it’s a statement of basking in the glow of what you can do for yourself.

It would be easy to ask Mamie Van Doren, as she still poses nude, and talks frankly and unapologetically about sexuality and the positive role it plays in life, to act her age. But her persona and outlook puts us in the position of asking another, infinitely more interesting question: just what does it mean to act one’s age?

“My parents never thought of age, they didn’t even bring the word up, they never even paid any attention to it. So I never even became aware of age until people started to talk about it, and I think they bring it up because of fear,” she says. “If they bring up your age it’s because they’re worried about getting older or if they are going to make it as far as I have.”

It’s apparent that Mamie, as she dances into the last half of her 70s, is acting her age as precisely as she feels she is meant to act it. Good for her.

This is a life that has come far from the farm fields of South Dakota, where she was born, and a life that has intersected with Clark Gable and Joan Crawford and Robert Mitchum and Marilyn and Jayne Mansfield and Richard Nixon and Anna Nicole Smith. It is not so much glamour that is at the heart of this story, but rather one of attitude, and self awareness, and of treating the world just as you wish to be treated. It’s a story of self-invention, to some degree, but Mamie Van Doren’s story is also an astonishing one of hope and possibility.

“I won’t even kill an ant,” she said during a long telephone interview recently. “You’ll never know what you’ll come back as.” And that is as good a hook as any to hang this story of a person who is always looking forward to the next good thing.

She was determined, even at a young age, to survive. She saw her contemporaries Jayne Mansfield and Marilyn Monroe die tragically young. She sees the young stars today — like Lindsay Lohan — and she laments that careers now seem to be over before they even get started. “When they get into their 20s it’s about over and then you’ve got somebody else coming up, and its very hard,” she says. She was, in the 1950s, bundled in with Marilyn and Mansfield as one of the “3 Ms”, one of those unfortunate publicity stunts that seems determined to rob people of their individuality, and which also was the precursor to today’s ubiquitous Bennifers and Brangelinas and TomKats. But it is Mamie alone that remains out of that earlier group, and in fact she is one of the few vibrant personalities from the 1950s who is still carving out a unique niche in the 21st century.

She was sophisticated and intelligent enough to navigate her way through Hollywood, certainly beautiful and talented enough to belong there, and then to make international movies with international stars and then, when the time came, to embrace the Internet, where her personality now shines through. She traveled to Vietnam in the early 1970s, which was perhaps the war’s, and her own, darkest hours, and she went right to the front lines where few other performers ever ventured. Those journeys too had an impact that resonates to this day.

But first we have to go back. We’ll get to all the movie stars and movie sets and nightclubs in a little bit. But traveling back to where Mamie Van Doren came from is important because it seems as though the most enduring stars we have, the ones we connect with the most, are not the one’s manufactured on the studio lot or in the recording studio but rather the ones whose early lives had an earthiness to them, the experience of the everyday. Our icons are the ones who started out as day laborers, or cooks or soldiers, and who were always looking out the window of their office or kitchen and dreamed of something wholly different for themselves.

And so we travel back to the South Dakota of the Depression.

Her mother Lucille was a homemaker and her father Warner Carl “worked very hard, he was a laborer, a mechanic, a construction worker.” But for the first years of her life she lived with her grandparents, where there was always good food from the farm, but no citrus — “a lemon was like gold,” she remembers — and there was no indoor plumbing. “It was very interesting to grow up in that kind of environment at that time. We found Indian arrowheads all over the place.” It was not all about the daily grind of hard work. There were glimpses of a larger world, and the kind of celebrity that was distinctly unique to that time.

“We had Bonnie and Clyde blowing up farmhouses all around us, and Dillinger was robbing banks, and we had the Native Americans there, too,” she says. “South Dakota was really an exciting time in the 1930s.” Her grandfather listened to Hitler speeches on the radio — he was of German descent — and Joe Louis fights, and everyone around her worked hard. It is a lesson she remembers.

“Up at 4:30 in the morning and at the plow — we didn’t have a John Deere tractor — they walked behind the horses. And I would have to walk a mile through the 40 acres to bring them their lunch — and one farm would help the other or else they couldn’t survive,” she says, using a word that pops up with some frequency in her speech. Her heroes were Greta Garbo and Marlene Dietrich, two troupers who survived deep into old age in their own way.

Mamie was born, in 1931 as Joan Lucille Olander, and she remembers “from that minute on” she knew she was special and gifted in some way. “I had attention without having to do anything.” And she knew that there was a life for her beyond the Badlands of South Dakota. “At the time you felt you were going to get married and have children and then you’d become a homemaker. But I didn’t think that was for me. I saw what my grandmother had to go through and that really wasn’t what I wanted.”

It certainly wasn’t what she got.

World War II brought her family to California, and in the summer of 1949, when she was just 18, she started to get noticed by some of the right people.

“When I was staying at a hotel with my mother they were sponsoring a beauty pageant, and thought I was never going to win, there were some beautiful girls. Well, I did win, and I was Miss Palm Springs. When I was Miss Palm Springs I had a lot of publicity and that’s kind of when it started,” she says.

It just so happened that Howard Hughes was in the audience the night she was crowned. Hughes owned RKO Pictures and had been making movies since the end of the silent era, and a representative called Mamie and she was asked to come over to the studio. “I was going to work there in the summer months, and that’s when I felt I was going to be in the movies.”

The same year she also took the crown for the Miss Eight Ball contest — Monroe had won the same pageant the year before — “and I got scads of publicity for that and I became very, very popular.”

Joan Lucille Olander was renamed — an amalgam of Mamie Eisenhower and a movie actor named Mark Van Doren (which was also the last name of the leading academic family of the day) — and the new moniker seemed to perfectly fit her and the sexy atmosphere of the day.

Hughes put her in a movie called “Jet Pilot” with John Wayne and Janet Leigh, which was directed by Josef von Sternberg (who was Dietrich’s mentor). “(Sternberg) had me climbing up this big ladder, and I only had a couple words but they cut it out.” Although the movie was filmed in 1951 it wasn’t released until 1957 (it turned out to be von Sternberg’s final released film), she was also getting bit parts, including one in “Footlight Varieties” that was directed by none other than D.W. Griffith. But quickly after “Jet Pilot” Hughes put her in another movie called “His Kind of Woman” (also 1951) with Jane Russell and Robert Mitchum.

Mitchum seems to have stirred up some memories. “He was hot,” she says with a laugh, “And I was just a kid and he had me come to his dressing room a lot to talk and he was so cute.” But she also recalls Mitchum as a “wonderful actor. I would just watch and I learned more on those three months working on those scenes. I learned so much. I was thinking then I had to become a good actress.”

It may have seemed a natural career move, going to New York in the early 1950s, which she did. Mamie became a showgirl. But by her own admission she was neither a dancer nor a model. “I couldn’t get arrested,” she remembers. “I met Sammy Fain, who was writing a lot of Broadway shows. I said I’m going home. He gave me the number of Jimmy McHugh” — the songwriter — “so I said I’ll call him when I got back to California, and I did and he said ‘Come on up.’ He had a beautiful home and right away he liked me, and I sang all of his songs, he had those great songs. This was 1951, ’52 and January 1953. He was my Svengali — he wanted to be called my Svengali and he told me that I was going to be a movie star.”

Movie stars in those days were expected to be versatile. Hollywood was still making musicals — the early 50s turned out to be that genre’s last golden age — and singing and dancing and diction were essential for survival. McHugh sent Mamie to drama school, and she was told by McHugh “I want you to go day and night, day and night. So I did a lot of theater, and day and night school and a lot of drama. I was doing “The Big Knife”, Clifford Odets wrote it, then I did “Come Back, Little Sheba” that Terry Moore was in (the film version), and Universal called and they were doing a movie over there called “Forbidden” with Tony Curtis and Joanne Dru.”

The script called for a nightclub singer — the setting was Macao — “and they needed someone right away. They wanted me to sing ‘You Belong to Me’ and I had to learn the song. I had to go in and do everything perfectly. When I went in I had bitten my nails down, and they had to put nails on and they were doing my hair and fixing my face, and they had this gown sent over from MGM, an old Jean Harlow dress, and a pair of white Joan Crawford ‘fuck me’ shoes, and I was so nervous they had to put eyelashes on me and they couldn’t even put those on I was blinking so much,” she says.

But — and these are her own words — “everything is timing.” It turns out the sales force from Universal’s New York office was at the studio that day.

“They saw me and signed me to a contract. A two year contract with options and I was there for five years,” she says, and you can still hear the affirmation of this experience in her voice as she remembers. “I was making $300 a week.”

Marilyn, she points out, was making $500 a week.

And so Miss Van Doren arrived. For good.

Next: Hollywood stardom, older women and younger men, and growing older with grace. Visit www.mamievandoren.com.

For Part II, click here:




Eating the Old

July 7, 2007 § Leave a comment


By Lars Trodson

It is axiomatic that when someone famous dies, particularly an actor, someone will invariably pay tribute to the recently deceased by declaring their “work will live on forever.”

I’m not so sure this is true any more; I’m not sure we have the discipline of mind or enough forbearance of history to hold on to those whom John Cheever so accurately called figures “from the enduring past.”

Take two giant cultural figures from the 20th century: Bob Hope and Katharine Hepburn. While Hepburn still weighs in with her angular features and Bryn Mawr accent on occasion, Hope has disappeared. They lived 196 years between the two of them, made countless movies, plays, television shows, radio shows, vaudeville acts, records, live acts, USO shows, you name it — Hope was as American as John Wayne — and you’d be hardpressed to find him anywhere on today’s cultural landscape, save for a movie shown once in a while on Turner Classic Movies. Even his partner Bing Crosby was once one of the most famous Americans on the planet, and you only hear him these days at Christmas. He’s vanished.

I remember when Charlie Chaplin died. It was on or about Christmas Day, 1977 — and if memory serves Groucho Marx died nearly at the same time. Chaplin was the first global movie star, the first mass marketed commodity, and he made some of the most memorable and famous films ever crafted. Aside from a nod in an Apple computer campaign, where is Chaplin today? Has he been relegated to the chatter among esoteric film societies and academics? Are silent, black-and-white films so difficult to access they can no longer be seen on TV? I doubt it. I find young people today so curious about everything that Chaplin, and Keaton and the work of D.W. Griffith could easily find a comfortable home within a huge segment of today’s youth. It doesn’t have to be shown in the dark, hushed reverent halls of the film class.

I understand the impulse of trashing the old to make room for the new. When the Sex Pistols came on the scene in the late 1970s, part of their act was to talk about how fat and bloated the ex-Beatles and Rolling Stones and all that had become. It wasn’t just that we had to sweep away the past, it had to be subsumed, eradicated, obliterated.

That radical cultural shift has now become mainstream thought, but what it has managed to do is ratchet down the length of what we used to call a “career.” Careers now seem to get derailed even before they get started. Look what happened to the show “The O.C.” That’s because the new kid is all too willing to replace the old codger, whose career spans all of three years and two CDs. People have been ready to write an bit for “Desperate Housewives” since the day it first aired.

This would be fine, except that it is a cycle that is destined to be repeated, and those who benefit from it will also be devoured by it. It will affect both those things we like and don’t like. If we are frustrated because of something we admire has vanished that’s because there are probably more people out there who don’t like it and want it wiped off the face of the map. And the majority undoubtedly succeeds.

So the carousel continues, at a feverish pace. TV shows, movies, actors, singers, and comedians all spin around us and we’re basically trying to pluck one of these blurs out of the air, hoping that we’ll like it once we’ve had a moment to see what it looks like. And some of us, remember, are on the lookout now for what might be the next big thing tomorrow, never mind what’s going on today, if only to be able to say that we had heard of it long before anyone else.

One of the ways in which we can better understand the times in which we live is if there are fixed points within that universe. We used to be able to pinpoint moments in time because of the TV shows we watched, or the album covers we stared at, or the movies we waited in line to see (movies that lasted more than a month in the theaters). We could say, oh, yeah, that was 1972, or 1987, or 1991. But now everything is revolving. You can watch your TV show at any time, whether it’s old or new, there are no album covers, and you dictate which songs you want to listen to. You’re not necessarily part of a national cultural wave. So I wonder if we’ll look back from now on and have trouble remembering just when specific things happened? With everything floating, tumbling around us — will we really be able to look back and say, oh, yes, I remember the summer of 2007 like it was yesterday?

I don’t know. But if Chaplin and Hope and so many other titans of 20th century culture are having trouble staying afloat, one wonders if anything made today will make it into next year.

It could be we’ve started a terrible, vicious cycle: If nothing is going to last, why bother to make anything that will endure?

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