Monday, March 18, 2024

This Day in Film History (Douglas Fairbanks in Career Triumph at ‘Thief of Bagdad’ Premiere)

Mar. 18, 1924— At the premiere of his latest film, The Thief of Bagdad, Douglas Fairbanks gave everything his fans could want: carrying wife Mary Pickford on his shoulders past the crowd of 5,000 waiting outside their limousine; having New York’s Liberty Theater transformed into a scene from The Arabian Nights that had inspired his latest spectacle; leaping onto the stage at the conclusion of the movie; and, in between, packing the 138-minute silent with splendid pageantry and special effects to go along with his usual athleticism.

Last year, I was fortunate enough to see this classic—not in one of those cheaply made versions in the public domain, but restored with beautiful original color tinting, and put on the big screen by the Barrymore Film Center in Fort Lee, NJ.

Film technology has advanced markedly in the last century, but Fairbanks’ good looks, charm and charisma remained timeless for those of us in the packed auditorium that night.

All these qualities helped Fairbanks virtually create the template for the cinematic swashbuckling hero. Yes, sword fights and period costumes are required for the genre, but above all, you need a devil-may-care protagonist who is good at heart, and open to love by a woman.

That was the formula already fashioned by Fairbanks from the start of the Roaring Twenties, in The Mark of Zorro, The Three Musketeers, and Robin Hood, and it would continue to be through the end of the decade.

Matinee idols of the studio system in the sound era—Errol Flynn, Tyrone Power, Burt Lancaster, and Stewart Granger—owed much of their early success to vehicles patterned after his. But what they accomplished in those movies don’t measure up to the standards set by Fairbanks.

Why? It doesn’t necessarily have to do with skill. (Lancaster, of course, eventually won an Oscar, and Flynn and Power were also recognized as quite capable late in their careers.)

Rather, it’s because Fairbanks as an independent producer (and as part of the group that formed United Artists in 1919, with wife Mary Pickford, Charlie Chaplin, and D.W. Griffith) generated his own films and image—engaging the financing, writing the stories (in this case, with a nom de plume derived from his middle names, “Elton Thomas”), and explaining to collaborators what he wanted through his elaborate charts.

In short, Fairbanks had become what later film scholars would term an “auteur”: a filmmaker whose artistic control over the product is so great that he is, practically speaking, its “author.”

Director Raoul Walsh, in one of his greatest silent films, gave ample evidence of the energy and panache of his Warner Brothers movies of the sound era.

But it was a professional he had worked with on the East Coast, in a Fort Lee film studio, art director William Cameron Menzies (later to direct Things to Come and to design Gone With the Wind), along with special effects mavens Hampton Del Ruth and Coy Watson and the star's own brother Robert, serving as technical director, whom Fairbanks called on for most of the movie’s most prodigious feats of cinematic magic, including:

* a fire-breathing dragon (a crocodile shot with the actor using double-exposure);

*a giant spider;

*a flying horse, featuring a real horse running on a treadmill against a screen;

*the underworld mermaid kingdom, shot through a curtain of thin gauze as if the Thief were swimming underwater, then tinted blue in post-production;

*an invisibility cloak;

* the famous flying “magic carpet,” which Walsh claimed to have conceived while watching a steelworker hoisted aloft on a crane—but which still required a 3/4 inch piece of steel, along with 16 piano wires fastened to the carpet’s corners and anchored to the top of a 100-ft. construction crane.

The intricate sets also reflected its star’s precise calculations for his stunts, according to Laura Boyes’ July 2023 post on her “Moviediva” blog: “Props were designed to make whatever feat he was attempting look easy: a wall was the right height to leap, a table proportioned to make a dive over it appear effortless.”

The 41-year-old actor was in magnificent shape, wrote Margarita Landazuri in a winter 2013 article, courtesy of daily exercise in a gym on the lot. But the kind of prop Ms. Boyes had in mind included trampolines placed in large jars that Fairbanks’ title character would jump in and out of to elude frustrated pursuers.

Contemporary audiences would also be enthralled by the film’s exotic apparel, even for the 3,000 extras a day engaged for the production (all requiring different clothes, according to costume designer Mitchell Leisen).

For a long time, estimates of the movie’s expenses ranged from $2 million to $2.5 million. Perhaps these numbers were a Hollywood publicist’s attempt to hype the movie’s production values.

But in 2008, Fairbanks biographer Jeffrey Vance disclosed that the budget was only half that previously supposed: $1,135,654.65. What this meant was that the actor and his creative team had used extra ingenuity to create what looked like a far more opulent spectacle.

The Thief of Bagdad would be remade six more times in the past century, with a Technicolor 1940 version winning Oscars for Best Cinematography, Special Effects, and Art Direction. But Fairbanks got it right the first time.

Quite simply, the original, according to critic Richard Schickel’s December 1971 American Heritage article, “was full of wonders that, if often imitated since (and in some cases technically improved), have never been surpassed in their ability to delight.”

To get to this point, Fairbanks had been a shrewd judge of his career, using his acrobatic skills and sunny optimism to bound from Broadway to vaudeville to cinematic adventure hero to his current niche as the embodiment of swashbuckling.

But with the coming of sound, the Great Depression, and his own aging, the actor could no longer nimbly negotiate these transitions. 

When he died unexpectedly of a heart attack at age 56 in 1939, a new generation of movie fans, upon hearing the name “Douglas Fairbanks,” was more likely to associate it son Douglas Fairbanks Jr., then in the middle of his own thriving career.

Quote of the Day (Flannery O'Connor, on ‘Nice Young Men’)

“She looked at nice young men as if she could smell their stupidity.” — Southern novelist and short-story writer Flannery O'Connor (1925-1964), “Good Country People,” in A Good Man Is Hard to Find and Other Stories (1955) 

Sunday, March 17, 2024

Quote of the Day (Barbara Kingsolver, on Living Inside a Hope)

“The very least you can do in your life is figure out what you hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope. What I want is almost so simple I can't say it: elementary kindness. Enough to eat, enough to go around. The possibility that kids might one day grow up to be neither the destroyers nor the destroyed.” — American novelist, essayist and poet Barbara Kingsolver, Animal Dreams (1990)

Spiritual Quote of the Day (Kurt Vonnegut Jr., on Where You Meet Saints)

“You meet saints everywhere. They can be anywhere. They are people behaving decently in an indecent society.”—American novelist Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (1922-2007), quoted by Harvey Wasserman, “May Peace Be with You, Kurt Vonnegut," Huffington Post, Apr. 13, 2007

Saturday, March 16, 2024

Quote of the Day (Enda Walsh, on Why ‘The Irish Play Tradition is Not Sociological Drama’)

“I come from the Irish tradition and the Irish play tradition is not sociological drama. In Britain there are wonderful writers who write about politics, about where we're at. Whereas as an Irish playwright — I guess our background is poetry. So we see theatre in terms of dream and in terms of form. [The plays] are based in the real world but the real world is not as we know it and see it….The inner workings of a person permeate whatever play I'm writing.” —Irish playwright Enda Walsh quoted in Sarah Hemming, “Love and Biscuits,” The Financial Times, July 31-Aug. 1, 2021

The image accompanying this post, of Enda Walsh at Berlinale 2024, was taken Jan. 15, 2024.

Friday, March 15, 2024

This Day in Environmental History (Birth of Harold L. Ickes, Combative New Deal Interior Secretary)

Mar. 15, 1874— Harold L. Ickes, a pugnacious former Republican Progressive for Theodore Roosevelt who became a stalwart Democratic New Dealer as Franklin Roosevelt’s Secretary of the Interior, was born in rural Hollidaysburg, Penn.

Assuming control of a department rife with corruption in the past, Ickes kept it remarkably free of graft and mismanagement even as he expanded its reach and influence through countless bureaucratic battles. Under his direction, the Interior Department:

* oversaw the construction of quite nearly 20,000 projects in a six-year period, including hospitals, bridges, the Key West Highway, the Lincoln Tunnel in New York, and Hoover Dam in in the newly formed Public Work Administration;

*supervised the creation of the innovative Tennessee Valley Authority, a federally owned electric utility corporation that provided low-cost electricity in seven southeastern states, as well as flood control, navigation, and land management;

*expanded the number and size of units in the National Park Service;

* was one of four department heads involved with the Civilian Conservation Corps.

Glorying in his reputation for abrasiveness, Ickes even titled his 1943 memoir The Autobiography of a Curmudgeon

When he wasn’t expressing irritation to subordinates, fellow Cabinet members, and even FDR (who regularly refused his periodic offers of resignation), he unleashed biting public comments about administration opponents. 

When GOP Presidential nominee Wendell Willkie, for instance, spoke of his rise from poverty to success, Ickes mocked him as a “simple, barefoot Wall Street lawyer."

Though he belittled Willkie’s Horatio Alger tale, his own was similar. A miserable childhood (grinding poverty, a philandering, alcoholic father, and a strict Presbyterian mother) spurred his ambition to escape—which finally came to pass when he became a journalist, then a lawyer with a thriving practice.

An advantageous marriage to the wealthy Anna Wilmarth lifted his status further, but at the price of deep unhappiness. He felt little compunction, then, even when he joined the Roosevelt administration, about spending countless hours at the office and pursuing extramarital affairs with younger women that could have caused scandal if exposed.

A 1916 tour of Glacier National Park on horseback intensified Ickes’ love of nature. Subsequently he found one of the few balms for his suspicious, self-righteous nature and chronic insomnia in the gardens of his Winnetka, Ill., home.

It surprised me to learn that it wasn’t Ickes’ passion for conservation but his advocacy for Native American rights that led him to seek a job with FDR in 1933. 

Lamenting that several others had an inside track with the new administration for the post of commissioner of Indian affairs, Ickes was alerted by a longtime Progressive Republican ally, Senator Hiram Johnson, that an even bigger prize was available: Secretary of the Interior.

A few potential candidates had already turned down FDR’s offer of the post. The incoming President had never even met Ickes before their interview.

But Roosevelt could sound a bipartisan note by selecting this onetime Bull Mooser, and someone with knowledge of the West appealed to him. 

Moreover, if FDR had any private reservations about Ickes’ bluntness, they were soothed over by the notion that, after all, this was a relatively minor Cabinet post compared with Justice, State, War, or the Treasury departments.

The new appointee was determined to make his department anything but minor. Given the interest that drew him to government service in the first place, it was natural that he would reverse the policies of prior administrations by employing more Native Americans in the Bureau of Indian Affairs and encouraging tribal religion and culture.

But he also set about on the accomplishments I listed at the start of this post—and, more controversially, clashing with other Cabinet members about their prerogatives, including, most prominently:

*Henry Wallace, another former Republican termed Democratic liberal, who successfully fought off Ickes’ attempt to move the Forestry Service from the Department of Agriculture to Interior;

*Harry Hopkins, a Roosevelt intimate who tangled repeatedly with Ickes over federal allocations for his own programs (the Civil Works Administration and Works Progress Administration) in the Commerce Department versus Ickes’ PWA; and

*Frances Perkins, Secretary of Labor, whose longtime friendship with and easy access to FDR provoked a sexist private observation of Ickes (“There is something to the old adage, ‘a woman, a dog, a walnut tree, the more you beat them, the better they’ll be'”).

No fair judgment of Ickes’ career and character can be made without noting his commitment to civil rights and liberties for all. 

Heading the Chicago branch of the NAACP in the 1920s, he would, a decade later, offer Marian Anderson the use of the Lincoln Memorial after the Daughters of the American Revolution barred the acclaimed African-American contralto from singing in their auditorium.

Then, during WWII, when the Work Relocation Authority (WRA) was transferred to the Interior Department, Ickes, a staunch opponent of Japanese-American internment, endured hate mail and threats when he moved to roll back the agency’s discriminatory policy.

Along with Perkins, Ickes was the only Cabinet member to serve throughout FDR’s 12 years in office. But he did not survive long under Harry Truman. 

After disagreeing with Roosevelt’s successor over an appointment in the Navy Department, Ickes submitted another of his letters of resignation—except that this time, his boss accepted it.

Each day, Ickes dictated first drafts of diary entries based on hastily scrawled notes in meetings. Within two years of his death in 1952, his second wife and widow, Jane Dahlman, had published three volumes she had edited up to the start of FDR’s third term in 1941.

The Secret Diary of Harold L. Ickes represents an as-it-happened insider’s account of policymaking through the first two terms of a President who delighted in keeping advisers guessing about his intentions. This dyspeptic American Pepys who recorded his impressions gave future biographers a chronicle that, these days, seems ever less likely to be repeated.

(The Whitewater scandal left Clinton administration officials, for instance, hesitant about putting to paper their impressions, particularly after the young Treasury Department aide Josh Steiner gulped and disavowed in congressional testimony diary entries on pressure from the White House. 

Investigations making use of contemporaneous notes also briefly involved—are you ready for this?—Ickes’ son, Harold McEwen Ickes, a close adviser to Bill and Hillary Clinton, whose handwritten memo on large donors led him to testify on Capitol Hill on financing for the 1996 Presidential campaign, according to this July 1997 article for the (Mass.) Standard-Times.)

Like another New Dealer, William O. Douglas (elevated from chairman of the Securities and Exchange Commission to Associate Justice of the Supreme Court), Ickes presents historians with a conundrum: how to assess a public official’s accomplishments and idealism with prickly personalities that may limited their effectiveness and fulfillment of their highest ambitions. 

(Both men, at different times, seethed over failing to be selected as FDR’s Vice-Presidential running mate.)

Moreover, historians also must keep these same private failings as they assess these New Deal chroniclers for their biases and even basic reliability.


TV Quote of the Day (‘The Carol Burnett Show,’ As a Visiting Friend Disrupts Mama’s Family)

Thelma "Mama" Harper [played by Vicki Lawrence]: “It is people like her that are causing the downfall of this whole country. If I was your mother...”

Midge Gibson [played by Joanne Woodward, pictured right]: [interrupting] “Well, you are not my mother, Mrs. Harper, so I have no emotional objection to punching you right in the nose!”

Mama: “Are you going to let her talk to me like that, Eunice?”

Eunice Higgins [played by Carol Burnett, left]: “Go, go, go.”

Midge: “Now I have made many mistakes in my life, but I have never been deliberately malicious and cruel and if you're an example of decency, sister, thank God I'm indecent and you…”

[referring to and pointing at Ed, Eunice's husband]

Midge: “... you weren't so high and mighty in high school when you…you were in the back seat of that convertible with me on that double date with Gigi and—and—and you practically tore off my best sweater!”

Eunice: “Oh, Ed!”

Midge: “Yeah! I finally got away and after that, he ran after Gigi! Jim had to throw him out of the car! Oh, Eunice, I'm sorry.”

Eunice: “Oh, shoot. Who cares? I'm just surprised he ever had that much energy.”— The Carol Burnett Show, Season 9, Episode 21, “The Family” sketch, original air date Feb. 14, 1976, directed by Dave Powers