Important Birthdays: Judy Garland and Basil Rathbone

I could not let the week close without marking two birthdays important to our shared popular culture: singer-actress Judy Garland (June 10, 1922) and actor Basil Rathbone (June 13, 1892).  This year marks the 90^th anniversary of Garland’s birth and the 120^th for Rathbone.  An unusual paring, to be sure, but we at The Jade Sphinx are nothing if not eclectic.

So much has been written about Garland since her death in 1969 that most anything I could add at this point would be superfluous.  Let us note, however, that she was a remarkable talent: simply one of the most gifted singers or her era (and a focal point of the Great American Songbook), as well as an actress of unusual depth and sensitivity.  Younger audiences perhaps know her best from her turn as Dorothy Gale in The Wizard of Oz (1939), and this is something of a shame.  Not that she is less than terrific – in fact, it remains one of the few “perfect” movies – but that there is so much more to Garland’s oeuvre than this one perfect film.

Readers interested in knowing the woman that Garland eventually became should seek out several films that showcase her varied talents.  Garland delivers a magnificent, subtle, non-singing performance in The Clock (1945), where she is wooed and wed by soldier Robert Walker in a brief 24-hour period; she is equally delightful in Meet Me in St. Louis (1944), which may be her best musical film.  (Yes – better than Oz.  Rent it and see.) 

Garland was set loose by her studio, MGM, after executives managed to squeeze everything possible they could out of the young woman, casting aside the exhausted and ruined husk as no longer viable.  Garland was to prove them wrong in 1954, when she financed A Star is Born, her ‘comeback’ picture, which garnered her an Academy Award nomination.  This started the second half of her career, which was more interesting (if not as stellar) as the first half, and included a series of concert performances culminating in her great success at the Palace. 

The challenge in writing about Garland today is that any critic has to deal with the cult that has grown up around her.  Cult status has ruined our ability to fairly assess – to greater or lesser degrees – such diverse figures as Garland, James Dean, H. P. Lovecraft and fictional constructs like Star Trek or Sherlock Holmes.  (One day I will tell of my visit, as a journalist, to a Dark Shadows convention, which might rank as the single most surreal and grotesque occurrence of my life.) 

The problem with cults is that the one must cut through the miasma of fandom before reaching some kind of sane critical evaluation – and that is often the thing most cults want least.  It is my belief, for instance, that the well-meaning but fatuous groups of Sherlock Holmes aficionados (“Sherlockians”) have kept both aesthetes and academe from seriously assessing the literary contribution of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  Cultists protect their fetishistic properties with a fierce devotion, and woe to any of the uninitiated who seek to make a balanced critical judgment.

The Garland cult is somewhat less potent today: Tracie Bennett currently stars on Broadway in End of the Rainbow, which chronicles Garland’s final days.  This has met with some success, but also with uncomprehending shrugs.  The great  multitude that made up most of her fan base – gay men of a certain age – are no longer cultural arbiters, and younger fans are often without a clue as to what the fuss is all about.  I contend that if Garland’s legacy was shared by the multitudes rather than a smallish cult, her cultural currency would be greater today.

Sir Philip St. John Basil Rathbone was something commonplace today but unique in his era: a classical actor who specialized in popular entertainments.  Rathbone was, simply put, one of the most gifted actors of his generation:  handsome in a leonine way, blessed with a mellifluous voice and perfect diction, poise and hauteur, and an incredible range and physicality.  If Rathbone were alive today, his career would be similar to that of Patrick Stewart or Ian McKellen, both classical actors who have made popular successes.  (Indeed, one can only imagine Rathbone as Professor X or Gandalf!)

Like many actors with a gift for the classics, Rathbone was often most effectively cast as characters from a more romantic and swashbuckling past: Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Murdstone, Sir Guy of Gisbourne, Karenin, Levasseur and Ebenezer Scrooge.  Sadly, only one of his Shakespearean performances survives on film: Tybalt, in the largely ill-conceived MGM 1936 production of Romeo and Juliet.  Rathbone and John Barrymore, as Mercutio, are the only members of the cast to deliver striking performances.

The most gifted fencer in Hollywood, Rathbone was the “go-to” guy for costume dramas.  He often joked that he could easily have bested his frequent co-star Errol Flynn in most of their on-screen duels, significantly changing the plotlines had he done so.  This close identification with swashbucklers led him to be cast, later in his career, in the Danny Kaye comedy The Court Jester (1955), where he effortlessly sent-up his own image.

The year 1939 was a pivotal one for Rathbone.  Author Margaret Mitchell supposedly wanted Rathbone to play Rhett Butler in Gone With the Wind (imagine his icy delivery of “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn”).  Instead, he made The Hound of the Baskervilles and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, two films that would forever identify him with the Great Detective and limit his career as a serious actor.

Today, such an identification would lead to greater roles in big-budget junk movies (look at Robert Downey, Jr.); in Hollywood in the 1930s-40s, it meant an endless procession of B-pictures.  Rathbone toiled on Hollywood’s Baker Street for nine years before returning to Broadway.  There, he made a triumphant return in 1948 as Dr. Sloper in The Heiress, winning the Tony Award for Best Actor.  But, in the eyes of Hollywood, he was only Sherlock Holmes and the role in the film adaptation went to Ralph Richardson.  That Rathbone’s performance was not committed to film remains one of the great tragedies in movie history.

Sadly, Rathbone ended his career in low-budget horror films in the 1960s.  Despite these indignities, he also managed to perform a one-man show at the White House for President John F. Kennedy, recorded many classics for Caedmon Records (including the finest interpretations of Edgar Allen Poe ever conceived), and appearing in a live television musical adaptation of A Christmas Carol, The Stingiest Man in Town.

Rathbone was a singular film persona: he managed to bring a sense of glamour and romance to each and every role, often taking audiences out of the contemporary world into a more romantic vision of the past.  Ours is, sadly, a world too often too busy for such romance, and the world is poorer without it.  For those who relish such things, Rathbone’s many film performances remain a delight.

Fred Astaire

We continue examining the voices that make up the Great American Songbook with a look at Fred Astaire (1899-1987).  Your correspondent must confess, upfront, his boundless admiration and affection for Astaire – indeed, it is my firm belief that when all good men die, as a reward they then become Fred Astaire.

At this point, many of my readers are wondering why Astaire, one of the protean dance figures of the 20^th Century, is included in a review of the voices of the Great American Songbook.  Well, I have included Astaire because, not only is he the greatest dancer to appear in motion pictures, but he was also a singer of subtle and distinct phrasing, who knew what a popular song needed and delivered it with a (seemingly) effortless panache.  In fact it was Irving Berlin (1888-1989) – who, along with Cole Porter (1891-1964) and George Gershwin (1898-1937) comprises the trinity of 20^th Century songwriting genius – who said his favorite singer was Fred Astaire.  Several of Berlin’s signature tunes, including Dancing Cheek to Cheek, Steppin’ Out With My Baby, and Puttin’ On the Ritz – were all introduced by Astaire.

So, for the purposes of this exercise, we will overlook Astaire’s monumental contribution to the dance (which, admittedly, is rather like writing about Saturn without mentioning its rings).  Nor will we take especial interest in his consummate style – indeed, cineastes debate who was the most debonair man in American cinema: Astaire or Cary Grant (1904-1986).  While many cite Grant’s well-tailored ease, there was something about Astaire’s carriage and poise that bespoke magic.  It is possible to derive pleasure simply by watching Astaire walk … and snippets of Astaire walking down Fifth Avenue in Easter Parade (1948) should be required viewing before leaving any respectable school.

Astaire is famous for his “white tie and tails,” an ensemble which he personally loathed.  But Astaire was more than formal wear: his leisure clothes were relaxed and unaffected yet elegant.  An unusually thin man (co-star Bing Crosby said he could “spit through him”), Astaire was blessed with the ability to inhabit his clothes rather than having them wear him. 

Instead, let’s look at Astaire the actor and the singer.  He entered movies dancing beside Joan Crawford in Dancing Lady (1933).  It was really little more than a cameo; and he and Ginger Rogers were supporting players in their first film together, Flying Down to Rio (1933).  He and Rogers (1911-1995) were sensations in that film, and they went on to make a total of 10 films together, including Swing Time (1936), Top Hat (1935), and Shall We Dance (1937).  The Astaire-Rogers corpus encompasses some of the finest American musical films ever made, and is essential to an understanding of the evolution of American musical movies.

Astaire in the 1930s is a marvel.  His performances are simple and easy – he exudes enthusiasm, high spirits and an unaffected sophistication.  He seems almost boyish and at times brash – he is irresistible.  And, aside from his acting, his singing has a unique lyricism.  (Jerome Kern would consider him the supreme male interpreter of his songs).

And then … something happened.  The 1930s were Astaire’s first heyday, but he lost considerable ground in the early 1940s.  It’s not that he did not make good films – his Holiday Inn (1942) and Blue Skies (1946) with Bing Crosby are quite terrific – and some of his loveliest dance partners come from this era, including Rita Hayworth and Eleanor Powell. 

What happened, really, was the national zeitgeist changed.  In the 1930s, at the height of the Great Depression, it was important for Americans to have, I think, a sophisticated ideal.  White tie and tails and penthouses and cocktails were the stuff of dreams, and Astaire personified an ideal that many aspired to, but could never achieve.

With World War II, the struggle against Nazism was a struggle carried mainly by the Average Joe.  In fact, I believe that the 1940s were Crosby’s decade more than Astaire’s because Crosby was able to capture that Average Joe quality of that moment in ways that were simply beyond Astaire’s temperament and ability. 

And so, after playing second fiddle to Crosby again in Blue Skies, Astaire retired … only to reappear a short two years later, teaming with Judy Garland to make the now classic Easter Parade.  This film started a new collaborative period with MGM, and a new phase of his career.

During this second chorus for Astaire, he made some of his finest films, including Royal Wedding (1951), Funny Face (1957), Silk Stockings (1957) and, perhaps his masterpiece, The Band Wagon (1953).  Many of his most famous ‘trick’ dances – including dancing on the walls and ceiling, hoofing with a hat stand, and dancing with a legion of disembodies shoes – occur in these films.

Curiously, though, there is a profound change in Astaire in his post Easter Parade films.  His dancing is more fluid, more sensuous, more ornate than his movements of the 1930s, but his acting seems to have constricted somewhat, as if letting lose in the dance left too little energy for fun in his performances.  The Astaire persona of the 1940s and 1950s is a little tighter, a little more crabbed than the buoyant boy of the 1930s.

After Silk Stockings, Astaire went on to triumphs in television, winning an Emmy for one of his many TV specials, and straight acting roles in a wide range of films, both good and bad.  But nothing could take away the memory of his greatest achievements.

Astaire’s artistic contribution to the American culture is a unique one.  Not only was he the preeminent popular dancer of his day, but Astaire was a gifted film actor and, most important here, one of the great interpreters of popular song.  His movements were music, his speaking voice had a unique rhythm, his singing a gift of phrasing and style.  Fred Astaire is, simply put, the greatest artist to appear in American musical films.

Tomorrow – the Frank Sinatra Paradox!

The Easter Parade of 1948

My Easter observance would not be complete without a viewing of the 1948 musical Easter Parade.  It is a wonderful confection, and a superb example of what Hollywood once did best and can now do no longer.

The plot is simple.  Don Hewes (Fred Astaire) is discarded by his dancing partner, the ambitious man-eater Nadine Hale (Ann Miller).  Vowing that he could make a dancer out of anyone, Don recruits barroom hoofer Hannah Brown (Judy Garland).  After many missteps, including a failed attempt to mirror the glamour of Nadine, Don and Hannah establish their own rhythm and meet with great success.  Complicating the various relationships is handsome law student Johnny Harrow (Peter Lawford), who is courting both Hannah and Nadine.

From such simple elements are made great jewels.  The score is by Irving Berlin (1888-1989), one of the trio (along with Cole Porter and George Gershwin) that are the bedrock of what has become known as the Great American Songbook.  The score, with many tunes more than 20 years old when Easter Parade was filmed, includes many familiar gems and several overlooked delights.

Fred Astaire (1899-1987) was lured out of retirement to play Don when the original star, Gene Kelly, broke his ankle playing touch football on his lawn.  This is one of the most fortuitous sport injuries in history, because Astaire is wonderful in the part.  Astaire aged dramatically throughout the 1940s (compare the Astaire of Easter Parade with the boyish dancer of Holiday Inn only six years pervious), and with age came a gravitas that suits the part.  Kelly, a fine actor and dancer in a very different way, would have been brash and somewhat abrasive in the role, while Astaire operates with a sense of creeping disappointment and uncertainty.  It is an elegant performance.

Many of Astaire’s signature dance numbers occur here, including the jaunty “Drum Crazy” and “Steppin’ Out with My Baby.”  The latter is regarded by many to be one of Astaire’s finest moments, but I find the slow motion effects somewhat dehumanizing – it’s the one misstep in the film.

Berlin thought Astaire a wonderful singer, and I concur.  His phrasing is masterful, and his voice has a pleasant lilt.  Add to that his consummate physical style (he glides rather than walks) and natural dandyism, and you have one of the most beguiling artists to grace the movie medium.  When good men die they go to heaven; when better men die, they become Fred Astaire.

Astaire was never noted for his romantic ardor as a performer, but he is ideally matched in Judy Garland.  Though she could not dance as well as any of Astaire’s other screen partners, they play so wonderfully well together that it doesn’t matter.  In fact, there is one instant when Garland generates true sexual heat in Astaire.  It is at the end, when he takes her in his arms as she sings the title number.  It lasts only a few seconds, but one can see everything written on Astaire’s face: the recapturing of young love, the promise of a younger woman, and the possibilities of life starting anew.  I’m sure the 23 year age difference between the stars is responsible in part for the reaction, but it is a naked and delicious moment.

Judy Garland (1922-1969) was a powerhouse.  There is an entire cult of Garland to which I have been largely immune, but she amply displays all of her considerable strengths in Easter Parade.  The secret to the Garland persona, I believe, is a febrile vulnerability mixed with resiliency.  Her singing here is something to behold.  Her delivery of “Better Luck Next Time” displays all of her strengths – powerful and lovely voice, vulnerability, a hint of resignation, and longing.  Despite all the carefree shenanigans of Easter Parade, it’s her plaintive longing in this number that lingers in the memory.

Garland was also a gifted comedienne and dramatic actress.  Astaire’s Hewes would come off a clutching Svengali without an actress able to rise to his talent, and Garland gives as good as she gets.  Whether subverting Astaire’s grander schemes, admonishing his bad behavior or inspiring his love, she fully owns half the film.

Peter Lawford (1923-1984) was never a compelling performer, but he is certainly a charming presence.  Happily, the best moment in his film career occurs in Easter Parade – rebuffed by Garland in favor of Astaire over dinner, he responds with genuine pathos and sympathy.  No other film was able to inspire in him such honesty and depth of feeling, and, perhaps Lawford was capable of better things than his career ultimately delivered.

Ann Miller (1923-2004), usually brazen ingénues or enthusiastic hoofers, is very effective as comic villainess Nadine Hale.  Her solo turn, “Shakin’ the Blues Away,” is one of the real treats of Easter Parade.  Perhaps she is another talent who requires re-evaluation.

Beyond the performances of the main cast, Easter Parade is awash in other delights as well, including Jules Munshin’s turn as the waiter Francois, and the large production number, “The Girl on the Magazine Cover.”

Watching a film like Easter Parade during the harsh realities of 2011 cannot help but inspire wonder.  The film debuted within the confines of living memory, but does it not seem an artifact of a distant and fabulous past?  It would be impossible to craft a film like Easter Parade today – we have become too jaded, or, perhaps, less worthy.   We no longer seek our better selves or strive to create beauty in our popular entertainment; our popular films and music work in concert with us to degrade us further. 

After decades of veneration, the classic era of American film has fallen into something like disfavor with the common audience; even some filmmakers today have taken to sneering at the accomplishment of mid-20^th Century movie-making.  They are philistines.