Barbara Stanwyck

This is the woman who leads mild-mannered (if a bit randy) insurance man, Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray) to murder (in Billy Wilder's masterful Double Indemnity).  Everything about Barbara Stanwyck's face is wrong by today's studio standards.  Her nose alone would get her no further than the casting couch.  To put it bluntly, there is something mannish about her.  But Stanwyck excelled in the role of  the femme fatale and in conveying unquenchable sensuality. And it's precisely her ability to channel/deploy this near-metaphysical eroticism that makes Neff's attraction to her so understandable and believable--even today.

Joseph Cotten

Over the course of the last three or four years, it's been a practice of orthodoxy for me to screen The Third Man for my classes (I teach English at a community college in Upstate, New York).   While I'm certain that--with some thought and effort--I could find some educational justification for showing the film to a bunch of largely disinterested 101 students, I will readily admit that I do so for purely selfish reasons.  I never tire of The Third Man.  The movie's use of light and shadow, of apocalyptic setting and highly expressive camerawork represent some of the finest moments in post-war cinema; and so too the screenplay by Graham Greene; and so too Anton Karas' spare score.  But it's the performances that make the film.  Everyone from the world-weary and heartbroken Anna (played by Valli), to the dogged Major Calloway (Trevor Howard), to the muscular yet gentle Sargent Paine (Bernard Lee), to the evasive and Machiavellian Harry Lime (Orson Welles) contribute to the film's psychological depth.  But the movie belongs to Joseph Cotten's Holly Martins.  This is another stunning turn by one of Hollywood's most overlooked actors. A man who, whether playing a serial kill (Shadow of a Doubt), a cuckolded husband (Niagara), or the voice of Charles Foster Kane's conscience (Citizen Kane), excelled at understatement.  And Cotten's looks are part and parcel of his craft.  While he occasionally had a romantic lead (opposite Joan Fontaine in September Affair and Marilyn Monroe (!) in Niagara), all his roles are celebrations of a poetic average-ness, of the non-descript.  His are the bodies and faces most of us possess and occupy: not a virtue valued in contemporary, mainstream cinema.

Kieślowski's Anti-Hollywood

Some friends and I got together the other night to watch a couple of episodes  of Krzysztof Kieślowski's monumental series, The Decalogue.  I continue to find each viewing a revelation--this after having seen it in its entirety several times.  I am always amazed by Kieślowski's use of close-up--the way his faces are--especially in the film's use of lighting--so reminiscent of High Renaissance and Dutch Master portraiture--an aesthetic in which the face serves as the outward sign of a profound inner life. 

Kieślowski's people--suggesting as they do, humanity in all its potential forms and incarnations--are defiantly anti-Hollywood.  His is a frame that admits the old and young; the angelic and demonic; the beautiful and ugly; the pained and serene; the cruel and kind; the brutalized and convalescent; the uncertain and defiant; the fat and thin; the exhausted and alert; the calculating and naive; the wise and foolish; the comical and serious.  Kieślowski's camera dotes on all of them in a way that suggests a loving fascination with all of life.  These are faces that are--literally and figuratively--free of make-up and artifice, partaking of a realism I wish were more present in mainstream American films.

Faye Dunaway

Until she became an icon of high camp (The Eyes of Laura Mars, Mommie Dearest, Supergirl) Faye Dunaway was that rare Hollywood commodity: an actor who had both incredible range and near-superhuman beauty.  For a while I thought she may have been the most beautiful woman ever to appear on film.  The delicacy of the body, the expressiveness of the eyes, the line of the nose and lips, the quality of the skin all suggest a statuary--perhaps icy--perfection.  But in film after film (Bonnie and Clyde, Chinatown, Network, Three Days of the Condor) Dunaway's stunning looks served as a powerful foil for characters who possessed incredible soulfulness and depth--full of heartache, loss, uncertainty, and fear.

Consider this:  would any major studio today allow that beauty to suffer the violence it does at the close of Bonnie and Clyde or even Chinatown?

Could she make it today?  Absolutely--but would she want to?

 Favorite role: Diana Christensen, Network; Runner-up: Mrs.Louise Pendrake, Little Big Man.

Humphrey Bogart

I was going to get to him at some point, but MichaleenFlynn suggested that my next post  be devoted to Humphrey Bogart.  Bogart's is the face that launched a thousand movies and at least ten times as many would-be careers.  His speech, gestures, and style have been parodied, emulated, and consecrated by directors ranging from Jean Luc Godard  to Woody Allen.  Turn on the TV at any point between 1960 and 1990 and chances are someone would be doing a Bogart imitation.  Further, I'd argue that the lexicon of film noir is rooted almost exclusively in the Bogart crime-movies of the 1940s, and so Bogart stands for something larger than the cinematic; he is--in his own way--the author of a cultural ethos; a code of masculinity that has long outlived him. If you want further evidence of his leading-man stature, consider the roster of his romantic counterparts: Lauren Becall, Gina Lollobrigida, Audrey Hepburn, Ingrid Bergman, Dorothy Malone.

But look at that face: the puffiness of the cheek, the gap-toothed overbite, the eyes that never do not suggest exhaustion.  Certainly, the cigarettes didn't help, but his skin always seemed old even when he was young.  There is nothing athletic about man--nothing that adheres to the standards of beauty that define today's leading man.