Hollywood just loves giving itself awards. There’s Oscar, Emmy, the Golden Globes, the People’s choice, etc. You can barely turn your television on in the first couple months of the year without stumbling over an image of some actor breathlessly running up to a podium to tearfully accept some ugly statue.
But for those of us that consider movies a religious experience what about canonizing those performers who gave their lives giving us untold hours of pleasure? I’ve recently spent some time reading up on the saints appointed by the Catholic Church and, frankly, their records didn’t impress me as much as Peter Lorre’s cinematic body of work. Historically speaking, saints fall into two categories: those who have led lives of pious contemplation and those who have received a sword through the neck (the Romans favorite way to deal with virgins). But let us consider the life of a movie star. Is there any life so devout? They endure daily physical ministrations to keep in shape, painful trips to the plastic surgeon just to satisfy the public’s perception of beauty, constant dealings with cutthroat agents and back-stabbing producers, not to mention the endless hours spent in rehearsal, the early call hours and tedious set time spent handling psychotic directors, unstable fellow actors and inedible craft service food- only to have the movie go direct-to-video. What’s worse, getting tied to a stake and set on fire for your religious leanings or hearing those three deadly words: box-office poison?
Aside from Saint Dymphna (the patron saint of mental illness) I’d much rather pray to these legendary movie greats.
Saint Jayne. Buxom blonde 60s bombshell Jayne Mansfield lived for the glare of the flashbulb. Wearing low-cut gowns whose straps conveniently broke in nightclubs- to the delight of the paparazzi- she turned the idea of sex symbol into a massive joke. Living in her pink mansion with her muscle-man husband Mickey Hargitay, and lounging by her heart-shaped pool, she was defiantly trashy (and in on the gag). But on film she was comic genius. Watch her curvaceous walks and ear-splitting squeals in the rollicking The Girl Can’t Help It (1956). Lounging in an oversized bathtub reading Peyton Place or her hilarious interplay with Tony Randall in Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter? (1957). Dramatically she was never given the opportunities she deserved but stellar work in The Wayward Bus (1957) and Single Room Furnished (1966) proved she was up to the job. Even her death- practically decapitated when her car rammed into a truck one rainy morning on her way to a TV appearance- was a martyrdom to the god Publicity.
Saint Dorothy. The beautiful, sultry Dorothy Dandridge started her film career playing bit parts as maids and jungle queens. But her staggering good looks and talent moved her up the ladder to finally star as the destructive femme fatale Carmen Jones, opposite Harry Belafonte in Otto Preminger’s all-black version of Bizet’s opera Carmen. Even though she was nominated for an Oscar, Hollywood’s double standard with regard to African-American actors kept her from getting the parts she deserved- she usually ended up playing the half-caste woman in stupid melodramas. Sadly, she expired of a barbiturate overdose at 41, a victim of the industry’s appalling misuse of black performers- a crime that continues to this day.
Saint Jean. Another casualty of director Otto Preminger’s infamous on-set sadism was Jean Seberg, the fresh-faced girl who landed the lead role in Saint Joan after a much-publicized talent search. Too young and inexperienced she was crucified by both Preminger and the press for her portrayal, but managed to vindicate herself in Jean-Luc Godard’s ground-breaking New Wave film, Breathless, and Robert Rossen’s haunting Lilith, in which she played a sexy, disturbed mental patient. Because of her marriage to author Romain Gary and her support of the Black Panther Party, she was hounded by the FBI, driving her to commit suicide at the age of 40. Two years ago I made a pilgrimage and tearfully stood over her grave at Montparnasse Cemetery in Paris (alongside other luminaries like Marguerite Duras, Simone de Beauvoir, Samuel Beckett, Man Ray, Eugene Ionesco and two other film greats- the sublime Delphine Seyrig and 40s Technicolor screen goddess Maria Montez). It was indeed a holy moment.
Saint Kim. There are few actresses as great as Kim Stanley, who began in New York theater and joined the Actor’s Studio where she studied under Elia Kazan and Lee Strasberg. A very successful stage actress, she was a runaway success in William Inge’s Picnic (1953) and Bus Stop (1955) on Broadway. She also appeared in scores of television dramas at the time, most which tragically don’t exist anymore. Her film career is sparse but unforgettable. In The Goddess (1958) she played the tragic life of a movie star, and it’s a performance that’s raw and electrifying. She appeared in the haunting thriller Séance On A Wet Afternoon (1964) alongside Richard Attenborough. In Frances (1982), she frighteningly plays Frances Farmer’s (Jessica Lange) monster mother. She worked with Lange again in an incredible TV production of Cat On A Hot Tin Roof (1984) alongside Tommy Lee Jones and Rip Torn. Her “Big Momma” was absolutely stunning. It’s not surprising that in acting circles she was known as the female Brando. She taught her own acting class and her students were rabidly loyal, even after the late night drunken phone calls from her (her battle with the bottle was just as legendary). But few actors dug into a role with the ferocity, tenderness, honesty as this great performer.
Saint Romy. Romy Schneider was born in Vienna and came to fame in the Sissi movie trilogy in the mid-50s. Those films were about the romance of Elisabeth “Sissi” of Austria, a Princess who fell in love with Emperor Franz Joseph, who was engaged to her sister. Her sly beauty leapt off the screen and she was successful in a series of American comedies- What’s New Pussycat (1965), and the frenetic, funny, Good Neighbor Sam (1964). But it was European directors who brought out her best, like Claude Sautet, who used her in five films, and Luchino Visconti who starred her in his mad epic Ludwig (1973). There was something mysterious, cool, yet sensual about Schneider on screen. Devastated by her 14-year-old’s son death (who slipped climbing a wrought iron gate which punctured his femoral artery), she took to alcohol to dull the pain, and died of a cardiac arrest due to a weakened heart at age 43.
Saint Vincent. My choice for immediate sainthood has to be Vincent Price. The aristocratic, regal-looking Price, with his unmistakable, ominous voice, started out playing cads in 40s movies like Laura (1944) but after accepting the lead as the disfigured madman in House Of Wax (1953), he rose through the ranks to become the undisputed king of horror films.
From The Fly (1958) to The Tingler (1959) to adaptations of classic Edgar Allen Poe stories like The Pit And The Pendulum (1961) and The Masque Of The Red Death (1964), Vincent Price was the master of menace. Accused of being hammy and over the top, he was also capable of turning in a chilling performance like in Witchfinder General (1964). Lucy Chase Williams’ wonderful book The Complete Films Of Vincent Price contains numerous tales of his generous good humor and kindness. His patronage of the arts was legendary. He also was the architect of my entire childhood. I sat through every movie he made, experiencing both fright and delight. My adoration lasted until his death on October 25, 1993. Halloween has never been the same since his passing.
I never got to meet my idol, but my good friend David Davenport, a costumer on Edward Scissorhands (1990), raved about what a lovely, gentle man Price was. Once when I went over to David’s house to look at Johnny Depp’s elaborate, bizarre costume, he surprised me by pulling out the black waistcoat Price wore in the role as Edward’s frail inventor. “Try it on,” he encouraged. I held it tenderly, as though it was the Shroud of Turin, slowly and reverently slipping my arms into the sleeves. It fit like a glove. As I looked in the mirror, there was a hazy phosphorescence outlining the coat- an incandescent glow emanating from it. It was dazzling, blissful. A goddamn miracle, I guess.