"1945"

Before Penn and De Niro, before Brando and Dean, there was John Garfield. Virtually forgotten today, he introduced an intense realism to movie acting in the 1940s, born of training and talent. Both later stars would build on what he started. Then, just as Garfield’s career was soaring, he became a victim of the notorious “Red Scare” at the dawn of the fifties. All too quickly, it was over.

Growing up in the early ‘60s, I had a huge crush on Donna Reed. I know I wasn’t alone. In those pre-feminist days, she seemed to my young, impressionable eyes like the perfect wife and mother. Yes, she was beautiful, but there was much more to her than that. She projected an inner calm and wisdom. You sensed strength and principle beyond her dazzling smile. She was no pushover. You loved her, but you also respected her. You didn’t mess with Donna Reed.

Best remembered as Federico Fellini’s male protagonist and muse in the early sixties, Marcello Mastroianni was so much more than your standard issue leading man.

Any serious, discriminating film fan should know the work of Elia Kazan, a brilliant director of stage and screen who helped transform acting — and the movies themselves — in the mid-twentieth century.

Few artists in the popular culture transcend the passage of time and continue to leave their mark long after their passing. Sinatra is one such performer — a true icon whose indelible renditions of the Great American Songbook you can still hear in films, on the radio, and on the digital playlists of fans, whose ages span from twelve to 102. 

Young adult used to be just another stage in personal development, starting somewhere around the end of Barbie dolls and army men, and cresting just after the discovery of beer and indie rock. Growing up seems to happen in that one, long, hot zone of emerging identities and burgeoning freedom.  These days, YA is an entire industry of books and movies, a full lifestyle in fact, and one that doesn’t end once the “adult” is no longer “young.” After all, growing up is never quite over, which explains why YA audiences are as likely to be “adult” as they are “young.” For instance, who is the prime audience for “The Hunger Games?” Not just kids.   One forgets that the term “teenager”  gained traction only in the 1940s, as the popularity of Frank Sinatra took hold with a multitude of teen girls. Suddenly, this overlooked group had the attention of radio programmers and audiences, and a demographic was born. 

The 1930’s saw the full flowering of hard-boiled detective fiction, with three authors heading the list: Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and James M. Cain. It’s worth noting that two of these three men would be instrumental in bringing “Double Indemnity,” one of our first and greatest noirs, to the screen.

An actor doesn’t need to be arrested on marijuana charges to become a star, but it sure didn't hurt Robert Mitchum. Of course, by the time of his 1948 pot bust, Mitchum had already received an Oscar nod for Best Supporting Actor for his role in "The Story of GI Joe" (1945), and in 1947 he'd appeared in two noir classics, "Out of the Past" and "Crossfire." But after a week in the county jail and 43 days at a Castaic, California prison farm turned Mitchum into a certified Hollywood bad boy. He fit the part well. It was Mitchum's casual reaction to the arrest that endeared him to the public. He treated the incident as a lark, amusing the press with jokes about prison life. “It's like Palm Springs,” he said. “But without the riffraff.” It's no surprise that Mitchum breezed through a short jail sentence, since tough times were nothing new to him. After spending part of his childhood in New York’s Hell’s Kitchen, he dropped out of school to ride the rails with his brother. As he crossed the country at the height of the Depression, Mitchum earned money with odd jobs like digging ditches — even boxing. This rough and tumble kid even did some time on a chain gang in Savannah, Georgia after being popped for vagrancy at age 14.

Lauren Bacall will be remembered as a larger than life Hollywood figure, but film lovers might be surprised to learn that she appeared in less than 50 features. In a business where one dreads being forgotten, Bacall took her time when it came to taking roles, confident that the public would still be there when she returned. During her heyday, Bacall rarely worked more than once a year. Later, she was known to take long breaks in between projects, something few actresses did in those days. The result is a filmography that is more tastefully cultivated than most, with very few bombs or stinkers. Even a movie like “The Fan” (1981), a gaudy thriller which some felt was beneath her, has endured as a kind of cult object. When that one wrapped, Bacall did another of her disappearing acts, this time for seven years. Of course, the dismantling of the old studio system may have had something to do with her dwindling appearances; she always preferred that more orderly way of making pictures.