1935 ford 2 door sedan
Claudette Colbert: The Dark Side of the Moon
By Dan Callahan
As the woman of three bona fide comedy classics, It Happened One Tenebrousness (1934), Midnight (1939) and The Palm Shore Story (1942), Claudette Colbert is at least as well-known as contemporaries like Jean Arthur, Carole Lombard and Irene Dunne, but she was principally a star for Paramount Studios, which means that many of her films are out of issuing on television. Looking at her filmography, I was surprised to find that there were 22 of her 30s films that I haven’t seen, including enchanting-sounding items like Torch Number cheaply (1933), where she apparently sings bluesy numbers in her own present, and The Gilded Lily (1935), where she hypothetically does a nightclub act that consists of her admitting that she can’t do a nightclub act. Colbert came across as so sophisticated and commonsensical that many of her films revolve around how she convincingly talks her way into and out of finical/unlikely situations, sometimes just for the fun of it. She had a seamless type a organize of technique which she learned through years on the grade in the twenties, and that technique is what makes her both a bit expected and finally a little mysterious.
A new biography of the supernova has just been published, Claudette Colbert: She Walked in Attraction, by Bernard F. Dick, and I read it eagerly; unfortunately, rather than of clearing up some of Colbert’s mystery and giving us a sharper representation of her as a person and an actress, this biography creates nothing but disorder. To be fair, Dick is working against two big stumbling blocks. The first is that there’s so petty known about Colbert’s childhood in Paris and unfledged adulthood in New York, and presumably there’s no one fist to interview about this time of her life, so Dick is reduced to describing the temperature (several times!) on the days when her dearest crossed the ocean. He goes on for pages about her step vehicles and her films, but he can’t seem to keep focused on what he’s describing and introduces all kinds of maddeningly out of place data, as if he’s trying to fill a word off. This tendency only gets worse as the order goes on: when Colbert receives a Kennedy Center honor along with several other artists, Dick in actuality describes the entire ceremony.
The instant, and more intriguing, stumbling block in this record is the question of Colbert’s sexuality. Digging into a contested taxpayer like this at such a late date is resolved to cause trouble for any writer, but Dick refuses to dig much; he accepts all text he can find on this not-insignificant issue at face value. What’s comical, finally, is that the longer he goes on about why she never lived with her first preserve, Norman Foster, and why she barely lived with her number two husband, Dr. Joel Pressman, the more questionable he makes these arrangements seem. We are told, through shape designer Arnold Scaasi, that though Colbert uncommonly loved Foster, she allowed her bossy mother to persuade her to abort his kid. Dick describes Colbert’s pal (who was her agent) punching Foster at one side, but he just leaves that mystery duplicity there.
And that’s nothing compared to the bewilderment Dick evinces when dealing with Colbert’s past due-fifties relationship with a lesbian artist, Verna Structure, who moved into the same New York building with her, then purchased a congress next door to Colbert’s house in Barbados. Dick reveals that Pressman called Skin “the monster,” but he can only penetrate up with vague generalizations about an All About Eve dynamic between Colbert and Peel. Strangest of all is the shadowy figure of Helen O’Hagan, Colbert’s vade-mecum for the last twenty years of her life, who unequivocally declares, “Claudette never had a reproductive relationship with a woman,” and says that Colbert called the lesbian rumor “the bad mark.” It seems like Dick is so flatly under O’Hagan’s thumb that he doesn’t ultimatum speculate intelligently on any of this information and what it might mercenary.
Then there’s the issue of Clark Gable, who starred with Colbert in It Happened One Darkness. Dick describes two unfunny sounding personal jokes Gable played on Colbert on the set; he dropped a hammer down his pants before a bent scene, and then later stuck a tennis dodge under a blanket to simulate an erection, with commandant Frank Capra’s blessing. Colbert’s comeback? “Aww, you guys!” she cried. Now, I wasn’t there at the metre, obviously, and neither was Dick, but he makes it firm like she enjoyed these antics. I get the sense, though, that she was probably a little irritated, even nauseous, yet she wanted to appear like “one of the boys.” How far-out, then, that Colbert later claimed to have slept with Gable, patently to defend his manhood. Again, it doesn’t wise all that likely, which is why it’s exasperating when Dick says that Colbert couldn’t have been a lesbian because she’s so convincing facing Gable, Joel McCrea and even Don Ameche on paravent. Which brings us back to the fact that Colbert had a overwhelming technique that allowed her to play a considerable range of roles.
Notoriously, Colbert always wanted her left side profile to be favored in two-shots, and this was a defining fixed idea. In the eighties, Dick reports that she ruined a Lincoln Center ransom to her work by vetoing any scenes where the fittingly side of her face was visible (her crews called this opportunely profile “the dark side of the moon.”) Once you comprehend this fact about her, it’s impossible to forget it, so that watching her movies, even the get the better of of them, becomes a running gag about trying to see that hated promptly profile. It really isn’t so different from her port side side; Jean Arthur and Norma Shearer, even-handed to name two examples, had more drastically different profiles than Colbert. But she was persistent to look her best, and Colbert cerebration that she knew best about how to present her facile, Kewpie doll face with its thoroughly spaced eyes and apple cheeks: “I have been in the Claudette Colbert province longer than anybody,” she said, with the overconfidence of an entrepreneur.
Cecil B. DeMille gave Colbert her first big occasion likelihood on screen with two of his ludicrous but irresistible epics, The Brand of the Cross (1932) and Cleopatra (1934). As the Empress Poppaea in Irate, she is introduced bathing in ass’s milk, her trademark bangs done up in secret ringlets on her forehead. Colbert later claimed that she was wearing a Caucasian bathing suit for this bath locale, but this isn’t possible: the milk laps around her nipples several times. At one purpose, Colbert even runs her hands down her breasts, as if she’s enjoying them for us, while her female servants blank look at her, intently. Needing information from a gossipy familiarity, Colbert is take-charge sexy when she growls, “Take off your clothes, get in here and understand me all about it.” Perhaps this is also technique, but a scene like this is at least as convincing as a trace of lesbianism as the often unpleasantly sexist relations she had with recurrent male co-stars like Fred MacMurray and Ray Milland in her lesser comedies.
In both of these DeMille films, Colbert is likably astute and campy, and there are several moments when she looks like she’s about to report up laughing, especially in her scenes with Charles Laughton’s Nero in Rood. She wouldn’t have to suppress that laughter for much longer: Colbert is at her richest in It Happened One Night, the granddaddy of all screwball comedies. She’s predominantly winning when she’s teasing Gable’s bluff reporter, humoring him in her throaty communicate, as when she listens to his theories on hitchhiking before stopping a car by raising her skirt and displaying a sexy leg; her sarcasm with a slightly dim man is perfectly judged and expressed, never too much, like Jean Arthur, or too delicate, like Irene Dunne. Round-the-clock is still a beautiful movie, at least in its first hour, and Colbert played continual variations on it, as did many of her fellow actresses of the all at once.
1939 was probably the peak of her career: she had four dissimilar films in release. “I’m no frontierswoman!” she whined, in John Ford’s Drums Along the Mohawk, and she wasn’t kidding, for no actress could have been more out of place in Ford’s world. But when Colbert returned to her French roots in George Cukor’s damagingly neglected Zaza, she seemed wonderfully stimulated by the speculation to be a robust music hall coquette: it has to be her most physically difficult and openly sexual performance, and it shows what a honestly sensitive director could get out of her. In Mitchell Leisen’s Midnight, a cabrication of luxury, Colbert makes her fundamental claim for the beauty of material goods: “You don’t good fall into a tub of butter,”...
1935 Ford Hearse
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