Esther Williams: Splendid When Wet (And Dry)

What would we do without YouTube? When the death of screen siren Esther Williams was announced last week, movie buffs could turn to the Internet for a handy assortment of her best movie moments. Personally, I learned a lot about Williams’ consummate professionalism. Not only was her swimming stroke a thing of beauty, but she was able to sustain a radiant smile while doing the most ludicrous things. Like backstroking through flames and fountains. Or frolicking underwater with cartoon characters Tom and Jerry. Or diving from absurd heights in extravaganzas choreographed by Busby Berkeley. When, wearing a spangled red one-piece, she rises from the deep in the center of a formation of soggy chorines, I love the quick final cut revealing that all this is happening for the pleasure of a stage audience.Busby Berkeley films had been toying with that disconnect for years: suggesting that the impossibly kaleidoscopic moment we’ve just enjoyed -- one completely dependent on a sound stage and an overhead motion picture camera – is being presented in a Broadway-style theatre. (It was one of the great challenges of the Cirque de Soleil’s aquatic “O,” still drawing crowds in Las Vegas, to present on stage something approaching Berkeley’s swimming-pool magic.) Berkeley deserves high marks, but so does his star, who is a much better swimmer than Ruby Keeler is a tap dancer. And Esther Williams was a born performer besides. Even when required to do a waterlogged tango with a rather creepy rubber ducky, she radiated charisma.

I hadn’t fully realized until I surveyed the YouTube clips that Williams was a more than passable singer and comedienne. A big surprise was a dry-land scene from 1949’s Neptune’s Daughter, in which she (coy) and Ricardo Montalban (suave) perform Frank Loesser’s winter classic, “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” This is, of course, the song in which a young lady half-heartedly tries to leave her beau’s apartment, while he professes concern for her determination to head out into a snowstorm. The lyrics are charming, though in recently years her “Say, what’s in this drink?” has reminded me uncomfortably of a prelude to date rape. Williams and Montalban’s rendition, though,  feels delightfully innocent. It’s what comes after that’s the real surprise: no sooner have they finished singing than we cut to another apartment where the tables are turned. Now it’s Red Skelton (adopting a vaguely Latin accent) who feels he has to depart, and perky little Betty Garrett who’s determined to hold onto him at all costs. Garrett, best known as Hildy the lovelorn cab driver in the movie version of On the Town, was frequently typecast as a man-hungry little dame. I met her in her later years, and admired her as a trouper who was still performing on stage when she was close to 90. Too bad, though, that she had to play hot and bothered in silly gender- reversal skits like the one with Skelton.

Esther Williams, however, remained cool and ladylike, even when she appeared on What’s My Line? That was the early TV quiz show in which a trio of distinguished New York-based panelists (in evening clothes!) blindfold themselves to figure out the identity of a Mystery Guest by asking pertinent questions. To disguise her voice, Williams put on a magnolias-and-hushpuppies Southern drawl. She delighted the audience with a sly and rambunctious wit, and capped her appearance when,  following up on an earlier joke,  she briefly sat in the lap of panelist (and Random House publisher) Bennett Cerf. If she wasn’t having a marvelous time, she’s a much better actress than I’ve ever given her credit for.  

Roger Corman Takes a Bite Out of the Big Apple

I love New York. It’s a marvelous mix of high and low culture, seasoned with multi-ethnic spice. On my most recent trip, I visited the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, a branch of the New York Public Library housed on Malcolm X Boulevard in the heart of Harlem. Afterwards, I crossed the street for a soul food buffet lunch, New York style: you could heap your plate with spareribs, collard greens, and candied yams, but also quinoa and a tasty-looking tofu-mango salad. The counter man was Korean, and a sign offered bagels for sale. Days later, on route through Queens to the airport, I spotted a cafe called Salt and Fat, which features a sort of Down-Home Southern- Fried Asian cuisine, as well as the glatt kosher King David Sushi Bar.

Filmmakers love New York too. Spike Lee has made a career out of capturing the many moods of Brooklyn. Woody Allen’s best films are love letters to Manhattan. And Martin Scorsese has explored the high life, the low life, and the wild life of New York City throughout his long career. (But you’ll have to read my Roger Corman bio to find out why Scorsese’s breakout film, Mean Streets -- though depicting lowlife types in New York’s Little Italy -- was actually filmed in L.A.)

When I was last in the Big Apple, Lower Manhattan was hosting the Tribecca Film Festival, as it has every year since 2002, when the area was still reeling from the aftereffects of 9/11. Still, New York’s cultural lifeblood remains the theatre. I was lucky enough to have dinner at the Players Club, founded by the great Shakespearean actor Edwin Booth (yes, the brother of John Wilkes) back in 1888. Edwin Booth kept his own private apartment at the club, and died in 1893 in a bed that remains on display. Fortunately, he’s no longer in it. The club’s hallways are covered with the portraits of famous members, from Mark Twain and George M. Cohan to Kevin Spacey and Ethan Hawke and almost any star you can think of. 

Right now, of course, there’s an extra-special focus on theatre, because the annual Tony Awards, honoring Broadway’s finest, will be presented June 9.  As always it will be televised, and promises to be a jolly good show. With, I can assure you, a lot of Hollywood celebrities on display. Prominent among them this year should be Hollywood’s own Tom Hanks, who’s in the running for Best Actor for his role in Nora Ephron’s final play, Lucky Guy. TV’s delightful Neil Patrick Harris has become the perennial Tony emcee, and one of the leading candidates for Best New Musical is based on 2005’s cinematic drag show, Kinky Boots. (Last year’s winner in this category was yet another film-into-stage-musical conversion, based on the Irish indie, Once.)  

There was a time, not long ago, when even Roger Corman was living in New York. In 2000, Roger’s wife Julie was named chair of the prestigious graduate film and television department at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts. (Alumni include Spike Lee, Ang Lee, and Corman protégé Martin Scorsese.) Of course, the job necessitated a move to Manhattan. The Cormans bought a Fifth Avenue apartment, and Roger set about becoming bicoastal, even though he detests cold weather. While in NYC he discovered at least one promising young student filmmaker, but the hopes that he’d stick around and hobnob with the New York indie film community (like Troma’s irrepressible Lloyd Kaufman) were soon dashed.  In 2002, Julie quit her NYU post, and it was back to Southern California for good.

In tribute to the late Esther Williams, check out this post from my archives. (More to come.)

Burt Lancaster: Raw! Rugged! Ruthless!

I think I’m slightly in love with the young Burt Lancaster. Lancaster’s first film, a 1946 adaptation of a Hemingway short story, shot him to overnight stardom. And why not? Lancaster’s intense gaze and his hard, athletic body made him a natural when it came to film noir. Here’s how the trailer for The Killers lured audiences into theatres:  “Raw! Rugged! Ruthless Drama!  Of a man who gambled his luck --  his love -- his life  for the treachery of a girl’s lips.” The “girl” in question was Ava Gardner, and oh, how the sparks flew between them.

The respected UCLA Film and Television Archive has devoted almost three months to the career of Burt Lancaster (1913-1994). This “centennial celebration,” which runs through June 30 at the Billy Wilder Theater, features such Lancaster hits as Elmer Gantry and The Birdman of Alcatraz, as well as latter-day art films like Louis Malle’s Atlantic City. But I attended a double-bill of two lesser-known film noir classics, Brute Force (1947) and Kiss the Blood Off My Hands (1948), in which Lancaster’s charisma could not be overlooked.

Aside from Lancaster himself, the star of the evening was Kate Buford, author of the definitive Burt Lancaster: An American Life. (This 2000 biography, currently in paperback, is due for release as an ebook this fall.)  Buford’s introductions to the films helped put them in context. Brute Force, only Lancaster’s second movie, is a men-behind-bars flick, complete with searchlights, stool pigeons, and a sadistic warden played to a fare-thee-well by Hume Cronyn. Buford helpfully reminded us of the political climate in 1947: director Jules Dassin and many on his creative team felt a strong sympathy for the underdog that aroused the suspicions of the House Un-American Activities Committee.

Despite its ghoulish title, Kiss the Blood Off My Hands is not a slasher movie. Rather, it’s a stylish post-WWII melodrama, noteworthy as the first project of Lancaster the independent producer. (A smart and ambitious man, he produced not only several of his own films – like the caustic Sweet Smell of Success – but also the gentle and romantic Marty.) In Kiss the Blood Off My Hands, Lancaster plays close to type as an ex-GI with an explosive temper. He’s an accidental killer, but we root for him because of what he’s endured. Having spent two years in a Nazi POW camp, he can best be understood as a victim of what today is called PTSD. In his dealings with a sad and lovely English lass played by Joan Fontaine, Lancaster stands out as the very definition of the phrase “tough but tender.” (An added bonus is the jolly yet thoroughly creepy menace of Lancaster’s nemesis in the film, the great Robert Newton.)

What struck me is how well this little movie knows Lancaster’s strengths. The opening sequence, in which he strikes a deadly blow in a barroom, then is chased by coppers over the rooftops of a London slum, stands out because it understands the power of  silence. Lancaster’s thrilling physicality carries us along for at least five minutes, long before he utters a single word. Later in the film, his shirt is stripped off and he’s punished with the cruel strokes of a cat-o’nine-tails: surely a boon to every woman in the audience.

I can’t leave this film without mentioning the late Hugh Gray. No, not a relative, but a long-ago UCLA film professor who looked Dickensian but had flown dangerous missions for the RAF. He’s credited as the film’s technical advisor, and I imagine he was helpful indeed in conveying the realities of London in the post-war era. 

Doomed: Teasing Out the Story Behind Roger Corman’s Fantastic Four

 Well, it’s time to start working on your superhero costume for the San Diego Comic-Con. And it’s time to support a super-project that’s just been launched by my buddy, Mark Sikes, along with filmmaker Marty Langford. Back when I was Roger Corman’s story editor at Concorde-New Horizons, Mark served as Roger’s casting honcho. One of his most challenging gigs was finding the cast, on a hurry-up basis, for a little superhero flick called The Fantastic Four, based on the Marvel Comics characters, that was being co-produced on the cheap by Concorde and a German company, Neue Constantin. 

A lot of us know what happened next. The film was shot, the cast and crew were ecstatic, and a big publicity push was under way, much of it funded by the actors themselves. Then came word that Constantin’s Bernd Eichinger had just paid big bucks for Roger’s share of The Fantastic Four. Eichinger promptly shelved the finished movie, presumably to make way for a lavish studio version that finally appeared in 2005. The original prints of the Concorde quickie were supposedly destroyed, but pirated copies have been circulating ever since. Now Mark and Marty are out to satisfy our craving to know exactly what happened. They’re planning a full-length documentary called Doomed! The Untold Story of Roger Corman’s The Fantastic Four.  To finance this labor of love, they’re calling on the film’s many fans to cough up some dough. (This crowdfunding idea is really taking off: I’m told that even Roger – who’s richer than God -- is using it to help pay for a shoestring remake of Munchies. But I digress.)

Here’s the scoop: Mark and Marty have set up an Indiegogo campaign to raise the $52,000 they need to make their movie happen. Naturally, donors get some very cool perks. But the deadline is June 20, so time is flying. (You might also check out the official Doomed Facebook site.)

What makes Doomed sound so promising is that most of the creative forces behind Concorde’s Fantastic Four are already on board. One of them is Carl Ciarfalio, stuntman extraordinaire, who impersonates The Thing in the movie. Carl has been part of some much more elaborate projects, like The Amazing Spider Man. But he relished the chance to work with director Oley Sassone and a talented cast, despite the privations everyone faced on set. For instance, “The suit that they made for me was really spot-on. But they didn’t have the budget to put a cool suit on underneath it. So I was wearing 15 pounds of rubber every day,” without a cooling system to provide basic comfort. Ouch!

Nonetheless, Carl sees the film’s awkward special effects (like Dr. Reed Richards’ impossibly stretchy limbs) as part of its charm. When watching today’s big-budget superhero movies, the audience knows it’s “just a bunch of guys on green-screen, with stuff goin’ on behind ‘em.” By contrast,  Concorde’s Fantastic Four plays like an homage to the mid-twentieth-century world of Marvel Comics. Says Carl, “That’s what makes this film cult-like, because it’s kind of a throwback to the Fifties and Sixties films that they used to make before special effects were a big deal.” 

Even at the time, Carl didn’t assume The Fantastic Four would lead him to fame and fortune. But the movie’s cast thought they were participating in something special. “And it was. It was something special. I knew out of the gate.” That’s why it hurts to have been part of a film that will never officially be seen. Doomed  is guaranteed to bring us a lot of great stories about that.

 Thanks, Carl, for supplying me with some of your own snapshots from the Fantastic Four shoot.