The Thing About Elizabeth
(Taylor-Hilton-Wilding-Todd-Fisher-Burton-Burton-Warner-Fortensky)

PART ONE

Like many people these past few days, I am pondering the meaning of Dame Elizabeth Taylor-Hilton-Wilding-Todd-Fisher-Burton-Burton- Warner-Fortensky. I have, on occasion, shared my thoughts on one or two notable losses in the world of "Classic Hollywood". But this one is different. This one calls for something more. To put it bluntly-- this one is the big one.

Elizabeth Taylor was her own one-woman epic. She lived her life in proportions that dwarfed Cleopatra, (both the woman, and the infamous 1963 film) and went so far beyond the parameters of Hollywood stardom that a new term - "superstar"- was invented to describe her. Never settling for enough when she could have it all, conversely, she never gave enough if she could give it all. And for Dame Elizabeth, all was everything. At the end, even a career that garnered three Academy Awards, voluminous wealth, world wide acclaim and infamy, condemnation from the U.S. Congress and a Pope, and a Royal Order of the British Empire did not define her. She saved her greatest achievements for her last act: those of a fearless crusader who brought a horrific disease out of the closet of shame and into the light of compassion and understanding. It is difficult not to speak in hyperbole when you are discussing Elizabeth Taylor, because Elizabeth Taylor was hyperbole.

The thing about Elizabeth Taylor was that she was a child star who was never really a child. From the first moment she first appeared on the screen, she was simply a miniature version of her adult self. Possessed of an un-earthly beauty and poise, she gave veteran MGM film producer Samuel Marx pause when he first encountered the precocious ten year old, and after an acclaimed supporting role in Lassie Come Home (1943) led to her breakout performance in National Velvet (1944) she entered the legendary MGM star-making machine. Yet the thing about Elizabeth Taylor was that she was never just a cog in its well-oiled wheels. Her languorously demure physical appearance belied a headstrong nature that would develop notoriously as she grew into adulthood, and would cause her "home" studio much grief and consternation in later years. At age 15, she famously told an apoplectic Louis B. Mayer to "go to Hell" after he berated her mother in her presence. Taylor remembered this moment as a turning point in her life; the moment when she realized that "I was a complete, free individual". This belief in the rightness of her own moral compass would dictate her actions for the rest of her life.

The thing about Elizabeth Taylor Hilton was that she was the most beautiful young woman in the world. At least, that is what famed columnist Hedda Hopper declared, and most other accounts followed suit. Her splendor was, by the age of 17, such an overpowering visceral experience that in her best films of the era it became as integral a part as the story itself. As socialite Angela Vickers in George Steven's A Place In the Sun (1951), her outrageous beauty is as much an impetus for Montgomery Clift's actions as the social position he longs to attain through her, and the tragic consequences of these actions become doubly devastating for the loss of it. Moreover, the chemistry she shares with Clift (perhaps the only actor in Hollywood who could approach her physical perfection) not only hints at the emotional fires banked beneath her "Park Avenue" exterior, it portends her performances to come later in the decade.

The thing about Elizabeth Taylor Wilding was that she was discovering the strength within herself. Forever altered after the near fatal car crash of her soul mate Clift (she saved his life by reaching into his mangled throat and pulling out the shattered teeth obstructing his airway), Taylor began to wander beyond the shallow waters of MGM glamour girl and into more challenging depths that lay beyond. In Giant (1956), she stretched outside her comfort zone for the first time to explore the life of a woman in a conflict of morality, desire and prejudice. It is a tenuous exploration, to be sure, but her performance rings true in moments of absolute faith in character and intent. Surrounded by a cast as overpowering as the Texas locale itself, including titans Rock Hudson, Mercedes McCambridge and James Dean, she emerges as the film's emotional core. It is in Giant, that Elizabeth Taylor Wilding became an actress.

The thing about Elizabeth Taylor Todd was that she was a passionate force of nature. In the most creatively fertile and rewarding period of her film career, she found her artistry first through joy, then through anguish. Marrying impresario Mike Todd, she was rapturous in the glow of love, and then despondent after Todd's tragic death in a plane crash. Midway through filming Cat On A Hot Tin Roof (1958) director Richard Brooks convinced an emotionally shattered Taylor to return to work, where she channelled her all consuming grief into a searing portrait of "Maggie the Cat". In doing so, Taylor fulfilled the early promise of Angela Vickers and her suspected fires of passion, sexual frustration, and fury. As Maggie, she screeches - she paws - she seethes -but she still manages to hold on tenaciously to the hot tin roof of her emotions, never allowing herself to fall into the desolation below. Her performance of fire and ice earned her an Oscar nomination. Exhilarated from the experience, she delved even further into the dark depths of her psyche in Suddenly, Last Summer (1959), Tennessee Williams unsettling exploration of repression, mental illness, and questionable motherly love. Too lurid for many at the time of its release, it none-the-less garnered Taylor another Oscar nomination, as well as condemnation for its contentious subject matter. For its emotionally liberated star, however, the controversey was merely an appetizer for the main course of reprobation that was to come...for just after its release, Elizabeth Taylor Todd became Mrs. Eddie Fisher.

The thing about Elizabeth Taylor Fisher was that she was fearless. As if liberated by the grief over the death of Mike Todd, she flew in the face of public censure and married Todd's best friend, singer Eddie Fisher, three hours after his divorce from her friend Debbie Reynolds was final. She was a hellion unleashed and ready for battle; and battle she did, particularly with her "home" studio, MGM. Tasting sweet freedom, she chafed at the artistic and financial restraints of her long term contract and longed to break free...particularly when Twentieth Century Fox began courting her to star in their planned remake of Cleopatra. At first thinking the idea ridiculous, Taylor half-jokingly told them she would do it -- for a salary of ONE MILLION DOLLARS. To her stunned surprise, they agreed. But there was a stumbling block: her MGM contract. In order to gain her freedom, Taylor agreed to star in a project which she loathed: the film version of the salacious novel, Butterfield 8. Frequently referring to the film as "Butterball 4", her disdain for the project was apparent to all involved, especially during an early preview when she allegedly offered her own critical assessment of the film by taking off her shoes and throwing them at the screen. But, free at last from the studio that had been her home for 17 years, she and Fisher headed to London to begin filming on the (then) modestly-budgeted Cleopatra. The swirl of negative press that enveloped the unapologetic star and her husband as they left for England was nothing, however, compared to the harsh English weather that greeted her, as well as the ever-present dampness of London's Pinewood Studios. She was soon plagued by one malady after another, and was unable to appear on the set but for a few days of tests before she fell ill with an infection that quickly developed into a rare and virulent strain of pneumonia. After collapsing in her hotel room, she was rushed to The London Clinic where an emergency tracheotomy was performed. As she hovered for hours between life and death, many overeager press reporters declared that Elizabeth Taylor, screen beauty, had died at the age of 28.

What they didn't know was this: the thing about Elizabeth Taylor Fisher was that she was also a survivor.

To be continued...

Does a Cactus Flower by any other name still smell...?

I know it's been a while since I've posted a blog, and my apologies to my follower. It's not that I haven't had material lately (Hi, Charlie Sheen) but, to be honest, I just haven't felt sufficient motivation to delve into the inner depths of my psychic pool.

And then, today, I was driving up La Cienega Blvd and found my muse.

As I sat at the traffic light, I glanced up to one of the ubiquitous billboards that pepper the Hollywood Hills like so many pimples on a high school cheerleader, and I saw it looming above me: the towering advertisement for the Russell Brand remake of the 1981 classic, Arthur. As a feeling began to overtake me that can best be described as "vomity" (yes, I did co-author a book), my mind began to reel with the plague of remakes that has polluted the cineplexes of the world these past few years. The most recent offender that caught my attention was the Adam Sandler opus, Just Go With It. Considering that an Adam Sandler film rarely requires substantive reflection, you can be forgiven for not knowing that the pithily titled comedy is actually a remake of the 1969 comedy, Cactus Flower, which starred Walter Matthau and Ingrid Bergman. Now, here's the thing: although it starred two of the greatest screen personalities of their generations, Cactus Flower is not a great movie. Or even a good one. The fact that the film is primarily known today as Goldie Hawn's Oscar-winning film debut should tell you something right there. So, why in the world would Hollywood go back to the same shallow well?

Remakes have been around almost as long as movies themselves (some historians date the first to 1904 - a remake of The Great Train Robbery, the first narrative film which had been filmed the year before). Movie-making is a "crap-shoot", and one of the few ways to hedge the bet of the box office is to utilize to a proven commodity. Unfortunately, what constitutes a good business decision doesn't always guarantee a good artistic one, and too often the term "crap-shoot" takes on a literal meaning.

This is not, by any means, always the case. Two of the greatest film comedies of all time, The Awful Truth (1937) and His Girl Friday (1940), were remakes of previously filmed material. In both cases, however, they were more "re-imaginings" than "re-makes"; they took very strong source material and re-interpreted it. In this spirit, Cactus Flower is actually a very good candidate for remaking. Adapted from a French comedy by Pulitzer Prize-winning author Abe Burrows, the resulting play not only featured Lauren Bacall in her Broadway debut, it was a smash hit that ran 1,234 performances (although the current Broadway revival is not faring nearly as well). It was, however, very much a reflection of its era (the "swinging 60s"), and by the time the movie version was released in 1969, it already seemed dated. Plus, the miscasting of Bergman in the Bacall role didn't help matters. So, all these factors would make it seem a good candidate for a second chance in a contemporary film re-imagining. Just Go With It, unfortunately, is just not that film.

Which brings us back to my muse: the remake of Arthur, a classic film which meets NONE of the criteria listed above. The original Arthur was that rarest of Hollywood occurrences: the result of a magical amalgamation of perfect cast, perfect script, and perfect director all meeting in the perfect era and creating...well...perfection. Even its theme song, the lilting The Best That You Can Do, is perfectly wedded to the film. But in case you still are not convinced, I would rest my case against a remake in four little words: Dudley Moore and John Gielgud. (OK, that's five little words).

In short, Arthur is Dudley Moore and John Gielgud. The relationship between these two men is the heart and soul of the film; its true romantic core. This does not in any way slight the contributions of Steve Gordon (directing his own wonderfully witty screenplay), the hysterical Jill Eikenberg, or most of all, Liza Minnelli --who shines in a refreshingly restrained and understated performance. But even Minnelli admitted that she was little more than a prop in the love story of the billionaire playboy and his devoted valet. The shared history that is communicated through the slightest droop of an eyelid (Gielgud), turn of a smile (Moore), or glint in an eye (both) is recognizably human, hysterically funny and profoundly moving. So much so, that the emotional climax of the film is NOT the anticipated wedding of Moore and Minnelli, but the death of Gielgud and the resulting effect on Moore--the chemistry between the two men is that powerful. Anyone who doubts this assertion should refer to the dismal 1988 sequel, Arthur 2: On the Rocks, for verification.

It may seem as if I am taking this all a bit too personally, and perhaps this is true. However, I believe that film can be (and should be) an intensely personal experience. For me, Arthur was one of a triumvirate of films that formed a tight bond between myself and my college friends during the first frightening weeks of freshman year. It was through Arthur (What's Up, Doc? (1972) and High Anxiety (1977) were the other two) that a band of lonely misfits found a common bond, and through this bond found each other... and eventually themselves. In an awkward moment of adolescent angst, all it took was one of us to utter: "Usually, one must go to a bowling alley to meet a woman of your stature", or "Don't you hate Perry's wife?", to shift the mood, and a stranger slowly became a friend. This is one of the true wonders of film, isn't it? It can not only take a room full of strangers and, in a few hours, make them a family, it can reach beyond - and make these strangers recognize themselves in each other. That's what Arthur did for me.

So, there, I guess I am not feeling too "vomity" anymore. I wish you luck in your endeavor, Mr. Brand and company. I even wish you a huge opening weekend. Perhaps it will prompt the brain trusts who came up with the idea of this remake to go all the way and put you in a remake of Arthur 2. That should fix you.

For me, I am content because I know that you will never touch the magic that I felt the first time I got caught between the Moon and New York City.