'Twas Stanislavski Started Trouble

 

Where Straight and Forward Go the Acting

Are contemporary actors but tics and tricks? And how long has this gone on? Looked at The Big Chill of which I’d been curious, but not curious enough to watch, since 1983. It has a cast which all register the same for me. Thirtysomething drama emerged by eighties as a thing. There was (a first?) entirety of cast dancing/singing to old for them/older now for us pop music. It happens “spontaneous” if numbingly repeated for nostalgia service since. I got sense these actors all went to a same acting school, later, as in forty years, becoming a senior class. Some still work doing old folks drama and comedy to stream for the similarly old who won't attend theatres again. Seeing The Big Chill made me seek rinse that is straightforward playing, that is actors taught someway or other than what’s been taught for generations now. I wanted extra strength relief and so chose Richard Carlson, Julia Adams, and Richard Denning in The Creature from the Black Lagoon, 3-D to supply close inspect of craft as practiced by artists there to straightforwardly read lines, swim well, and spear accurately. I rate emotional memory exercise well behind handling harpoons as harbinger of fine acting. Carlson is earnest and Amazon-bound for benefit of science (I mean the South American river, not retail giant), Adams for swimsuit and awesome scream, then Denning for Carl Denham minus warmth and dangerous if challenged for his harpoon. Maybe we should call Creature’s style harpoon acting, as in straight to fine point and never mind nuance. Of water-bearers in the green suit(s) less may be said, but they were straightforward too, whoever occupied scaly skin in or out of water. Method embrace by Creature cast? Not likely. These were there for specific task of getting it done in as simple and coherent fashion as could satisfy needs of a 79-minute running time.

Chances are however that Carlson, Adams, and Denning read Stanislavski, possibly studied him. Most twentieth-century players knew of acting’s Russian revolution and respected what was done there, but what was the Stanislavski technique other than application of common sense? Many would say “Sure, I’ve been doing that for years” when told what Stanislavski taught. To act, he said, was to draw upon imagination and to call up past experience and real-life parallels depending on what emotion was bring summoned. Stating the obvious was in fact what Stanislavski did, and even he acknowledged as much. His theories were after all based upon observation of working actors of his era. Nothing exotic or revelatory here, even if others later tried to make it appear so. Wolves in counselor clothing benefit best where advice is most complicated, actors known as insecure and lured easily to camps that promise confidence. Look at diction schools sprung forth from quicksand that was early sound. Turning brass to gold seemed never so easy. Empty your purse and we’ll equip you for talkies. Stars working fourteen hour days showed up evenings to learn elocution from experts no more that than gas jockeys filling star limousines. Bad enough for players not to have a stage from which to address a visible crowd and receive applause then and there, worse still was working in fragments, performance measured by seconds, reactions delivered in close-up, but reacting to what? Hitchcock told Montgomery Clift to look skyward. But why? asked Monty. Because I’ll need the shot later, said Hitch. But what am I looking at … what do I feel? … impasse and breakdown of star/director communication to follow.

Actors took dim view of a picture’s worth for little joy they had making it, so why bother seeing a finished work? Appreciation seldom came of appearing before a camera with only technicians to look on. Working in theatre meant being paid for time spent onstage, while films went on earning long after you got fully and finally compensated. Late 50’s columns were filled with actors noting bitterly the broadcasts of past films for which they’d receive nothing. Big enough stars got percentage deals, were bought out later for cheap, ripped off along ways of so-called “ownership,” their family with an empty sack rather than legacy Dad hoped would last. Note what happened to Burt Lancaster’s share of many features he did for United Artists and elsewhere, his children discovering after the star’s death that his share of revenue was now someone else’s. William Holden said in an interview toward the end of his life that he’d been in only three or so films that were worthwhile. Too few actors realized how precious they were to a public for simple reason they never heard claps from those entertained, let alone at theatres far-flung they could not enter lest disguised and anonymous. Gene Raymond told a story to collector/historian Barbara Ryan of how lousy Flying Down to Rio was to work on, botched scenes, poor direction, blah writing. The star visiting New York some months later was stunned to find Flying Down to Rio mopping up at Radio City Music Hall. Why crowd to so poor a thing as this? he asked. To get his answer, Raymond donned overcoat, slouch hat, and thick glasses to stand on line and watch Rio amidst fan crush. What he saw was every bit the sorry show he expected. Who could figure so fickle a public, said this actor who like others saw neither sense or logic to a picture business seemingly divorced from art.

Where film bested the stage was at places it could capture however distant, too real to simulate behind footlights. None of nineteenth-century artifice, no matter how skillfully applied like by Belasco, could capture true snowfall as location-shot movies could. Histories speak of turning points in the art of acting. We know, or are told, that Stanislavski disciples blew Broadway backward with 1905’s The Chosen People, Alla Nazimova being Russia’s emissary of “New Acting” as it was understood, if barely, by provincials used to melodrama or broad comedy. Wasn’t new acting, however, going on already in films? Emotion there had to be conveyed without benefit of words, which required till then untried technique. Stage pantomimes lighted ways perhaps, Chaplin an early one to find film ideally right for his style of expression. I’m wondering if outdoor staging, at long last free of stages, laid place for truer revolution in acting than could ever be case where confined by curtains, or soundstage walls. If under-sky performing lent freshest-ever reality, then who were those that ran, rode, and climbed but masters in the art of realism? William S. Hart had been successful on stage, could have stayed there, but sensed opportunity unique but barely explored so far by film, getting out among hills and weather to breathe truer life into drama till then stuff of recitation and restricted movement. That Hart rose to levels not ventured toward by actors before is obvious from looking at westerns he’d make … and write … and supervise himself. Why not anoint Bill highest priest of “New Acting”?

If one performs effectively against all-outdoors, shouldn’t we define him/her/they/them as actors outstanding if not more so than those who declaim on flat boards before a stock-still audience? By such measure, let’s propose Randolph Scott or Joel McCrea for Great Actors. If measure is nerve alone, why not Ken Maynard? I’ll go further by nominating Yakima Canutt; as to his alleged falter with dialogue (a finger also pointed at Maynard), how about we credit them instead with naturalistic delivery more like real people (at least real westerners) talking, many of them awkward with proper speech. Of players who were accorded credit for “acting” in accepted sense, what of a Burt Lancaster, who could impress on walled-in soundstages, but watch his stunner work in The Train, physical near to point of human flight, and show us one of any thousand who could approach this level. Lancaster was not Academy nominated for The Train but was on “Laurel Award” short list for “Best Action Performance,” his rivals Sean Connery in Goldfinger, Richard Boone in Rio Conchos, John Wayne in Circus World, and Lee Marvin in The Killers (Connery won). None of these were considered by the Academy, their choices Rex Harrison (the winner), Peter O’Toole, Richard Burton, Anthony Quinn, and Peter Sellers, for most part “talking” parts. We won’t properly appreciate truly physical acting until movies gain parity with the stage, which economically they long since did, and more, but that won’t translate as easily to respect they have not gotten and maybe never truly will.

1905’s New Acting became Old New Acting by the early fifties when Stanislavski’s style, adapted often by others, became, among other Americanized labels, The Method. Anything “New” was good for business, the more so where industry might tender fresh fleet of players unlike stars we had maybe wearied of since the war. This second revolution was less spontaneous than contrived. Why hadn’t Group Theatre members who came to Hollywood during the thirties upended habit? John Garfield of these got close it seemed, till he was ground to convention’s powder. Montgomery Clift was the real deal but looked and was sold initially as a leading man and more of dreamboat same, per publicity for The Search. Besides, Clift never embraced the Method as proposed by others of the emerging cult. It was Marlon Brando who blew rebellion’s trumpet and got sold in knowing fashion as first for Hollywood star-making reborn. Had there really been no true acting in films before him? The Method implied sensitivity and understanding beyond reach of conventional actors, Hollywood ranks called stale bread now that Brando and hoped-for followers pointed toward new directions. Talent appearing on live television was grazed as had been Broadway when talkies arrived. Closed community that was Hollywood felt, at least should have felt, threatened. If Brando demonstrated great acting for a truly first time in A Streetcar Named Desire, what was James Cagney doing in White Heat a couple seasons before? Newcomers were taken serious as was less a case with establishment stars. Watch Cagney spoof White Heat dialogue and delivery in Starlift (1951), then imagine Brando doing same with Desire contortions.

Old films were by economic necessity carny-sold, and artists involved oft got razzed for it, audiences after the war perceived as more sophisticated which meant past ways-must-pass for keeps. Lobby cards barking shamelessly out front became objects of ridicule, if not derision: “Warners’ Magnificent Achievement” said 11X14’s for A Stolen Life, “Warners’ Biggest!!!” was Saratoga Trunk, and Possessed (1947) was a “Tremendous Warners’ Achievement.” Something old, something borrowed, plenty pew. Many called the Method phony, practitioners neurotic as characters they’d play. Veterans, even ones in the business less than a decade, saw flim in Method flam. Robert Mitchum thought learning to be an actor (read: being taught) was like “learning to be tall.” James Garner had most of the fifties and his twenties to realize acting classes were places to stay away from. Each Method performance promised to expose “the unconscious life of the actor,” watching akin to seeing nervous breakdowns in progress. James Dean had angst to burn, catnip for youth and immatures to identify with. Old-timers meanwhile plodded along proven ways. When Edward G. Robinson was cast in cheap but fine Vice Squad, he was told “Be yourself, Eddie,” which meant “Be the Edward G. Robinson of old,” known quantity and proven product. Overlooked too was likes of Anne Baxter who called up memories of a family tragedy to enhance her performance in The Razor’s Edge, so why didn’t industry and press make greater fuss over that? (they did to extent of Best Supporting AA in 1947)

Fun for all was up-and-comer Methods opposite older-timers, question being who’d register more “real.” John Wayne got his “New York actor” dose of Geraldine Page in Hondo, result satisfactory. Bogart wasn’t cowed by Rod Steiger during The Harder They Fall, nor Robert Taylor by John Cassavetes in Saddle the Wind. James Dean had ideal foils in Raymond Massey, Albert Dekker, Burl Ives (East of Eden), was more ideally served by Rock Hudson in Giant. Paul Newman did emotional battle with Walter Pidgeon in The Rack and hopefully learned from the elder actor (Newman admitted large learning curve the lot of his early film work). Opposites could and did attract it seemed. New acting was novelty enough to take serious especially where practitioners were willing to speak on the record of their “craft,” something Bogart, Cooper, Gable, their fraternal order, would not have done except to garner a laugh. Persona stars in any case had secret weapons played close to chins, us happier with idols who were least forthcoming. Not sure I’d have wanted revealing memoirs from Robert Mitchum or William Holden. Nothing preserves fascination like not knowing things we think we’d like to know. Return to The Big Chill for a close: Among mostly younger players was Don Galloway of Universal 60’s labor, him coached on traditional terms, direct, to relevant point, straightforward harpoon handling. And here’s not surprising outcome: I liked Galloway best of the lot.

Precode Picks #6

 Precode: Night Nurse, Heated Up Ads, and Downstairs

NIGHT NURSE (1931) --- Surface-wise hardcore precode, Night Nurse bites into pastry with a sour center, potential for fun nulled by content unpleasant enough in GPS quarters for me to swear off repeat views each time watching, only to come back thinking this time I’ll be made of sterner stuff. Still I want to jump into the screen like Sherlock Jr. and take pizza plus hot dogs to starved children kept prisoner by purveyors of evil that include Clark Gable at early application of brute man support, him socking Barbara Stanwyck just off camera range and rich-deserving last reel disposal by breezy bootlegger Ben Lyon who ends up being cheeriest aspect of 72 minutes not otherwise easy to get through. Precode walked high wires over fun, witty apply of situations just this side of censorable, risk being bridge too far to discomfit viewers and make time sat an ordeal, like here and in horror films judged to have gone overboard like Freaks and Island of Lost Souls. Frustrating for me was Stanwyck, anybody, not taking corrective action on behalf of babies deprived of nourishment, deliberate act of villains chasing an inheritance. Takes awhile as in too long for motive to reveal itself, so for reels we just get kids abused for no apparent reason. Night Nurse is dropped ball surprising for Warners, though yes there is Stanwyck taking lumps in drag-out showdown with a drunken femme, plus she and Joan Blondell in-out of nurse uniforms, some of frankest exhibitionism precode tendered, enough so to be excerpted here/there among sampling of extremes. Gable gets a strong entrance to make it seem Warners is aborning his star rather than MGM that would. Socko, and again oft excerpted, is the camera moving quick and close to CG when he growls, I’m Nick … the chauffeur, a moment still to quicken pulse.

MORE OF SUGGESTIVE ADS --- Suggestive, but suggesting what? I suggest it’s license as in chuck wedlock and let’s try on free love, which works after all for Bette Davis and Gene Raymond. Under cover of humor, wit if you will, but the message is plain, “complete and unprejudiced” where frankly advocating (?) laughter toward wedding bells and yawns at bassinets. Ads could be wisecracky and sometimes radical, as here. A lot of daughters and sisters were drawn to Ex-Lady on titillating promise of “Moratorium on Marriage.” Was this mere fairground pitch or a fundamental challenge to established mores? Depends on how seriously one took theatre ads, or the films they advertised. Feature titles could and did welcome winds of cultural change, Ex-Lady by its name a thumb-to-nose toward tradition. There had to come a reckoning, less provoked by the movies perhaps than salacious ads that promoted them (for more on Ex-Lady, plus further ads and graphics, go here). As any coin has both head and tail, observe RKO Palace promotion for Back Street in 1932. Distress of my clipping reflects that of Irene Dunne as kept woman (for years and years) of John Boles, toll paid for promiscuity as moralists would point out, Back Street backing argument that only sadness comes of sex outside wedlock. This too was precode, as in fallen woman sagas that seldom if ever ended happy for principals, outcome reflected here with Dunne, chin rested on palm, but no rest for having crossed social boundaries. As if to hammer home point, there is center art of what might be any discarded mistress left to contemplate her misery, “For Every Woman who has loved unwisely … and for Every Man who has loved too well” again a titillation, this time with price tag attached. Lock up your daughters, or at least keep them away from precode newspaper ads.

DOWNSTAIRS (1932) --- So how to reconcile Downstairs with John Gilbert as contractual cast-off MGM wanted to see fail, but did they really? Not when he was trusted to write, and star as rotter-in-chief, being male counterpart to Jean Harlow’s amoral Red-Headed Woman and note both getting away scot-free for misdeeds and poised to graze upon fresh victims as end titles usher us out. Villain as rooting interest finds early application in Downstairs --- at no time do we, or at least me, want Gilbert brought to ruin for his perfidy. It’s told that Gilbert’s “Karl Schneider” was initially drowned in a wine vat by Paul Lukas, preview audiences turning thumbs down to that and MGM obliged to reshoot and let Karl live, which shows at least how this character, and Gilbert’s playing of him, appealed to his public. It takes magnetic personality to commit succession of venal acts but keep us captivated, Gilbert an anti-hero to prefigure lots to come, including late model Paul Newman’s Hud, except Hud was meant for us to revile yet emerged as sixties role model instead, the makers surprised as anyone that 1963 would so embrace such a heel. Downstairs differs for Karl conducting life and people on his own altogether selfish terms and writer/actor Gilbert confident we’ll love him for it. Again, maybe just me, but not for a moment do I want to see Karl undone by events, any more than I would care to watch Hud bow down. Even if he framed Downstairs largely for comedy, there is bite enough thanks to precode for Karl to mean business and to Downstairs credit, never repent or make amends. Looks like Gilbert was onto something way ahead of his era, Downstairs perhaps a gamble that only a star on career decline might choose to take. Bet it all, said John Gilbert, double or nothingness from here on.

Gilbert’s was the kind of romantic persona that needed to identify close with his character and circumstance in order to give of his best. So dispiriting was most of his talking vehicles that it was impossible for him to connect, A Gentleman’s Fate being lately watched example, him a gangster's son (but unknowingly) living large off trust money, a premise I doubt Gilbert or anyone bought, so how to apply himself believably? Pace is glacial, as frankly is Gilbert. He was a man of moods wherein up he could reach stars, but down … disaster. I’ve wondered before if he was bipolar. That would explain a lot of what went on, certainly the periods of depression and self-medicating. Downstairs seemed a rescue. Thalberg told Gilbert they’d adapt his story and let him star, Irving lifted off the floor with a bear hug in return. Essence of Gilbert was no neutral setting. His career went back to the teens, and Jack's teens, having written, also directed, in fact done almost everything. There were friends --- who in fact was not his friend? It surely shocked Gilbert when comparative none came forward to lend meaningful help when he needed it. Failure attracts few however, especially in an occupation where fear rules. Mere perception of Gilbert as washed up was what washed him up. Did he ultimately suffer for having become such a white-hot star? Jack was best man at Paul Bern and Jean Harlow’s wedding, doom cleaving to doom. For all I’ve written of Gilbert there is obvious sympathy and fascination. Had he gone out with Downstairs, he’d have gone out a 100% winner, even if the picture lost money, which unhappily it did. Cheers, however, as Downstairs is terrific, among best of still unheralded precodes, and a regular on TCM in HD.

Category Called Comedy #8

 

CCC: Animal Crackers in 1962 Soup, Keaton Back at Shorts, Lubitsch Caught By Code But with Color, and Thrills Challenge Youngson Laughter

HOORAY AGAIN FOR LONGGONE CAPTAIN SPAULDING --- Groucho hosted a Hollywood Palace on August 17, 1965, being up-to-minute with talent and even making income tax reference to mass viewership having just paid theirs. Grouch was at-himself-peak-still, doing stand-up intro and remarks between performers, one of whom is daughter Melinda Marx. Did these two reconcile before he left us in 1977? I must check You Tube if she was interviewed since, guessing that no, she has long been loathe to talk. Groucho introduces Melinda and she sings “The East Side of Town,” which reminded me of Petula Clark hits from around a same time. Dug also into YT and found Melinda as “special guest” on You Bet Your Life and performing Witch Doctor, the 45 of which I just had to have, and indeed got, at age four in 1958. Groucho was surely reminded of vaude past as he unveiled bicycle acts, a nutty pianist, the timeless lot. Highlight held till last is Groucho and more-than-welcome visitor Margaret Dumont reprising Animal Crackers to hooray again for Captain Spaulding, question as to who remembered Animal Crackers by 1965, at least enough to be excited to see it saluted. Animal Crackers had been out of circulation since 1948 when Paramount last revived it, Code-cut with not a lot of playdates. When MCA packaged pre-49 Paramounts for syndication in 1959, they included Animal Crackers, but a flag rose and they pulled the title, making Crackers an only Para with the Marxes we couldn’t see, at least through the sixties and certainly when Groucho was Captain Spaulding again for the Hollywood Palace. Context was needed to enjoy the number, and Grouch/Dumont did it splendidly, a magic moment to truly evoke past times.

KEATON UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT --- From Motion Picture Herald, above is Buster Keaton posed with staff and visitors to Educational Pictures set of Grand Slam Opera, one of comeback comedies Buster made after doors at Metro were shut to him. We (or at least me) underestimated Educational Keaton for their being so elusive. I don’t recall any from television during the sixties-seventies, and when 16, even 35mm prints showed up, they seemed not titles for civilian consumption. Idea of BK gone back to shorts after years of features and attendant major stardom seemed comedown enough to foreclose the films from fair consideration, but then came Blu-ray release and opportunity to reconsider these as worthwhile if far from best of Buster Keaton. Biographer James Curtis revealed solid success the shorts enjoyed when made and circulated during the thirties. Twentieth Century-Fox was the distributor, so bookings were solid, and Curtis shows how well exhibitors and a public responded to them. I looked at one, Jailbait (1937), tried to figure how much of humor was Keaton-created (plenty it seems), his main disadvantage not having luxury of time and plentitude of writing help as was case during twenties and total independence. Still, these Educationals were no pit of lime, the shop having been in comedy business for years and knowing their trade. Jack H. Skirball stands among congenial group here (at left), being “sales chief” for Educational. He’d go far ways in the industry-after, producing two with Hitchcock directing, Saboteur and Shadow of a Doubt, among much else. The still here is from The Chemist, another Keaton for Educational. He’s not the fresh-face of silent yore, drink having done its damage, but creatively he was engaged, if not ideally as before. We have to wonder how long Keaton would have stayed at top rungs had he kept keys to kingdom Joe Schenck earlier conferred. All artists know a peak is hard to maintain, harder to get back once lost, past, or suspended. Fact is Keaton never lost his comedic instinct, all the way to 1966 end. Look at industrials he did toward the finish where he was given more-less carte blanche, brilliance short-ordered and fresh delivered as if result of weeks effort. Keaton was the best fun-making bargain an employer ever got.

HEAVEN CAN WAIT (1943) --- Suddenly seems to me that Don Ameche mistakenly came to Hell not for sins committed but for sin he overall perceived for having lived to 1943 when movies (and life?) operated under stricter rules of conduct than in his carefree younger days. At least movies under a rigidly enforced Code made it seem so. Ameche as “Henry Van Cleve” does no real wrong for entire lifetime we observe, few deserving so much as he to enter paradise. Heaven Can Wait is Ernst Lubitsch creating perception of naughtiness there is no real trace of, doing right what Mae West sought to achieve with declining comedies as PCA-shackled. There is possibility Henry strayed off marital confines with Gene Tierney (fuss over a bought bracelet but not for his wife) and yes, that provokes a separation, but evidence of infidelity is less than vague. I bet censors hovered like hawks just for this being a Lubitsch venture, his sly nature known and always cause for increased vigilance. Heaven Can Wait could play to kindergartners and not give offense, though I suppose one could tag Henry for adultery were one given to wishful thinking. This implies I dislike Heaven Can Wait, far from case because like many as great, this grows subtle/sure and must have been ’43 relief against bombast so much comedy had become. Heaven Can Wait’s family is one to enjoy wealth and status instead of losing it all to eventual poverty and despair as what waited upon the Ambersons. Laird Cregar supplies the open plus a coda to remind us that Heaven may after all be a place for more of us than before thought. I figure being half as good as Henry Van Cleve will surely get me in.

DAYS OF THRILLS AND LAUGHTER (1961) --- Lesser among Youngson grab-bags, no criticism that, for history these served make each a latter-day treasure and continuing source of fascination. Thrills and Laughter scores much on Thrills aspect, 1961 being a first time Youngson used non-comic content to show silents were more than mere clowns clowning. He knew serials were a standout among pre-talk attractions and so served samples bite-size and plenty novel to then children who might have had access to old chapterplays floating about but not produced new since the mid-fifties. Serials out of Republic and/or Columbia were pale pomegranates beside high-fly cliffhanging of old, Youngson indeed a first since talkies arrived to celebrate chapters minus sound, thirty years past this sort of fun being available anywhere. There had been non-theatrical mine courtesy Blackhawk Films plus an independent compilation by collector John E. Allen, but precious few saw these outside committed hobbyists, The Days of Thrills and Laughter on the contrary reaching a wide and mainstream audience for whom ancient serials were a brand-new kick. Youngson’s fifteen or so minutes was proper serve, being flavorful but not exhausting taste of Pearl White (above right with gun), Harry Houdini, Ruth Roland, others. Maybe Grandad would recall these first-hand, anyone else … doubtful. Thrills were real, laughs for exaggeration of it all, but too little survived to do much more with. Youngson let serials alone after this, Blackhawk releasing more where they could find them, and hard to find they were. Current misfortune is serials coldly stored where they exist at all, archives with holdings disinclined to share them. Hard to assign blame as what sliver of population could care, though fun is had yet with extant Pearl, Harry, Ruth, more than mere snips Youngson splayed in 1961. So long as French serials are getting deluxe 4K treatment, how about domestic fruit also a century old, but as ripe to entertain.

UPDATE --- 2/13/2025: Received a till-now unfamiliar photo with a note from Reg Hartt ... showing Buster Keaton on the occasion of his second marriage, taken in Mexico. "Found this by chance. It speaks volumes," says Reg.

"R" You Ready, Viewership?

 

Come the 1969 Revolution

EASY RIDER (1969) --- Jack Nicholson makes a speech where he says among other things, "This used to be a helluva good country. I can’t understand what’s gone wrong with it." What did his “used to be” mean … the fifties, forties? … the nineteenth century? Surely it was idealized time Jack's character recalled firsthand, which would place it most likely in the fifties. But wasn’t that supposed to be a period of paranoia, repression, suffocating conformism? We may assume Jack’s dialogue reflected the viewpoint of Easy Rider writers. Of these, Peter Fonda was born in 1940, Dennis Hopper 1936, and Terry Southern 1924. Was it a “helluva” country at a same time for all three? Who did Jack speak for? Nicholson himself, born 1937? The line strikes me as stock, sort of what you get from everybody eventually when they talk of better life in the past. It even plays cynical in a way, like Nightmare Alley’s Stan Carlisle where everybody had a grey-haired mother and a dog. Stock reading as he puts it, fits everybody. I could write now of how this used to be a helluva good country in 1969. So far as I was concerned at age fifteen, many aspects of it were, save ninth grade P.E. That’s fun of Easy Rider and how it pandered to world-weary teens who could mourn their nation’s lost Eden, and what … wish life could be what it was when they were twelve? Snake in my Eden was The Wild Angels three years before and taking then-pledge not to attend more biker flix. Now I’m older and world-weary enough to groove with Easy Rider’s ninety-five minute ride across helluva country that was five and a half decades back and counting.

I read how Dennis Hopper proposed a four-hour cut, him locked out of editing like a modern-day Von Stroheim, Easy Rider a tarnished gem as result. The boys also fought over profits and writing credit. I enjoy Hopper who is sleazy and greasy as he’d been at villainy since the mid-fifties and would be again for comeback that was Speed in 1994. He was what moderns figured hippies to have always been, as in don’t let him get close enough to smell. Hopper was a climber who drank wine with Selznick and others of old Hollywood, married judiciously (Brooke Hayward) so he could stay in such circles, collected art and was pals with connoisseurs like Vincent Price. Protest becoming the fashion saw Dennis glomming on. He’d straddle old and new Hollywood to run a lavish and long-running con, a truest Stan Carlisle the industry had. I bet without knowing for sure that he grabbed a nice hunk of Easy Rider coin for himself, and spent same for more art, or peyote, or whatever recreation engaged him. Easy Rider is remembered as an “outlaw” movie but was really no more so than a hundred cheapies Roger Corman had done, and he might have herded this one but for seeming sameness of the concept and Roger's professed distaste for Hopper. Easy Rider was trippy and seemingly made by hippies for hippies, this to excite “normies” mostly kids who could but dream of dropping out, loving in, or whatever indistinct conduct these opportunity-driven rebels were up to. Easy Rider gets off to arresting start, Fonda and Hopper buying cocaine south of the border to resell and us in mild suspense as to what will become of them in consequence. Sight of Phil Spector enhances quease factor. What follows is improv amidst commune backdrops, Mardi Gras with the cast in stole takes like blown-up 8mm, echoed by riding in a parade sans permit for which they get busted and meet Jack Nicholson. Him and Luana Anders are here to link them and us with AIP.

Easy Rider was rated R and cunningly sold. The one-sheet read “A man went looking for American and couldn’t find it anywhere.” Oh brother… that again, but great salesmanship, and Easy Rider didn't chicken out on what its bleak outlook foretold. The ending was Deliverance come early, guys in the pickup unknowns who would stay that way, Easy Rider their only film appearance, at least credited. “We gotta go back” is a best and most chilling line in the picture. So who called or calls Easy Rider a modern masterpiece? Those selling it surely, then and now, fact for sure it’s a masterpiece at digging dollars that so eluded most theatrical releases in 1969, youthquake as result with disasters to follow not unlike scurry after elephantine musicals to re-strike lightning that was The Sound of Music. Peter Biskind’s 1998 survey of Babylon that was late-sixties-seventies Hollywood assesses Easy Rider on frankest terms. His is an ugly saga (try putting this book down), not a time or place I’d want to have been part of, except I was for being part of the hoped-for audience. Counter-culturals were empowered, but as Peter Fonda’s Captain America admitted, “we blew it.” In fact it was blow that would blow it for much of the seventies and into the eighties. Lots claim the early to mid-seventies as last gasp of a Golden Age, which beats me as to basis for such, though like everything, it’s a matter of taste and at what time films made their biggest impression on a person. Easy Rider seems more so a relic than much we like from the thirties or forties, and maybe that’s because it was and remains so representative of a gone and, to large extent discredited, day. Are there still easy riders back and forthing across America and not able to find it?

One Side, Doctor Dolittle --- Midnight Cowboy is In the Works

MIDNIGHT COWBOY (1969) --- Once rated X. Hard to see why now. Jon Voight is a Texas “hustler” who comes to New York and gets trimmed as anyone would expect for going to New York. A good thing about pictures like this and Shaft and others is characters moving about streets, especially walking past theatre marquees, the city decaying sure, but neon is still afire and there are oceans of it. Voight walks by (repeatedly) a nicely dressed front for Frankenstein Conquers the World and Tarzan and the Valley of Gold, one of AIP’s last combo bids for kid admissions. Midnight Cowboy was among last “daring” ventures before its kind became common for being imitated. The X rating hypoed attendance and that surprised most. More so when the film won “Best Picture.” The rating was dialed back to R when the MPAA realized there were pictures far dirtier in Cowboy’s wake. Funny thing was no cuts required. They just sort of admitted they’d been wrong. Midnight Cowboy deals with the sex trade without having a lot of sex. Just lots of talk about sex. Dustin Hoffman shows up well into narrative and is fun in ways you’d not expect from an intense Method player. His humor is there and consciously applied, so we can’t say Hoffman immersed his self too deep. He knew the audience wanted fun from his freak part and so gives it. I enjoyed him a lot. Hoffman could do “Old Hollywood” and be a man of a hundred, if not thousand, faces. Watch him in Agatha be a suave and romantic leading man, several inches shorter than partner Vanessa Redgrave, but what did he care? There aren’t drugs in Midnight Cowboy. Hoffman’s Rizzo wants coffee and Voight puts ketchup on crackers. This might be Gotham in the early sixties rather than late.

New Erasing the Old ... Joe Buck Passes Tarzan and Frankenstein

Relationship between the two is key. They could have been another Newman-Redford in less seedy circumstance. I don’t know if people watch Midnight Cowboy anymore because it is sort of dated. For that matter, how much from 1969 is palatable? They were breaking barriers long enough to make most wonder what all of fuss was about to begin with. Lots weaned on screen freedom since then assume movies did not exist prior to the MPAA. In a sense they are right. Show them a Code picture and they’ll ask what hell is wrong here? The city as utterly bleak gets early workout. Watch Cowboy beside Barefoot in the Park, only two years difference! I remember movies taking leaps like this, being almost afraid to go see some of them. It was more comfortable to stay home and watch Vera Cruz on television again. I had become too tentative a filmgoer, skipping forward marchers like Midnight Cowboy, but willing to try on Five Easy Pieces, later get snakebit by Straw Dogs. Even beloved horrors upset my too-tender sensibilities (The Conqueror Worm), so why did I heart The Wild Bunch so? Movies they were a-changin’ even if big deals seem small now. Fifty-six years to toughen up enough for Midnight Cowboy seems long, getting grown up coming slower to some of us. Criterion has a Blu-Ray, customary revelation with movies murky in memory, print and presentation wise, as though they were deliberately shot that way. Not so as evidenced here. That alone is reward for revisiting much from the late sixties and seventies. Theatres by that time had gone to seed surely as streets in Midnight Cowboy.

UPDATE --- 2/3/2025 --- 8:10pm. Donald Benson sends a note with a most welcome comic strip.

A 70s strip by the late Jules Feiffer. As time goes on many people recall their MGM past (or postwar equivalent) as real, either personally experienced or just out of reach due to bad luck.