Cary Grant a celebration of Style

After reading this book I doubt you will ever view Cary Grant the same way again. It is like having a magician explain his tricks: afterward, you watch closely, to see how he does it. Afterward, either some of the magic is gone or you marvel even more at how he pulls off the prestidigitation.

There are two requirements for enjoying this book, I think: Admiration of the work of Cary Grant of course. Torregrossa has produced a book as handsome as its subject, filled with hundreds of portraits of Grant and stills from his movies. It is also a huge plus if you have to have some interest in fashion and enjoy reading about the mysteries of garment construction, such as collar stands and armscyes.

The author, Richard Torregrossa, obviously adores his subject. I can't think of one criticism of Grant in the entire book. The most he says that might suggest that Grant's character is other than sterling is when he mentions that some found Grant a prima donna on the set (a perfectionist!) and that both Grant and his lovely last wife, Barbara, liked to argue. But those bits are not brought up to impune Grant's character--the charge of his being a prima donna is immediately discounted, and the arguing characterized as adding spice to the marriage. Torregrossa worships Grant. He repeatedly comments on his manly attractiveness and lauds his acting, his gentility and his business acumen. He is not looking for ways to topple him off his pedestal. I found that refreshing.

As for fashion and garment construction, it is here, not in any salacious details (Grant did not gossip and neither does Torregrossa) that bit by bit Grant's secrets to his success are laid bare. Whowouldathunkit?! was my response to reading about the many infinitessimal means Grant used to create his image.

The bold outline of his career is probably familiar to nearly every movie goer--how a boy of 16 named Archibald Leach first ran away to the circus, made his way to glorious New York with that circus, and stayed on after it departed. With perserverance and good luck, he was able eventually to get a role in a play.

That sounds like overnight success--being discovered and an overnight sensation. It would nice here to be able to throw in that phrase "And the rest as they say is history." But wrong. It was actually the reverse. Because he was not an overnight sensation as an actor, he set about creating an image and persona which would lead to success. He was completely active in his transformation from Archy Leach to Cary Grant. He studied role models--the ones with the look he wanted to cultivate. And early on he learned that if there were an obstacle, such as one director rejecting him because he had a thick neck, skillful tailoring could solve the dilemma. (Which is where that collar stand comes in.) Torregrossa goes into much detail about Grant's process of working with his Savile Row tailors to create garments which would produce exactly the look he wanted.

In some ways Grant was an iconoclast, because he did not really follow fashion--he merely wanted to look his best and used whatever means available. He made no secret that he preferred women's nylon panties to regular men's underwear, be they briefs or boxers, because the panties gave him the look he wanted, especially when wearing period uniform trousers. A director grabbed a comb and parted his hair on the "wrong" side and it was such an improvement that Grant parted it that way everafterward. Another example: He had this signature gesture of putting his hands in his pockets. Hampered when wearing a jacket with the usual single vent, he discovered that his jacket kept its elegant appearance and he could more comfortably get his hand into a pocket if the jacket had two vents. Looking at a closeup of one of his jackets, it seemed to me that he had requested an extra-large pocket of his tailer, also. He was minutely interested in every aspect of tailoring and fashion and did not hesitate to make suggestions to his co-stars. (How the suggests were received isn't mentioned.) Even after retiring he kept up with the work of designers he admired, sending them his comments and suggestions.

One of the accidents of the book (certainly not Torregrossa's intention) is that to some extent Grant comes off appearing to be a clothes horse whose main passion was his wardrobe. (Which was immense.) After reading the book I took a look at two of his movies, Notorious, and The Awful Truth.

Grant had a warm relationship with Hitchcock, so I was surprised at how wooden Grant seemed in parts of Notorious. Uh, almost like a mannequin. I think of the love scene, and then later when he is rejecting the luminous Miss Bergman.

Torregrossa mentions that Grant did make suggestions he thought might improve some scenes--suggestions always rejected by Hitchcock. I recall, though, reading that some actors not so enamored of Hitchcock's direction thought he treated actors like furniture. It is obvious from the outset that the movie is very mannered. Grant is a mysterious figure when he first turns up--one only sees the back of his head. He sits immobile, viewing the party--and Bergman--impassively. The movie is not meant to be a slice of life--more a painting in black, white and shades of gray.

Well, despite seeing Grant through very different eyes, and despite some of the bad dialogue, I have to admit that as a whole, Notorious works--and Grant works. How did he do that? I am afraid I must fall back on that term charisma. And of course Hitchcock's intention. To quote the author: "Grant trusted Hitchock more than any other director. Grant said he "could fold myself up as if I was in the fetal position and whatever he said, I would do, because he was always right."

In the Awful Truth Grant is quite funny and charming. I want to say natural, but that would imply that he is not acting. Most memorable for me (what can I say? I am a sucker for dogs every time) are his scenes with the dog, Mr. Smith. He is hilarious and free--and impeccably attired. Not wooden or constricted. Of course, it is a comedy not a stylized drama.

But the real point is--people are still watching Grant's movies and asking how did he do that?

How did Archic Leach travel the long road to become Cary Grant?

When Archie Leach was nine, his mother left. His father told him vaguely that she had gone to the seashore. But she never returned. Apparently they did not have the sort of relationship which enabled them to have a little chat about that. Eventually, as an adult, Grant discovered that his mother had been institutionalized and during the whole of his childhood had been only about 60 miles from where he lived. After he found out that she was still alive, he took care of her, for as long as she lived.

I mention that biographical detail because obviously at a very young age Cary Grant was thrown on his own devices. He had to invent himself. Torregrossa suggests that he began early, as a Boy Scout, modifying his Scout uniform.

Grant is a fascinating subject. He was also a private person, despite his fame. After reading the book, I was left to ponder how he dealt with his transformation. The dichotomy is at the heart of Torregrossa's book:

' As Grant's fame grew it seemed every comic on earth was likely to do a
Cary Grant imitation. When a reporter asked him who he thought did the
best impression, Grant said, "I do."'
and
'When an interviewer asked the star of To Catch aThief,Indiscreet
and An Affair to Remember, "Who is Cary Grant?" he responded,
"When you find out, let me know." The answer revealed his lifelong
uneasiness with his duelling identities, the one he was born with and the
one he invented, much like his often-quoted comment, "Everyone wants to be
Cary Grant. Even I want to be Cary Grant."'

The book left me marveling at Archy Leach's gift--which he has passed on to all movie-goers--his gift for creating a character, a persona, an image called Cary Grant. If you wonder whether Cary Grant was a serious actor or an elegantly clad poseur in all those old movies, watch them, decide for yourself. Armed with this book, you will see through some of the magic tricks. But will that dispell the magic?

Oscar Night

Watching the Academy Awards is good for my tear ducts--like going to a wedding.

Laughed at Ellen, though I think she could have lost that vacuum. Seinfeld, too, I could have lived without.

I was surprised and mostly pleased at the awards. How could Dreamgirls not win, with so many songs nominated? Statistically, it seems impossible.

I have always admired Helen Mirren (tuned in to Prime Suspect 6 the minute the awards were over). Hurrah, for that Oscar. Mirren doesn't resort to kick boxing or chase scenes--uh uh. She moves in close and engages with the other characters, eye to eye, nose to nose. I am always mesmerized by the way she can create drama without screaming or thrashing about, barely raising her voice, using only the smallest gestures.

Sentimentally, I was leaning toward Peter O'Toole getting the Oscar for best actor. But I admire Forest Whitaker and not having seen either movie, what the hell? I do hope that there will be another chance for O'Toole...

Whitaker's speech expressed best the spirit of the Awards: if you follow your heart (or in the words of Joseph Campbell, follow your bliss), whoever you are, wherever you started, you can achieve your dream. He didn't mention that you have to work your ass off--that is a given.

I must mourn Philippe Noiret. Though he leaves a huge oeuvre, I haven't been fortunate enough to see more than ten or so of his flims. I loved esp. Cinema Paradiso and Vie et rien d'autre. Images from Coupe de Torchon, in which he plays the role of a hen-pecked minor civil servant somewhere in Africa, will forever linger in my mind. His filmwork was subtle and finely nuanced, resulting in memorable performances. I was shocked to learn of his death--as if it were a personal loss. My response, which seems unrealistic (I did not KNOW him, for heaven's sake) I think relates to the very nature of film. Though movies are entertainment, they also have amazing power to influence us--to connect us, as Whitaker said, and to move us, also, to act. The best actors reveal not merely themselves, but something universal about humanity.

Valentines Day Beatles

Went out to dinner tonight and the restaurant had the Beatles on. (Not, unfortunately, on a disc--oh, no, their background music was not up to the quality of the food--kept hearing Sleep Country ads--HATE THOSE!) We were talking, so I did not tune in to all the songs, but caught a good portion of Band on the Run and Love Me Do. I noticed probably for the first time in three plus decades how raw those are. Which of course might be a great part of their charm.

the Dixie Chicks--yeah!

This is old news already, but I was thrilled to see the Chix win not one or two but 5 Grammy awards, after being frozen out by nearly all the Country music stations. I loved their song "Not Ready to Make Nice" first time I heard it--when MSN offered the free download, still available.

That song reflects my sentiments exactly.

So, Yahoo! and Hurrah! for them.

Videos and Meerkats

I just watched the short IFILM video of the three 40 day-old white tiger kittens, in the Buenas Aires zoo. Ah, the wonders of the internet. I could have sat here for a long while, spying on those kittens. (The exquisite mother guarded them jealously and was not well-pleased at all the attention they were getting.) One of them is nearly purely albino--just a few pale stripes on its tail (don't know the sex of those cuties) and little grey eyebrows, which remind me of No theater make-up.

After that I confess to watching the video of former Pres. Bush smacking (not grabbing, as they say in the blurb) Terry Hatcher's butt. Since he seemed to hardly be able to stand, much less give chase, I doubt his gesture gave her much cause for worry. Maybe it will be something to tell her grandchildren? "In 2007 I was such a babe that a man who had been president patted my behind."

Oh, and there was a video of a pair of skeletons discovered in Northern Italy,thought to be young lovers, locked for 5,000 years in an embrace. Which I think gives the lie to Marvell's famous lines about the grave being a fine and private place where none embrace. No longer private, for sure.

There were many videos to choose from, including another I watched, of a marmalade cat trying to lick a parakeet--said parakeet protected by glass, apparently. {I am always a sucker for cats!)

Like other seemingly useless activities, I could become completely addicted to watching videos on my computer. Luckily I seldom wander into the video websites known and loved by friends and family, since I accomplish so little, as it is.

I had gotten online, actually, to look up Meerkats, since we are hooked on the Animal Planet on-going series about those adorable critturs. (Though watching the matriarch eat a beatle as big as a soup plate is kind of off-putting) Which brings me to Wikipedia: "The meerkat or suricate is a small mammal and a member of the mongoose family. It inhabits all parts of the Kalahari Desert in southern Africa. A group of meerkats is called a "mob" or "gang". (Sneaky, huh, how I started talking about Meerkats and then switched to my real topic?) I have never ventured to contribute to any of the vast quantities of info to be found there, but I appreciate so much having that resource available. I don't know much about how or who, but thank whoever for all help past present and future. Thank you, Wikipedia for all the info and references (maybe I will actually read that book in which the gal says Meerkats are her faves) that keep me reaching for more.

District 13 and Eye of the Beholder

Strange bedfellows.

Yesterday I watched District 13 in which all the actors in it are comedians and it is not a comedy. It is a Jackie Chan martial arts film with at least a hint of a theme, and quite fun. The opening chase scene is worth the price of admission, with this great gymnast, David Belle, scrambling over balconies, shooting himself through transoms and leaping off of buildings for what look to be leg-shattering distances. It is year 2010 in Bario or Banlieue 13, a ghetto by any name, the dark side of Paris, where all the druggies and dealers now live behind an immense wall. (Hmmm. Sounds familiar, huh?) The esteemable politicians of the city have a solution for the problems of the ghetto--a nuclear bomb. Twist: when Belle, who is in jail, is taken out, to aid the police--or is that really what they want from him?

Eye of the Beholder was given only one star, which was about right. In fact, I would not even mention that movie, except that I think it failed not because it did not do enough, but because it left so little to the imagination. The plot is flimsy--but not elusive enough to be intriguing or interesting. So how did I come to watch it? I saw right away that it was extremely dark and unlikely to have a happy ending. But Ewan McGregor and Ashley Judd were both making such earnest work of their roles that I went along for the ride. Maybe I should just admit that I like Ashley Judd and went along for the ride because she had the main role. Ewan McGregor was suitably creepy. The cast also included Genvieve Bujold, k.d. Lang, and Jason Priestly. (I did not notice Jason Priestly, so I guess he was deep into his role, whatever it was.)