Category Archives: remembering

Remembering Celeste Holm.

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Oscar-winning actress Celeste Holm passed away this morning at the age of ninety-five.

Though she only starred in just over two dozen movies throughout the course of her career, the beautiful and talented Holm had a long life in Hollywood, as those films spanned the course of eight decades. Holm spent her early years on the stage, attracting attention for several roles on Broadway before really gaining notice for her performance in the first run (1943) of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Oklahoma!, for which she originated the role of Ado Annie Carnes. This eventually led to a contract with 20th Century Fox, and Holm made her film debut in 1946′s Three Little Girls in Blue.

A year later, in just her third film role, Holm cemented her place in movie history when she starred opposite Gregory Peck in Elia Kazan’s Oscar-winning drama Gentleman’s Agreement. Her performance as fashion editor Anne Dettrey won her the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress, a prize for which she would be nominated twice more–in 1949 for her role as a French nun in Come to the Stable, and again in 1950 for what is perhaps her best-known role, as Bette Davis’ best friend Karen in All About Eve (a nomination she shared with co-star Thelma Ritter). In between those nominated performances, Holm also memorably appeared in The Snake Pit with Olivia de Havilland and the noir Road House (both 1948), and she played the uncredited (and unseen) role of the narrator, Addie, in the 1949 melodrama A Letter to Three Wives.

After starring in Eve, Holm returned to the stage. In 1951, she replaced ailing star Gertrude Lawrence in the role of Anna in Rodgers and Hammerstein’s The King and I (Lawrence passed away three weeks later). Holm appeared oppposite Yul Brynner as the King (a role he would reprise in the 1956 film version). She returned to Hollywood a few years later, starring in The Tender Trap (1955) with Frank Sinatra and Debbie Reynolds and with Sinatra, Grace Kelly, and Bing Crosby in High Society (1956), a musical remake of 1940′s The Philadelphia Story in which Holm takes over for Ruth Hussey as photographer Liz Imbrie.

In subsequent years, Holm split her time between the stage and screen, appearing in a couple of films every decade and starring in the occasional play or musical–most notably when she took over for Angela Lansbury in the title role of Mame in 1967. She also appeared on many television shows, including her own 1954 series Honestly, Celeste! in which she played a reporter. However, the show was canceled after just eight episodes due to poor ratings (fun fact: one of the writers for the show was a young Norman Lear). In 1996, she appeared on the popular television series Touched by an Angel; her character, Hattie, and her family were spun off into their own show, Promised Land, which ran for three seasons.

As recently as last year, Holm was making appearances in front of the camera. Even well into her nineties, the actress never lost her obvious love of performing and entertaining her many fans. And it’s that pure love, dedication, and talent that we remember today.

Remembering Ernest Borgnine.

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The final scene of Marty (1955) opens with the title character (Ernest Borgnine) leaning against the wall of a seafood restaurant, one arm raised, loosely grasping a pole that juts out from the side of the building. He stands silently as his friends mill about in front of him, debating what they should all do next–a movie? A card game? A burlesque? Marty keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the sidewalk, an implacable, almost bored expression on his face. He has a lot to think about, after all; he’s met a girl he really likes (Betsy Blair), but he has allowed the jealousy and disapproval of his mother and his friends to poison his feelings about Clara. The unhappiness emanating from him is almost palpable. The camera moves in slowly as the conversation continues, tightening on Marty’s face as he closes his eyes, shaking his head slightly. A muscle ticks in his jaw. The conversation grinds to a halt: “What do you feel like doing?” “I don’t know, what do you feel like doing?” And in an instant, Marty explodes. Comparatively speaking, it’s a controlled explosion–no screaming, no over-the-top eye-rolling or wild gesticulation–but for a man who has spent the entire course of the film repressing his true feelings, this glorious moment of self-realization might as well be a nuclear bomb.

“What are you doing tonight? I don’t know, what are you doing tonight? The burlesque, Loew’s Paradise, miserable and lonely, miserable and lonely and stupid! What am I, crazy or something? I got something good here! What am I hangin’ around with you guys for?”

As his friends protest loudly, Marty rushes into the restaurant and heads determinedly for the payphones in the back. His pal, Angie (Joe Mantell), follows him inside, stridently asking, “What’s the matter, Marty? What’s the matter with you?” Marty, digging into his pocket for a coin, whirls around and confronts his friend.

“You don’t like her. My mother don’t like her. She’s a dog and I’m a fat, ugly man. Well, all I know is I had a good time last night! I’m gonna have a good time tonight. If we have enough good times together, I’m gonna get down on my knees and I’m gonna beg that girl to marry me! If we make a party on New Year’s, I got a date for that party. You don’t like her? That’s too bad!”

Marty rushes into the phone booth, sits down, and grabs the receiver in one fluid motion. Dialing the number, he turns back to Ang, who gazes at the floor, looking chastised. While he waits for the call to connect, Marty redirects the criticism he has long received on his own unmarried state to his friend:

“Hey, Ang–when are you going to get married? You oughta be ashamed of yourself. You’re thirty-three years old, your kid brothers are married. You oughta be ashamed of yourself.”

As Clara picks up the line, Marty delivers a tentative “Hello?” and, with a slight smile, excuses himself and slides the booth door shut between himself and Ang. “Hello, Clara …”

In the space of two minutes, Ernest Borgnine makes your heart break a little, makes you cheer, makes you feel. It was a talent he displayed many times over the course of a seven-decade-long career, but never was he more effective than he was in playing this relatively small, entirely ordinary person. As Marty, Borgnine embodies the “Everyman” in a way few actors are capable of doing. In another actor’s hands, Marty could have been a piteous figure, rather than someone to root for; he could have been an unredeemable schlub, instead of an unexpected romantic. Instead, Borgnine brings out the very best in the role. We identify with Marty because, in many ways, most of us are Marty, seeking love and approval in spite of the obstacles placed in front of us.

But most of all, we identify with Marty because Borgnine’s portrayal is searingly honest. There is no artifice about his Marty; his emotions are always swirling, sometimes repressed almost painfully, sometimes rearing forth in a tormented gush of words. And yet he’s optimistic, kind, and somewhat charming, generally willing to accept what life has to offer with a smile. There’s so much more to this plain Bronx boy than merely what’s on the surface.

The same could be said of Borgnine himself. Though he was never what anyone would call a “pretty boy,” the actor was never pigeonholed into playing these types of unassuming characters–his roles ranged from heavies to heroes to adventurers, on both big and small screens. By all accounts, Borgnine loved his job, and it showed in the obvious care he put into his performances. Many a co-star reported over the years that Borgnine was the first one on the set each morning, and the last one to leave every evening. Now that’s dedication to your craft.

When Ernest Borgnine passed away earlier this week at the age of ninety-five, we lost yet another legendary talent from the “Golden Days” of Hollywood. More than that, we lost a genuinely kindhearted man, one who loved his fans, young and old, and who seemed at once grateful for and humbled by the opportunities he had earned over the years.

It’s always sad to lose one of the good guys. Ernie Borgnine was about as good as they come.

He will be missed.

Remembering Andy Griffith.

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History will remember him as a wise country sheriff and a charming country lawyer. But as wonderful as he was filling those roles, Andy Griffith was so much more than that. Before he passed away this morning, Griffith built a six-decade career on the persona of a good ol’ country boy sharing down-home wit and wisdom with the masses. His two popular TV series, The Andy Griffith Show (1960-1968) and Matlock (1986-1995), brought the actor immense fame and fortune, securing his legacy as one of television’s most enduring and beloved presences.

But his arguably best performance belies that small-screen persona, and to this day surprises fans who are only familiar with Griffith’s extensive television work. In 1957, Griffith made his film debut in Elia Kazan’s searing satirical drama A Face in the Crowd. Griffith plays Lonesome Rhodes, a folksy country singer discovered by radio reporter Marcia Jeffries (Patricia Neal) as he sits in jail after being arrested for public drunkenness. She puts him on the air, where he becomes an immediate hit, and as his popularity grows, Marcia follows along as Rhodes becomes a true media hit. Against her better judgment, Marcia falls in love with Rhodes, whose real personality is coarse, crude, and offensive. But as Rhodes becomes a powerful media figure, influencing elections, consumerism, and public opinion while denouncing his loyal audience as “sheep” in private, Marcia slowly realizes that she has created a monster.

As Rhodes, Griffith is appealing and off-putting by equal measure. Rhodes is not a good person to begin with, but he’s not downright evil (at least initially). It takes the glare of the spotlight and the spoils of celebrity to turn him into a figure to be feared rather than pitied–a man whose desire for fame becomes the driving force of his existence, who is utterly broken when he is finally shunned by the masses. It’s an utterly arresting performance. So ingrained is Griffith’s down-home bonhomie in the pop culture consciousness that seeing A Face in the Crowd for the first time can be something of a jarring experience. It’s a testament to his sheer ability as a performer–an ability that has, throughout Griffith’s career, been almost criminally underrated at times.

In 1958, Griffith began a lifelong professional partnership with Don Knotts when both men appeared in the comedy No Time for Sergeants. Based on the same-titled novel by Mac Hyman, Sergeants started as a one-hour TV movie in 1955 before being turned into a Broadway play later that year. Griffith starred in both of the earlier versions, and reprised his leading role as hapless private Will Stockdale in the film treatment. Sergeants was incredibly successful and cemented Griffith’s stardom. He followed this success, however, with a notorious flop, the 1958 dramedy Onionhead with Walter Matthau, the film that Griffith would later credit as turning him away from the big screen and toward a career in television.

And yes, most of Griffith’s later career successes came on television; not only were The Andy Griffith Show and Matlock two of the most popular series of their respective times, but he also starred in a number of other shows, television movies, and mini-series, for which he continued to garner critical praise and acclaim for decades. Surprisingly, for all his television success, Griffith was only nominated for an Emmy once, for his role in the 1981 TV film Murder in Texas.

Griffith continued acting well into his later years. Though the bulk of his work remained on television, he appeared sporadically in films, perhaps most notably as the villain in the 1996 spy spoof Spy Hard with Leslie Nielsen. One of my favorite latter-day performances of Griffith’s comes in the 2007 Adrienne Shelley dramedy Waitress, co-starring Keri Russell and Nathan Fillion. Griffith plays Joe, the owner of the diner where Russell’s character works. He’s a grumpy old soul whose fondness for the young waitress leads him to change her life for the better at the twilight of his own. It’s a small role in a small but entertaining movie, and Griffith is undoubtedly the brightest spot in it.

Griffith died this morning where it all began for him–his home state of North Carolina. He was eighty-six years old. And he will, without a doubt, be missed by so many of us whose lives were touched by the sheer love and talent he poured into his work over the years.

Remembering Ann Rutherford.

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News came late this evening that actress Ann Rutherford has passed away at the age of 91.

Born in Canada in 1920, Rutherford got her start in Hollywood as a teenager, acting in weekly serials. She made her feature-length screen debut in 1935 in Waterfront Lady. In the early years of her career, the young starlet appeared with some of the biggest names in the business–John Wayne (The Oregon Trail, The Lonely Trail, and The Lawless Nineties, both 1936), Joan Crawford (The Bride Wore Red, 1937), and Jimmy Stewart (Of Human Hearts, 1938) among them. She also appeared as the Ghost of Christmas Past in the popular 1938 version of A Christmas Carol, opposite Reginald Owen.

Rutherford was cast as Andy Hardy’s longtime on-and-off girlfriend, Polly Benedict, in the second film of that long-running series, You’re Only Young Once, in 1937. Polly’s destiny in these films was to essentially sit by and watch as Mickey Rooney’s Andy worked his way through a veritable stable of MGM starlets (Judy Garland, Esther Williams, Lana Turner, Donna Reed …) before inevitably coming back to her in the end. Rutherford would go on to play the part in eleven other Andy Hardy movies, culminating in her final appearance in the series in Andy Hardy’s Double Life in 1942.

In 1939, Rutherford was cast in the role for which she is arguably best remembered today, as Scarlett O’Hara’s youngest sister, Carreen, in 1939′s Gone With the Wind. As gentle Carreen, Rutherford does not get a lot of screen time–a fact that was pointed out to the actress by her boss, Louis B. Mayer, who was reluctant to loan her to GWTW producer (and his son-in-law at the time) David O. Selznick for the film. But the young actress, who loved the novel, persisted and was allowed to take the role after she “burst out crying” in Mayer’s office.

(From L-R, foreground): Thomas Mitchell, Barbara O’Neil, Evelyn Keyes, Ann Rutherford, and Vivien Leigh in a scene from GONE WITH THE WIND

Despite the limitations of the relatively minor role, Rutherford does a lovely job in the film, bringing a sweet girlishness to the role of Carreen (contrasting nicely with Evelyn Keyes’ bratty Suellen) which makes the character’s relative naivete appealing rather than cloying. In her later years, Rutherford was a true champion for Gone With the Wind, promoting it to new audiences and appearing at GWTW-related events and screenings with other surviving cast members to discuss the making of the classic epic.

After her success in Gone With the Wind, Rutherford starred in a number of films throughout the following decade, including 1940′s Pride and Prejudice (in which she plays the insufferable Lydia), Orchestra Wives (1942), The Secret Life of Walter Mitty (1947), and Adventures of Don Juan (1948, opposite Errol Flynn). By the end of the decade, she had effectively retired from the silver screen, though she would appear in a couple of films in the 1970s and in sporadic roles on television, including a short stint on The Bob Newhart Show as Bob’s mother-in-law. Still, even though she quit acting for good in 1976, Rutherford was far from forgotten–director James Cameron approached her to come out of retirement to play the role of the elderly Rose in 1997′s Titanic. Rutherford, however, ultimately turned down the role (which then went to fellow 30s star Gloria Stuart).

A wonderfully talented actress with a warm and sparkling screen presence, Ann Rutherford will most certainly be missed.

RIP Robert Sherman

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I was very saddened a few weeks ago to hear that Robert Sherman, one half of one of the greatest movie music-writing teams, was gone.  The Sherman Brothers are responsible for giving the world the music of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (1968), The Aristocats (1970), Charlotte’s Web (1973), The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh (1977), and probably their most famous work, Mary Poppins (1964), which earned them Oscars for Best Song and Best Score. The folks over at Mental Floss put together a great list of the most beloved Sherman Brothers songs but I have a few I’d like to add to the mix:

“Sister Suffragette” from Mary Poppins – Anytime that the women’s rights movement, especially suffrage, comes up, this song always comes to mind for me. And since March is Women’s History Month, I thought this video was double appropriate.

“Let’s Go Fly a Kite” from Mary Poppins - When those first warming, windy days of spring come, I find myself humming this wonderful song and wishing I could out and enjoy the fantastic weather while it lasts.

“Pink of Perfection” from Summer Magic (1963) – Summer Magic is not as well-known among the Disney live-action films of the 50s and 60s, but it does feature a great cast including Hayley Mills and Burl Ives.  I don’t really have a reason why I love this song but I do along with “Femininity,” “The Ugly Bug Ball,” and “Flitterin’.”

“The Gnome-Mobile” from The Gnome-Mobile (1967) – This one is for my stepdad who, while not much of a Disney film watcher, loves this film and its star, Walter Brennan.  The video is the reprise at the end of the film.

“Little Black Rain Cloud” from Winnie the Pooh and the Honey Tree (1966) – Winnie the Pooh is just awesome and this song leads into one of my favorite quotes to use in conversation: “Tut-tut. It looks like rain.”

I’m not sure what else to say here except for the word to use when you don’t know anything else to say: Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

Ringing in the new year.

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It’s the end of another year, and it’s time to remember the ones we’ve lost over the past twelve months … the icons of film who have sadly passed on.

TCM’s annual “Remembers” video is, as always, extremely well done–evocative, heartfelt, and beautiful (and, as always, putting the efforts of the annual Academy Awards “in memoriam” tribute to shame). This video is a marvelous tribute to the talented folks who have left us … and can be hard to watch without tears and lumpy throats all around.

As we move into the new year tonight, here’s hoping your 2012 brings all of the joys, blessings, good luck, and glad tidings you desire.

Remembering Barbara Kent.

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Early Hollywood actress Barbara Kent, one of the last living stars from the silent era, has passed away.

Though not as well-known today as many of her contemporaries, Kent starred with some of the stalwarts of the silver screen in her all-too-brief career (she only made about three dozen movies between 1926 and 1935). In 1926, at the age of eighteen, she made her film debut in two silent features, the western Prowlers of the Night and Flesh and the Devil. The latter would arguably provide Kent with her best-known role as Greta Garbo’s somewhat pallid romantic rival for John Gilbert’s affections.

Kent (left) with Gilbert, Garbo, and Lars Hanson

Though Flesh and the Devil marked her as a solid dramatic actress, Kent really excelled in a string of comedies. She was named a WAMPAS Baby Star in 1927, which brought her a great deal of media attention and served to raise her stature in Hollywood. That same year, Kent rather scandalously simulated a nude swimming scene in the silent comedy No Man’s Law with Oliver Hardy (she reportedly wore a skintight beige suit to give the appearance of nudity). Two years later, she appeared as legendary comedian Harold Lloyd’s love interest in his first talkie, Welcome Danger, and again in 1930 in Feet First. And in 1931, she played Gloria Swanson’s sister in the romantic comedy Indiscreet, under the auspices of director Leo McCarey.

Other high-profile film roles came in the adaptations of two popular nineteenth-century novels: 1932′s Vanity Fair (opposite Myrna Loy as Becky Sharpe) and 1933′s Oliver Twist (opposite Dickie Moore as the title character). A year later, Kent got married and by 1935, she had essentially retired from acting altogether after appearing in her final film, Guard That Girl.

There is some debate about whether Barbara Kent was born in 1906 or 1907, but most media sources report the latter date, which means the former actress was 103 when she died last week. Ultimately, her exact age doesn’t really matter. It’s just sad to see another star from yesteryear leave us. Kent outlived most of the other silent-screen icons of her day, and though she allegedly spent her later years declining to talk about her early career, the films she left behind show that she was a talented, capable, and all-around lovely performer.

As you wish.

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Actor Peter Falk passed away yesterday at the age of 83 after struggling with Alzheimer’s for several years.

He was, of course, best known as the titular detective in Columbo, a series of television films that ran intermittently from 1968 through 2003. The character had appeared in two previous incarnations played by different actors: Bert Freed in a 1960 episode of the anthology series The Chevy Mystery Show, and Thomas Mitchell in a 1962 stage adaptation of the episode, which was titled Prescription: Murder (incidentally, the role of Columbo would be Mitchell’s last; he died later that year). But Falk made the character his own, imbibing the detective with a deceptively rumpled appearance and nonchalant manner that disguised a quick wit and a brilliant mind. Over the course of thirty-five years and sixty-nine episodes, always wearing his trusty, ratty brown trenchcoat and spouting his iconic catchphrase, “Just one more thing …,” Columbo never failed to solve a case. His role on the show led to numerous Emmy nominations and four wins.

The height of Columbo’s popularity in the 1970s was a bit before our time here at True Classics, and it’s safe to say that we best knew the actor from his many film roles. At the beginning of his acting career, Falk received nominations for the Best Supporting Actor Academy Award in two consecutive years: in 1960 for his role as the murderous Abe Reles in the gangster film Murder Inc., and again the following year for his role in Frank Capra’s last film, the comedy Pocketful of Miracles (strangely enough, Pocketful also featured Thomas Mitchell’s final film performance). He appeared in a number of memorable films throughout his long career, including It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World (1963), The Great Race (1965), A Woman Under the Influence (1974), and The In-Laws (1979).

But for those of us who grew up in the 80s and 90s, Falk will likely best be remembered for his role as the grandfather/narrator in 1986′s comedic fairy tale The Princess Bride. This movie is utterly beloved by many, including Carrie, Nikki, and myself (seriously—how could anyone not love this movie? It’s inconceivable!). As grandson Fred Savage recuperates from an illness, Falk tells him the fascinating story of Princess Buttercup and her one true love, Westley—a tale filled with swashbuckling, monsters, evildoers, magic and, yes, just a little kissing. Falk is the personification of indulgent love and patience, and his kindly voice provides pitch-perfect narration throughout the film. Like the grandson, we, the viewers, are won over by his story and want to hear it—and him—again and again, echoing the final lines of the film.

“Grandpa, maybe you could come over and read it again to me tomorrow.”

“As you wish.”

Rest in peace, Mr. Falk.