Edgar Rice Burroughs, author of a series of novels about a man named Tarzan who was raised by apes, is seen here on an MGM set with a motion picture Tarzan, Johnny Weissmuller, and Maureen O'Sullivan, who played the lost Greystoke heir's girlfriend, Jane. Judging by how each of them are dressed, there seems to be a difference of opinion as to just how warm it is outside.
Donen's show biz beginnings includes a stint as a chorus dancer in Rodgers and Hart's 1940 Broadway musical Pal Joey, where he first met the man who played the show's title character, Gene Kelly. The two were united in another show, Best Foot Forward, in which Kelly not just starred but also did the choreography, and asked that Donen be his assistant (that's a little like God summoning Moses.) Pal Joey and Best Foot Forward were both hits, and Kelly got the call from Hollywood. It's not clear whether Donen specifically got the call as well, but he eventually moved out west himself, did well at an audition, and signed a one-year dance contract with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, not a bad way to start out a film career. He also reunited with another Metro contract player, Kelly, who was doing well but not yet the star he was on Broadway. Which brings us to one of the more ironic developments in the history of popular culture. The two men who would come to be seen as architects of the postwar movie musical, and who were on the payroll of the leading architectural firm of the postwar movie musical, the aforementioned MGM, were loaned out without nary a thought to Columbia Pictures, at the time a studio more interested in copying other firms architecture than coming up with anything original on their own. Except for now. On the movie to which he was assigned, Kelly was allowed to do something he wasn't allowed to do at MGM, choreograph (and basically direct) his own dance numbers, and he again used Donen as an assistant. The film, 1944's Cover Girl, was a bigger hit than anything else Kelly had done in motion pictures up to that date. He was finally a star, and Donen's co-choreography didn't look too shabby either. Back at Metro, Kelly and Donen co-choreographed Anchors Away, and Living in a Big Way. Both hits, and the two were given a chance to co-direct the postwar film version of a Broadway wartime hit On the Town. After that they co-directed Singing in the Rain (more about that in a moment), and, finally, in 1955, It's Always Fair Weather, a box-office flop. The two never worked together again. In fact, they're believed never to have spoken to each other again.
So what happened? Should one flop movie really end a friendship? Well, it likely wasn't just that. Some say the breakup was over a personal matter. Donen and Kelly took turns marrying dancer and actress Jeanne Coyne. However, the nuptials were over a decade apart, and Kelly's only after he Donen called it quits. What really ended the friendship more a professional clash of egos than any extended romantic triangle. Collaborating as they did led to confusion as to exactly who did what, who should take credit for what, who should be recognized for what. Obviously, if Kelly is dancing in front of the camera, it's his feet an no one else's. But before the camera is turned on? Who came up with what dance innovation? What camera trick? Partisans for Kelly argue that Donen rode in on the Broadway/Hollywood star's coat tails (or sport shirts, his favorite onscreen attire), while Donen's partisans argue that the assistant choreographer/director was a musical muse for Kelly, and without him the latter would have been merely a freckles-less Van Johnson. I like both Kelly and Donen and rather not take sides in this debate. I will say that I've seen Donen give several interviews over the years, and he always seemed to be his own man. Also, he directed 25 movies without any help from Kelly, including the critically acclaimed and/or commercially successful films Royal Wedding, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, Funny Face, and the non-musicals Indiscreet, Charade, Arabesque, Two for the Road, and Bedazzled (the Dudley Moore-Peter Cook version.)
As far as the musicals go, film historians these days believe Donen's principle achievement, both by himself and in concert with Kelly, was the total integration of dance and film. What that basically means is that a movie musical can be something more than merely a Broadway show that had a camera placed in front of it. Actually, a number of years before Donen, Busby Berkeley had created cinematic dance numbers that in no way would have been possible on the Broadway stage (even when the movie had "Broadway" in the title.) But he was more a choreographic Cecil B. DeMille, his films extravaganzas with a cast of fishnet stocking thousands. Donen took a much more intimate approach. A man dances with his reflection, a man dances on the ceiling, a man dances in a torrential downpour, a man dances with a cartoon mouse. Every so often when the mood struck him and the prospect didn't utterly bore him, Donen even had a man dance with another human being.
In a 1997 speech he made when accepting an honorary Oscar, Donen explained his technique:
Love that soft shoe! And did you catch Donen say the word "titanic"? That's because this was the same year the movie about the sinkable unsinkable ship smashed its way through the Academy Awards like an iceberg.
Before I go any further, I should explain that I've decided to do these "In Memorial" posts a little differently than I have in the past. I used to do an all-encompassing review of a person's life and career with every photo and video I could find. The problem with that is, one, it can take an all-encompassing amount of time. Famous people don't always die when my schedule is free. A couple of years ago it took me a whole month and a half to do an obituary on Mary Tyler Moore (and I never did find the time to fit in Ordinary People.) Two, by revealing everything there is to reveal, I have nothing left for the future, when I might want to revisit that person. It's like I buried, or killed, him or her twice. I don't want that on my conscience! So, what does that mean for Mr. Donen? Only that I'm not going to show you every single clip from every single film he was involved in. I'm just going to show you three. Which three? Well, what I've done is gone back and listened to Donen's Oscar speech (where he comes across as more lighthearted than in some interviews I've seen him do.) He mentions three kinds of people that a director needs in order to make a good movie, or at least a good movie musical. Let's see who they are:
We'll start with the screenwriter, in this case Peter Stone, with whom Donen worked with on this movie:
Charade (1963) a comedy-thriller that for many brought to mind Hitchcock, a comparison that Donen found annoying, but was nonetheless meant as a compliment
And for a musical, Donen said you need a good songwriter. Well, here's two, Arthur Freed and Nacio Herb Brown, whose songbook was turned into this musical:
The aforementioned Arthur Freed didn't just provide the songs for Singin' in the Rain (1952) but actually willed it into being. A mildly talented lyricist whose success in that field really depended on what melodies his words were put to, he made the switch in midlife to phenomenally successful movie producer. The Freed Unit, as his roster of composers, directors, dancers, singers, actors and set designers were known, is today synonymous with the MGM musical in all its alternative reality glory, responsible for not just advancing the careers of Donen and Kelly but also Judy Garland, Vincente Minnelli, Cyd Charisse, Lena Horne, Ann Miller Esther Williams, Howard Keel, June Allyson, Jane Powell, Vera-Ellen, and Kathryn Grayson. So Freed can be excused for looking for some way to advance the legacy of his own former career as a songwriter. And what an advancement it turned out to be! Singin' in the Rain is today considered by many to be the greatest movie musical of all time, not just because of the Brown-Freed songs but even more for the inventive dance numbers and riotous satire of 1920s Hollywood that Donen, Kelly, and screenwriters Adolph Green and Betty Comden wrap around those songs.
(I should point out that since Freed's death in 1973 a disturbing casting couch story has emerged that, if true, would mean that however great his contribution to motion picture history, it was matched, even exceeded, by an exceptionally sordid contribution to Hollywood's long history of sexual harassment. But keep in mind that he wasn't around to defend himself.)
Let's quickly get back to Donen's Oscar acceptance speech:
Finally, Donen needs an actor. Here's one, Fred Astaire, who, like Gene Kelly, also danced a little. In fact, he both acted and danced in this:
Royal Wedding (1951) has as its backdrop the real-life UK wedding of then-Princess Elizabeth to Prince Philip Mountbatten. In case you're wondering, the Sarah Churchill mentioned in the above trailer was indeed related to the famed World War II Prime Minister. His daughter, in fact.
Well, those people made the films, and Stanley Donen, by his own admission, just showed up and took the credit. But I suspect he more than deserved it.
I'd like to take you back to the days when Russia was ruled by a Czar. Or Tsar. Take your pick. I prefer czar, as tsar sounds like that little electrical device that the police use to subdue unruly drunks.
However you spell the word, Nicholas II was the man who held the title at the beginning of the 20th century. He and his wife, Alexandria, had four daughters, Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia, and one son, Alexei. Alexei was heir apparent to the Russian throne, but it looked like he might not live long enough to become Czar as he suffered from hemophilia, which ran rampant in Queen Victoria's family. What in the world does Queen Victoria have to do with Russia? Genetically speaking, the old royal families of the various European countries had much more in common with each other than they ever did with their own subjects. Such blue blood inbreeding tended to exacerbate inherited diseases such as hemophilia. The Czarina sought out doctor after doctor hoping to find a cure for the young prince, but to no avail. Finally, she turned to religion. She turned to Rasputin.
Grigori Rasputin was a priest or a monk or a mystic or a psychic or a soothsayer or--well, people then and now couldn't quite decide what exactly he was. The Mad Monk is one common moniker, but he was rarely called that to his face. Mad or not, he had a following in St. Petersburg, the Russian capital at the time, and soon came to the attention of the Czarina, who sought his help. Rasputin agreed to treat the little prince, and Alexei was soon rid of Grandma Vicky's genetic booby prize. For a while, anyway. But whenever the hemophilia flared up again, Rasputin was called, and the disease subsided. He once cured the prince by telegram! What was Rasputin's secret? Some say hypnosis. Others say the earlier doctors, well-meaning as they may have been, were quacks by today's standards, and did things such as prescribe that new wonder drug, aspirin, which we know now is the wrong thing to give a hemophiliac, as it exacerbates bleeding. Rasputin may have just given common sense advice, like get plenty of bed rest. Rasputin may have just been lucky.
If you had asked Rasputin, he would have told you it was God. If so, that same supreme being had some odd things in store for Russia in the coming years.
Rasputin soon went from being a palace doctor to a trusted advisor on all matters domestic and foreign. He became a familiar figure in the Russian court, where he spread his religious doctrine of "salvation through sin", that God couldn't very well forgive you until you've done something that needed forgiving. In Rasputin's case, this meant huge orgies with the ladies of the court, after which they all sought redemption. In layman's terms, that's having your cake and eating it, too.
Along came World War I. Russia declared war on Germany. Rasputin suggested that the leader of the Russian army, who, by most accounts, was very good at his job, be replaced by Czar Nicholas II himself, a man with no previous military experience. While Nicholas was busy losing battles abroad, Rasputin replaced all the Czar's ministers with his own handpicked cronies, whose botched-up policies increased turmoil at home. Vladimir Lenin and Leon Trotsky took notice.
Not everyone thought Rasputin was doing God's work. He made his share of enemies, and these enemies plotted to kill him, and kill him, and--Well, I'm getting ahead of myself.
A group of disgruntled nobles lured Rasputin to a house on the pretense that there would be some pretty young things there in need of salvation. Once he had arrived, the nobles served him poisoned cake and poisoned wine. I don't know about alcohol, but Rasputin could certainly hold his cyanide, consuming enough to kill five men.
Seeing this wasn't getting them anywhere, one of the nobles pulled out a gun and simply shot Rasputin.
Rasputin fell. And then got right back up.
Rasputin was shot again, fell again, and then got right back up again.
This scene repeated itself a couple more times.
Obviously, shooting wasn't getting the nobles anywhere either, so they all ganged up on him and began pounding away. Rasputin fell. And then got right back up. So they beat the hell out of him some more until he was finally unconscious, after which they castrated him (no more salvation with pretty young things for this guy.) They then tied him up and threw him into an icy river.
Rasputin's body was found three days later. His arms were untied and in an upright position. He had apparently tried to claw his way through the ice before finally drowning.
The Russian monarchy wasn't nearly as hardy. Soon thereafter it fell to the Bolsheviks. The Czar, Czarina, and their children were executed.
But our story does not end there. Let's jump ahead about fifteen years and a half a world away to a place called Hollywood. In 1932, MGM made a movie of the events I've just described called Rasputin and the Empress starring John, Ethel, and Lionel Barrymore (but not Drew; she wouldn't be born for another 42 years.) Lionel played Rasputin, Ethel played the Czarina, and John played Prince Paul Chegodieff, a fictional character who finally kills Rasputin. You may be wondering how someone who actually lived could be killed by someone who didn't. So did Prince Felix Yusupov.
Yusupov was the ringleader of the gang that plotted to kill Rasputin, and, in fact, it was in his house where the murder, or whatever it was, occurred. Yusupov, having escaped the revolution and now living in London, believed the John Barrymore character was based on him, and sued MGM for libel. Yusupov's beef wasn't that the film depicted him as killing Rasputin in cold blood; he was proud of that. What bugged him, and was perhaps an insult to his manhood, was that the movie showed his wife being seduced by Rasputin. The missus said it didn't happen, and he believed her. MGM lost, and the Prince and his wife were awarded $120,000, millions in today's money. Plus the scene was cut.
As a result of this lawsuit, Hollywood studios began inserting a disclaimer in the credits of every film, one that soon spread to books as well:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Rasputin may be dead, but Prince Felix Yusupov lives on.
