The Fabulous Forties: Hedy Lamarr

The most beautiful girl in the world

Hedy Lamarr: movie star, glamour queen, patented inventor. That the outrageously beauteous Lamarr should add that last, unexpected laurel to her wreath shouldn't come as a shock, as from the beginning, she was far from the average movie actress. Unlike many of her celluloid sisters at MGM, she came neither from grinding poverty, nor with a determined stage mother in the wings: instead, the well-bred and highly intelligent Lamarr came from a wealthy Austrian family. She began her theatrical career in Europe, first appearing on stage, and then, cataclysmically, in the Czechoslovakian film Ecstasy (1933), which featured the young beauty simulating (or was she?) orgasm and appearing in full frontal nude scenes.

Lobby card for the 1940 American release of Ecstasy

Lamarr then married her first husband, an Austrian arms manufacturer with Nazi ties. To escape, Lamarr reportedly disguised herself as one of her maids, and fled her husband's castle to Paris, where she obtained a divorce. Her next stop was London, where a chance meeting with Louis B. Mayer led to a contract with MGM in Hollywood. Mayer made it his personal mission to turn Lamarr into the star of stars; ironically, her first American film, Algiers (1938), was made on loan-out to United Artists, and its fame (based chiefly on co-star Charles Boyer's seductive suggestion to "Come away with me to the casbah") ultimately overshadowed nearly anything MGM featured Lamarr in. Indeed, her first two MGM pictures -- Lady of the Tropics (1939) and I Take This Woman (1940) -- were bombs, despite the huge Lamarr publicity build up, and the star wattage of co-stars Robert Taylor and Spencer Tracy, respectively.

Being made up for I Take This Woman (1940, MGM) -- snickeringly referred to as I Retake This Woman, so tedious and convoluted was its filming

Lamarr's most successful films were the ensemble dramas Boom Town (1940) with Tracy, Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert, and Ziegfeld Girl (1941) with James Stewart, Judy Garland and Lana Turner; but her own starring vehicles were ultimately disappointing, with the exception of White Cargo (1942), in which the elegant "ice queen" played deliciously against type as the hot-blooded native girl, Tondelayo.

White Cargo (1942, MGM)

It was Tondelayo too late, though; the writing was on the wall for Lamarr at MGM, as Mayer grew increasingly frustrated with both his own attempts at molding her into a superstar, and Lamarr's refusal to bow to his every whim. Mayer was accustomed to screaming, crying and cajoling what he wanted out of his vulnerable stable of female stars, many of whom came from unfortunate childhoods and looked to him as a father figure. He was thoroughly unprepared to deal with the demands and caprices of an independent, well-educated European lady of pedigreed background. To be fair, Lamarr's stubborn and mercurial nature often worked against her. For instance, she refused the plum role that Ingrid Bergman would eventually win an Oscar for in Gaslight (1944), objecting to taking second billing to Charles Boyer -- her argument being that he, not she, was the loaned-out star this time.

Hedy Lamarr at her most glamorous, 1944

Lamarr's MGM contract was cancelled in 1945 (by "mutual agreement," as they euphemistically said in those days), and she immediately formed her own production company, which resulted in two interesting noir-ish dramas, The Strange Woman (1946) and Dishonored Lady (1947). Not bad films by any stretch, they also weren't earth-shattering; and, moreover, an exhausted Lamarr realized how much work went into being a self-contained artist without the benefit of a major studio for support.

Wearied by her experience with self-production, Lamarr signed a short-term contract with Paramount, and was cast as one of the titular characters in Cecil B. DeMille's gloriously vulgar epic, Samson and Delilah (1949). The film was a smash hit, and briefly restored Lamarr to renewed stardom; but the excitement was short-lived. MGM requested her services for A Lady Without a Passport (1950), but the film was such a dog, Lamarr should have refused. Paramount did her no favors by tossing her into a dreary Western, Copper Canyon (1950), then had her playing second fiddle in a minor Bob Hope comedy, My Favorite Spy (1951). In barely a year, Lamarr's comeback was already over.

Samson and Delilah (1949, Paramount)

The ad copy and costumes for A Lady Without a Passport (1950, MGM) shamelessly cashed in on Hedy's success in Samson and Delilah

Lamarr made one last attempt at reclaiming her movie stardom with the campy B melodrama The Female Animal (1957), in which she portrayed a fading screen queen, competing with daughter Jane Powell for the studly charms of George Nader. From there it was on to sporadic, sometimes bizarre TV appearances; botched plastic surgery which altered her exquisite looks; an embarrassing arrest for shoplifting which made worldwide headlines; a lurid "tell all" autobiography (ghost-) written for the money; and finally, quiet obscurity in Florida, far removed from her former fame.

With George Nader in The Female Animal (1957, Universal)

Guest hosting Shindig! with Jimmy O'Neill, 1965

At a press conference following her arrest for shoplifting, 1966

It's not to belittle Hedy Lamarr's abilities when we propose that she was the ultimate case of style winning out over substance. She was a tremendous star during the 1940's, whose very name was a byword for otherworldly glamour and beauty -- yet she never carried a classic film on her own, never was considered big box office. But even in her worst films, Lamarr's face was so compelling, audiences simply couldn't keep their eyes off of her. Unlike some starlets who had the looks but no talent and, worse, no charisma, Hedy Lamarr was a star who had the looks and charisma, and more talent than she was given credit for.





As for that invention? With George Antheil, Lamarr co-invented a technique for spread spectrum communications and frequency hopping, initially intended for wartime use to make radio-guided torpedoes difficult for enemies to detect or jam -- and the basis for the technology used for such modern day essentials as Wi-Fi and wireless telephones. As we noted before: not your average movie star.

Pirate Booty

Upon its initial release, The Pirate (1948) divided critics, alienated most audiences, lost money, and became a project that all involved -- stars Judy Garland and Gene Kelly, director Vincente Minnelli, and composer Cole Porter -- preferred to forget. Porter, in fact, decried the fantastical mistaken identity farce as "unspeakably wretched, the worst that money could buy." Today, half a century later, it's still often described as the most controversial film in the Garland canon.

Judy Garland as Manuela in The Pirate (1948, MGM)

The fact that Garland missed 99 of the 135 days of shooting speaks to her deteriorating mental and physical state, and undoubtedly contributed to the film's uneven, awkward pacing; she was reportedly smoking four packs of cigarettes a day, and hallucinating from her drug use -- sometimes requiring the crew to literally carry her off the set in hysterics. As a vehicle for Metro's brightest musical talent, The Pirate fails miserably -- although its top-billed star looks splendid and displays a wry comedic touch, her dazzling singing talents are barely tapped. Garland's two ballads, "You Can Do No Wrong" and "Love of My Life," are pleasant, but not up to her usual high standard -- in fact, the latter song is only seen as a reprise in the final act of the film; its full rendition was deemed unworthy and was cut.


As a potential stepping stone in the possibility of Garland and co-star Gene Kelly becoming another Judy-and-Mickey box office super-duo (they had been successfully paired in 1942's For Me and My Gal), the film barely passes muster: their undeniable chemistry is undercut by a screenplay (and subsequent editing) which has the two go from adversaries to eternal lovebirds in a matter of seconds. But as a showcase for Gene Kelly's white-hot sex appeal, The Pirate has no equal.


In spite of his physical handsomeness, athletic dancing ability, and easy charm, Gene Kelly's screen persona was, and is, curiously asexual. As gorgeous and talented as he is in On the Town (1949), An American in Paris (1951), or Singin' in the Rain (1952), Kelly's glib style and mannered acting don't incite audiences to swoonful passion. But in The Pirate, Kelly's dancing was never more erotic or (literally) in-your-face: his first solo, "Nina," finds him introducing male pole dancing (take that, Steven Retchless!); being memorably kinky with a cigarette (fast forward to 3:19 in the clip below); and effortlessly getting the entire female population of the Caribbean to fall at his feet -- and we don't blame them.

Even more eye-popping and jaw-dropping is The Pirate's ballet sequence, in which a tanned, taut, toned Kelly cavorts in what can only be described as hot pants and an arm band, leaping amidst licking flames and a scarlet background. Frankly, it reminds us of a mash-up between the infamous Querelle (1982) and David "The Construction Worker" Hodo's "I Love You to Death" production number in the Village People epic, Can't Stop the Music (1980).

Gene Kelly in The Pirate (1948, MGM)

Brad Davis in Querelle (1982, Planet)

David Hodo in Can't Stop the Music (1980, Associated)

Perhaps due to her illnesses and absences, Garland doesn't have very much to do in The Pirate, aside from her wild "Mack the Black," which, if not exactly a high point in her career, is definitely the most uninhibited and sexually-charged production number she ever committed to film. Her acting is also jarring, almost raw and slightly unhinged; yet, at the same time, she's very, very funny, with razor sharp timing and brilliant use of subtle body language -- a raised eyebrow here, a discreet double take there. Indeed, in a movie often called far ahead of its time, MGM-era Judy is foreshadowing loopy, zany, witty 1960's talk show Judy by over a decade.

Judy Garland and Gene Kelly behind the scenes of The Pirate, 1948

Judy Garland on The Jack Paar Show, 1962

One cause for Garland's concern during the tense filming period was her suspicion that her director (and husband), Vincente Minnelli, was throwing all the good bits to Kelly, collaborating with the brilliant dancer/choreographer on extra bits of business, fleshing out Kelly's role at the expense of Garland's. There may have even been a lingering uneasiness that Minnelli's interest in the virile star wasn't purely professional; and, judging by the lingering eroticism which Minnelli's camera lavishes upon Kelly (akin to the palpable romanticism with which Minnelli framed Garland in Meet Me in St. Louis [1944], their first project together before marrying), Garland couldn't be blamed for feeling put out.

Dashing Gene Kelly as Serafin in The Pirate

Fifty-plus years later, audiences are still scratching their heads over The Pirate, so left-field are Garland and Kelly's characterizations, so stylized is Minnelli's vision. Surely, he intended The Pirate as a spoof? Garland and the other fair maidens of the Caribbean island of Calvados look and sound like well-scrubbed, all American debutantes, dressed for a costume ball in their mantillas and lace. The wonderful Gladys Cooper plays her role of a Spanish aristocrat like a grand dowager of the Main Line. And Kelly's always self-consciously hammy approach is taken to the nth degree, devastatingly sexy on a completely satirical level: he's Gene Kelly imitating John Barrymore imitating Douglas Fairbanks imitating Gene Kelly doing an imitation of John Barrymore imitating Douglas Fairbanks, with a side dollop of Errol Flynn and Gilbert Roland for good measure.

John Barrymore in Don Juan (1926, Warner Bros.)

Douglas Fairbanks in The Black Pirate (1926, United Artists)

Errol Flynn in The Master of Ballantrae (1953, Warner Bros.)

Gilbert Roland, ca. 1940's

So, is The Pirate a great film? Yes and no -- the high points are marvelous, and its flaws are glaringly obvious. As Liza Minnelli, the star and director's daughter, put it so succinctly in a featurette about her parents' grand failure, "There's nothing you can really criticize about the picture -- unless you don't like it!" We like it; and if nothing else, as the only MGM musical to ever get us hot and bothered, it stands alone.

Lend Me a Crooner

In the pantheon of great American male pop singers, there's an unfortunate tendency to place them into only two designations: Sinata, and Everybody Else. The temptation is understandable: when Sinatra exploded onto the scene in the 1940's, his contemporaries, and his immediate successors in the early 1950's, all covered the same kind of romantic ballad repertoire; all possessed clean cut good looks; and almost all were Italian-American.

Young man with a song: Vic Damone, 1947

Today's birthday celebrant is Vic Damone, born Vito Rocco Farinola, the skinny Brooklyn boy who went from Paramount Theater usher to singing sensation almost overnight (discovered by another Sinatra competitor, Perry [formerly Pierino] Como). He seemingly shadowed Sinatra even more closely than the rest; twice in his career, Damone was signed by Sinatra's former record labels in a bid to replace their golden gander -- in 1956, by Columbia, after Sinatra had defected to Capitol; then in 1961, it was Capitol who came calling, after Sinatra jumped ship to begin his own imprint, Reprise. And when Sinatra had a row with Louis B. Mayer and was fired from MGM in 1951, guess who was signed to a movie contract?


But it would be wrong to dismiss Vic Damone as a mere Sinatra clone. For one thing, the sheer beauty of his voice is dazzling: more classically trained than Sinatra's; prettier and more supple than Tony Bennett's; more muscular than Jack Jones'. And for another, in his relatively brief film career, Damone demonstrated a natural, easy charm in front of the camera, as well as a more traditionally handsome face and form than his idol.


Unfortunately, none of Damone's films for MGM were particularly memorable. He made his debut in Rich, Young and Pretty (1951) -- the title referring, incidentally, to Metro's resident operatic chirper, Jane Powell, not Damone! Although he made a positive impression, especially with the female audience, the film itself was no more than a charming diversion.

Vic Damone (top) with Wendell Corey, Jane Powell and Fernando Lamas in Rich, Young and Pretty (1951, MGM)

A stint in the Army placed Damone's career on hold briefly; upon his return, he was quickly cast in four musicals: Athena (1954), Deep in My Heart (1954), Hit the Deck (1955), and Kismet (1955), all but the last with Powell.

Deep in My Heart (1954, MGM)

Hit the Deck (1955, MGM)

Vic Damone and Jane Powell on the set of Athena (1954, MGM)

All were resounding failures, and such participants as Damone, Powell, Howard Keel, Ann Miller and Dolores Gray found themselves unceremoniously dropped from MGM's roster of stars. Damone's musical fortunes, however, continued to shine brightly: since his meteoric debut in 1947, Damone had notched up an impressive run of Top 10 hits, and in 1956, he scored one of his biggest, a cover of "On the Street Where You Live" from My Fair Lady. The following year, Damone could be heard crooning the lachrymose title song to An Affair to Remember (1957) starring Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr, and scored yet another major hit.


Almost overnight, however, the hit records dried up, as rock and roll swept the country. Damone's personal life was in shambles, as well: he had married Italian-born starlet Pier Angeli in an unexpected 1954 ceremony -- surprising everyone, including Angeli's lover, James Dean, who, according to urban legend, sat outside of the church during the wedding, weeping astride his motorcycle.

Vic Damone and Pier Angeli marry, November 24, 1954

When the Damone/Angeli marriage ended in 1958, it was amid ugly accusations of gambling, infidelity, alcohol abuse and wife beating. The publicity didn't help Damone's public image, which was already tainted by what many perceived as cockiness and brazen egoism. He was dropped by his press agents, blasted by his own manager as a "S.O.B.," and was in and out of courtrooms as he and Angeli waged a bitter custody battle over their son, Perry; at one point, Angeli actually had Damone arrested for kidnapping when he violated a visitation order.

Perry Damone, Pier Angeli and Vic Damone (with second wife, Judy Rawlins) following a custody hearing, 1965

Redeeming Damone's image somewhat was the surprise success of a 1962 summer replacement series called The Lively Ones, which Damone hosted, aided by two comely sidekicks, Joan Stanley and Shirley Yelm. Showcasing an impressive array of jazz talent, ranging from Peggy Lee and Ella Fitzgerald to Dave Brubeck and Shelley Manne, the program was clearly aimed at a sophisticated, adult audience, and Damone was praised for his hosting skills, as well as his musical abilities. It was considered such a hit, Capitol quickly issued a "tie-in" album by Damone to cash in on the show's success.


The Lively Ones returned for the summer of 1963, this time with Quinn O'Hara and Gloria Neill supporting Damone. And, once again, Capitol decided to "capitol"-ize on its popularity by titling one of Damone's albums after it: The Liveliest captured Damone's slick nightclub act at New York's famed Basin Street East -- and, in a nod to the show's sponsor, Damone, O'Hara and Neill were prominently photographed with a gleaming new Ford Galaxie 500.


Strangely, despite his obvious appeal and talent, Damone never had a regular series of his own, although he hosted several other summer replacements, starting back in 1957 with, appropriately enough, The Vic Damone Show; and, in the summer of 1967, The Dean Martin Summer Show with Broadway vet Carol Lawrence and Dino's daughter, Gail Martin.

Vic Damone with Carol Lawerence and Gail Martin, The Dean Martin Summer Show (1967)

Although Elvis, and then the Beatles, spelled the death knell for the crooners on the charts, Damone and his contemporaries retained a steady, popular presence throughout the 1960's, thanks to television and nightclub work. Things started to bottom out in the 1970's, however; Damone declared bankruptcy in 1971, and that same year, his ex-wife, Pier Angeli, died at age 39 from a drug overdose. Three years later, his second wife, Judy Rawlings, committed suicide in the same manner.

L-R: Twin sister Marisa Pavan, son Perry Damone, mother Enrica Pierangeli, drama coach Helen Sorrell, and ex-husband Vic Damone arrive at Pier Angeli's funeral, September 13, 1971

Damone paid of his debts by touring constantly, particularly the lucrative Las Vegas circuit, and enjoyed a resurgence of popularity in the 1980's, particularly when he married fourth wife Diahann Carroll, who was just coming off of the height of her Dynasty fame. The two performed a well-received act together, but would eventually divorce in 1996. Despite their nearly 10 year union, the breakup was not a pleasant one, with Carroll later revealing some harrowing details about what she described as his demeaning behavior towards her, and Damone suggesting that Carroll's hard-as-nails ambition and show business drive were at odds with what was by then his more laid-back lifestyle.

Vic Damone and Diahann Carroll, 1990

Since 1998, Damone has been married to fifth wife Rena, and seems content to have left his tumultuous past behind in favor of a relaxed family life. He has aged well and gracefully, and although he's been effectively retired since 2001, friends and family report that his gorgeous pipes are still in fine shape -- he simply would rather play golf and spend time with his six grandchildren than make the concert hall rounds again. In his best recordings, and in the glimpses of potential shown in his MGM films, Damone steps out from behind Sinatra's shadow to leave a lovely legacy of song.

VIC DAMONE
June 12, 1928

Them There Eyes

Leo's Lord of the Loincloth

JOHNNY WEISSMULLLER
June 2, 1904 - January 20, 1984