Born in Hollywood to a show business family, it seemed like Dean Stockwell was destined to become a movie star, but Stockwell stumbled into the industry simply by chance. In 1942, his mother Elizabeth “Betty” Stockwell, a vaudeville performer, and his father Harry, a stage singer best known for being the voice of the Prince in SNOW WHITE AND THE SEVEN DWARFS (’37), heard of a casting call for children. Dean and his older brother Guy auditioned for roles in a stage performance of The Innocent Voyage. Though only landing a small part with just two lines, it was all that was needed to catch the eye of an MGM talent scout. Before he knew it, the nine-year-old Stockwell had a seven-year contract with the studio. He was exactly what they were looking for. With his mop of curly hair and prominent pout, he gave off just the right combination of innocence and petulance that would make him a perfect fit to play orphans and spoiled rich kids in a variety of MGM productions.

Dean Stockwell was off to a roaring start with plum roles in big productions like ANCHOR’S AWEIGH (’45), THE GREEN YEARS (’46), GENTLEMAN’S AGREEMENT (’47) and SONG OF THE THIN MAN (’47). He held his own with big stars like Gregory Peck, Gene Kelly, William Powell, Myrna Loy, Greer Garson, Robert Ryan and Lionel Barrymore and other child stars Peggy Ann Garner, Darryl Hickman and Margaret O’Brien.

He was an incredible asset to MGM. Stockwell could be counted on to cry in front of the camera, sometimes coaxed by a director who encouraged him to imagine a dying pet. Even with that, Stockwell developed a reputation as an intelligent and sensitive young boy who needed little rehearsal and minimal direction. They called him “One-Take Stockwell.” In interviews years later, he recalled “I had photographic memory when I was a kid. I still can memorize lines very easily.” Stockwell was a natural and the parts just kept coming. When he wasn’t working for MGM on films, his home studio would loan him out to RKO, 20th Century-Fox and Universal.

But Being a child actor took a toll on Stockwell. The studio system could be cruel to child stars and Stockwell often bore the brunt of it. In an interview Stockwell said, “[as a] child star… I didn’t have much privacy and I was working all the time. I couldn’t be where I wanted to be; I couldn’t play; so I needed to find anonymity, to just disappear.” He often worked 10-hour days six days a week, which included 3 hours of learning in the Little Red Schoolhouse on the MGM lot. He had to keep going for two reasons: 1.) his ironclad contract with MGM and 2.) a family to support, now that Betty was raising Dean and his brother as a single mom. Stockwell desperately wanted to be an average kid. He loved playing sports, dreamed of going to public school and loved spending time with his dogs, Thug and Thief. On the set of STARS IN MY CROWN (’50), he even declared to producer William Wright “I wish you’d fire me, so I wouldn’t have to work!”

During his seven-year contract with MGM, he made nearly 20 films for his home studio and others while on loan out. For the most part, Stockwell was miserable working as a child actor but there were two productions that he particularly loved. One was the anti-war drama THE BOY WITH THE GREEN HAIR (‘48) produced by RKO. In it, he plays a war orphan whose hair suddenly turns green, making him stand out from the locals. Stockwell identified with his character’s desire to fit in and the film’s pacifist message. When Howard Hughes tried to get him to deliver a pro-war statement, Stockwell stood up to the studio tycoon and refused. A few years later, he starred alongside Errol Flynn in KIM (’51), an adaptation of Rudyard Kipling’s classic story. Flynn became a father figure of sorts to young Stockwell and the two got on like a house on fire.

As Dean got older, he entered into what he called the “awkward age.” He later said, “[MGM] couldn’t see how they were going to cast me now that I was turning 17. So they let me out of it and I just took off.” Dean finished high school, attended UC Berkeley and dropped out before finishing his first year. He didn’t know what he wanted but he did know he no longer wanted to be Dean Stockwell the child star. He donned a new identity, Rudy Stocker, and lived in anonymity as a day laborer. He made his way back to acting after a few years. Had it not been for his escape from Hollywood, a time period Stockwell referred to as “an education in living”, as well as the support of his mother, he might have gone down the wrong path as other child actors have done. Instead Dean Stockwell made an excellent comeback in the Leopold and Lobb inspired murder drama COMPULSION (’59). Reflecting on his past, Stockwell said “I have to know if people want me – for myself.” He would make several comebacks throughout his acting career and he learned an important lesson from his days as a child actor: be true to yourself.

Her title may have been executive secretary to MGM studio head Louis B. Mayer, but she “wields a scepter of power second only to that of her employer,” journalist Sheila Graham wrote in 1937. Indeed, Ida Koverman was one of the most powerful women in Hollywood during the 1930s and 1940s, but you’ve probably never heard her name. As a former Hollywood assistant myself, I’m paying homage this International Women’s Day to a woman who “rarely operated in the shadows, even if history has pushed her there,” as Jacqueline R. Braitman declared in She Damn Near Ran the Studio: The Extraordinary Lives of Ida R. Koverman.

Born in Ohio in 1876, Koverman grew up with a passion for the arts and taught herself basic business principles in her early jobs. After becoming a wanted woman in 1909 for initially failing to appear as a witness in a bizarre bribery case, she entered an apparent marriage of convenience to distance herself from her past and used her new surname to start over on her own in New York. There, Koverman became involved with a plethora of female-focused community initiatives and established Brooklyn’s Women’s Athletic Club.

By the early 1920s, Koverman moved out west and rooted herself in the political landscape of Southern California. The enterprising woman leveraged her ambition, loyalty and aptitude to become executive secretary for the presidential campaigns of Calvin Coolidge in 1924 and Herbert Hoover in 1928. By the decade’s end, Koverman constructed a far-reaching partisan network and established herself as an esteemed political operative within the Republican Party.

Mayer had political ambitions too, which is how he and Koverman met in the mid-1920s. It was she who played matchmaker – as she did with many – to facilitate his involvement in various Republican organizations. As Mayer must have noticed, Koverman’s strength for prioritizing a high workload, negotiating with big personalities, building relationships and harnessing public support made her a natural for the film industry.

According to Braitman, after Hoover’s inauguration, Mayer furnished Koverman with a desk and “told her to make a job for herself.” She did, and she’d remain with MGM until her death in 1954. Though she undertook typical assistant duties, Koverman also operated as an executive – one of the most powerful at MGM. She supervised Mayer’s schedule with daunting yet considerate authority as the “last and toughest obstacle” before visitors entered his office and did the same facilitating for other departments if needed. Koverman also served as Mayer’s advisor in the political arena; in fact, many publications touted her as his personal political expert. Thus, on any given day, she could secure a star’s Hollywood Bowl parking pass one moment and strategize with a Senator’s publicity director the next, according to the Christian Science Monitor in 1950.

Koverman became Mayer’s confidante, and he greatly respected and trusted her judgement and aptitude for identifying audience taste. She could (and did) take over when he was away from MGM, and her versatility proved crucial to studio operations; for instance, she fostered a family-like culture and highlighted employee accomplishments by establishing The MGM News in 1936, and her far-reaching connections made her indispensable in lobbying for MGM’s interests when she spotted proposed state legislation that could affect business. As noted in Variety’s 1942 article “The Women Who Run the Men,” “… there’s very little taking place on the lot that she hasn’t exerted some influence… and with the carte blanche she enjoys in the matter of executive decisions, she has a lot of pretty important gents tiptoeing around her with devout response.”

When it came to talent, Koverman possessed a knack for discovering and nurturing actors and musicians. Indeed, it was Koverman who saw the potential in Robert Taylor, promoted Clark Gable’s sex appeal and proved instrumental in Judy Garland’s discovery. Add to that list Lena Horne, Nelson Eddy, Deanna Durbin, Mario Lanza and others – the number of performers Koverman recruited and mentored is enormous. Her eminent position also meant balancing support for the actor offscreen with MGM’s expectations onscreen. In Garland’s case, when Koverman disagreed with Mayer’s dietary regimen for the juvenile star, she secretly directed the MGM commissary to be less draconian with Garland’s meals.

Koverman continued her cultural and political involvement at MGM, becoming director of the Screen Women’s Press Club and taking on various other community leadership roles. She also remained vocal in her beliefs, including her anti-communist rhetoric and support of the Moral Rearmament movement, which promoted spiritual uplift within movies. After almost 20 years with MGM, Koverman earned a promotion to head of public relations in the late 1940s, and the Los Angeles Times recognized her career achievements by selecting her as a Woman of the Year in 1950.

Koverman operated efficiently and openly behind the scenes, successfully executing her extensive duties while enabling the interests of high-powered people and growing her own influence. Gossip columnist Hedda Hopper observed that Koverman’s “special positions of power gave her a phenomenal chance to do good.” Indeed, Koverman told Hopper, “If you can’t help somebody, what are you put here on earth for?” Perhaps Koverman’s greatest impact was through the lives she touched, personally and professionally.

A precursor to the Broadway musical Dreamgirls, SPARKLE (‘76), a film about three young Black sisters in late-1950s Harlem with dreams of stardom, is commonly believed to be loosely based on the story of The Supremes (rest easy Mary Wilson). Like THE WIZ (‘78), initially, SPARKLE did not do well in the box office, and like THE WIZ, it also became a classic Black film garnering fan loyalty. If the sizzling 1992 rendition of “Giving Him Something He Can Feel” by En Vogue wasn’t proof enough of its endurance, the 2012 remake of SPARKLE (tragically Whitney Houston’s final film) should be sufficient evidence.

Directed by Sam O’Steen, with music by ‘70s producer extraordinaire Curtis Mayfield, SPARKLE shares notable ties to classic film. One of its screenwriters, Joel Schumacher, whose extensive portfolio includes the film adaptation of THE WIZ, noted Billy Wilder as his favorite director. In a 2010 interview, Schumacher recalled a mischievous youth, watching black-and-white films in a theater near his home. “I was watching the Golden Era of Hollywood…watching Elia Kazan and John Ford and Alfred Hitchcock, I could go on…” Schumacher stated. Although Robert Stigwood is not credited on screen as the producer, the film was made under the banner of his production company. The all-around entertainment impresario, called by Newsweek “the Ziegfeld of the disco age,” also released the everlasting SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER (‘77), GREASE (‘78) and SGT. PEPPER’S LONELY HEARTS CLUB BAND (‘78).

Another Classic Hollywood tie is Lonette McKee, who portrays Sister. McKee had her breakout role in 1983 as the first mixed-race woman to portray Julie, starring alongside Donald O’Connor, in her Tony-nominated performance of the Broadway musical Showboat. The character was previously depicted by white actresses, most famously Ava Gardner, who won the role over her best friend Lena Horne in MGM’s 1951 film. The decision was made by the studio due to Horne’s race, which she maintained cut her deeply. If you haven’t seen Horne’s rendition of “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man,” in TILL THE CLOUDS ROLL BY (1946), watch it and you will understand Horne’s justified frustration.

Although SPARKLE is a story about three sisters—Sparkle, Sister and Delores—and their short-lived rise to fame, the catalyst of the tension in the story truly begins with Sister (McKee). Well aware of her unique beauty, she becomes involved with Satin (Tony King), whose focused attention towards her further inflates her ego cause her to not see him for who he truly is: an abuser and gangster. He openly engages Sister with another woman at his side, and Sister witnesses him punch this woman in the stomach and pull the fur coat from her back. Yet Sister’s reaction seems to be more of excited intrigue. In that moment of silent acceptance, she seals her fate. Not only is it apparent this cannot possibly end well, the resulting repercussions on her and those who truly love her soon come into grave focus.

In the scene where Satin is introduced to Effie (Tony Award-winning Mary Alice), the mother of the three hopeful sisters, and sits beside her, Effie’s expressionless glare takes over, all her years of wisdom instantaneously coming to the surface. Everything Satin is flashes in Effie’s eyes. Instinctively, Effie knows – and Satin knows she knows – that Sister is headed in the wrong direction. When Effie arrives backstage to congratulate her daughters after a successful show, she straight-talks Sister, cradling her face, looking into her eyes almost as a lover. With precise articulation, she tries to ensure her daughter comprehends her words of wisdom.

“I’ve lived in Harlem all my life. I do know a rat when I see one.”

Considering Effie’s domestic employment, when her white employer notices her sullen mood and states that she hopes Effie considers her “enough of a friend to confide in,” there are multiple takeaways. We can conclude that Effie’s employer is wholly oblivious to her authentic identity and her role as a maid, and we get a snapshot of Effie’s sacrifice for her daughters. Powerfully poignant, Alice’s performance embodies a silent strength present in many of her performances. As she quietly endures the deconstruction of her family, you have to wonder about the substantial weight she holds within.

A youthful Phillip Michael Thomas is as gorgeous and equally as captivating in SPARKLE as he was during his days of palm trees, Miami pastels and pink flamingos, portraying the character Ricardo Tubbs in the TV series Miami Vice. Although the film’s main characters are all beautiful women, you simply cannot take your eyes away from him; when Thomas is in the scene, he steals it every time.

Most famous for her role as Coco in the film FAME (’80), which caused a measurable rise in attendance at performing arts schools internationally, Irene Cara’s career began at the tender age of 3. She was only 13 years old when she played Sparkle, but her performance is so spectacular, she competently rivals her elder co-stars. In a role that could easily escalate to excessiveness, Cara underplays. Her scene with Thomas, after a funeral, is a perfect example. Years in the entertainment industry expertly result in a stellar performance.

With a time-capsule quality much like other Stigwood films, SPARKLE seems like two separate yet cohesive stories – a tragedy that is unexpectedly a comforting diversion. In the end, the abiding spirit of SPARKLE satisfies.

From anecdotal tales to darker narratives of downright malevolence, movies about the Hollywood studio system are as prevalent as the subject is understandably intriguing. Films like A STAR IS BORN (‘54), THE BAD AND THE BEAUTIFUL (‘52) and, just for a bit of naughty camp, DAISY CLOVER (‘65), to name a few, all allow a voyeuristic gaze behind an enchanted curtain. The major Hollywood studios controlled all aspects of filmmaking, distribution and the lives and appeal of their stars.

A studio executive’s expertise was to home in on the “It” factor of an actor. Then the build-up of publicity would begin. A well-engineered system of perfectly timed pulleys and cranks, bells and whistles would turn, and it didn’t matter whether stories about a star were the truth, embellishment or lies, from the studios perspective stars weren’t actual people, they were commodities that were bought, sold, traded and used as pawns to the benefit of the studio system. (A thorough reference on this is Jeanine Basinger’s The Star Machine) But, if anyone had ill feelings about their treatment, only those that were the most daring spoke up. The cliché “You’ll never work in this town again” wasn’t just a catchphrase, it was wholly and utterly true. Speaking up too loudly about one’s gilded cage could end a career faster than Eleanor Powell’s “machine gun” tap dancing. As quickly as the mechanism could build a pretty face to stardom, it could just as easily grind to a halt, meticulously dismantling at record speed.

The true genius of the studio system was its innate and pristine ability to create a persona around the most capable assets that their commodity had to offer. An exceptional dancer with buck teeth? No problem. Send her to the dentist for cosmetic surgery. A heartthrob of a man who was too short? No problem. Elevate his shoes and make sure his counterpart wasn’t wearing heels. A knockout beauty who could dance but was too ethnic-looking? Change her hair color from jet black to red, perform electrolysis on her hairline, add luscious waves, put her on a diet and change her name from Margarita Carmen Cansino to Columbia Picture’s own Rita Hayworth.

The system found what was innately undeniable, played up the strengths and buffed, polished or cleverly disguise the flaws, a process still happening in media. But the studio system of the Golden Age was far-reaching. Its governance traveled beyond its inner sanctum into affecting contractors’ personal lives. A moral clause was a standard part of an actors’ contract. Both law enforcement and mobsters were part of the studio’s payroll, a necessary tactic thought to keep its stars in line and to protect the industry’s overall reputation. If a star found themselves in a compromising position, there was always a hired hand, such as in the case of MGM’s Eddie Mannix, to respond, repair and refute, regardless of the cost. Studios further exerted control by means of inclusivity. By creating an insular studio with every conceivable notion at their fingertips, including health facilities and a police force (as was present at MGM), the studio system was privy to inside information by way of design and therefore able to thwart potential problems sooner rather than later.

Opinions amongst stars who were part of the system varied. Some found it confining and artistically stifling (United Artists was created as a direct result of the burgeoning studio system in 1919), while others enjoyed its protective embrace. Fred Astaire was not a particularly handsome man, but his virtuoso skill of dance was undeniable. By the time he made it to Tinseltown, he had already been a star on the stage and his elegant persona was well polished. Almost the same could be said for Gene Kelly, except that Kelly was quite handsome with his all-American chiseled features and athletic body. He too came to Hollywood bearing Broadway accolades. Anything else either star may have required was worth any level of contribution on the part of the studio. But most stars didn’t come fully assembled.

For all the contract players who willingly or unwillingly accepted the exploitation of their assets, there were those few who refused to play by studio rules. One not to cower was Mae West, who solidified her autonomy by demanding and receiving one dollar more than the head of Paramount, Adolph Zuckor, as well as full script approval of her films. MGM’s Luise Rainer, after becoming the first woman to consecutively win two Academy Awards, turned her back on Hollywood due to its iron grip. “I did not like the superficial life that one is naturally forced at times to live,” Rainer stated in a TCM interview. William Haines, one time voted as America’s top male star, refused to hide his homosexuality living an open life with his lover, defying the orders of traditional marriage by Louis B. Mayer and as a result was fired from MGM.

That’s what the studio system did: take an inarguable asset, create an inflated persona around it, smooth the dents, add a little extra padding where necessary and package it to be received exactly how they envisioned for public consumption…or…destroy it. After all, with over 70% of Americans attending film theaters at least once a week, the public turned the film industry into a multi-million-dollar business during its Golden Age when the average price of a ticket was 25 cents. Studios were readily aware they held the power and used it skillfully to full advantage.

The studio systems tactics could easily be viewed as a calculated sleight of hand, however, it unequivocally delivered, and its final product was polished, pristine and precise. But for those that were plucked from obscurity, was it truly a sleight of hand? One could argue that you can’t get blood from a stone, and if that statement is true, the studio’s techniques of engineered transformation couldn’t possibly invoke aptitude that didn’t already exist somewhere within, however miniscule. Perhaps, instead of the credit studio’s retained for creating stars, its genuine function was to awaken exceptional latent potential that was simply waiting to be discovered.

Looking back on an accomplished life, Marsha Hunt’s most prized title was being named “Hollywood’s youngest character actress,” as she joyfully conveyed in the documentary MARSHA HUNT’S SWEET ADVERSITY (2015). Unlike most actors, Hunt actually started her career in lead roles at Paramount in 1935, but she really shined in the wide variety of character parts MGM offered her when she signed with the studio in 1939.

“Whenever there was something hard to cast, they’d say, ‘Give it to Marsha and see what she will do with it,’ which was such a compliment. Stardom was not the idea for me, nor was it my goal,” Hunt told me in 2014.

As MARSHA HUNT’S SWEET ADVERSITY illustrates, the word “character” isn’t only reserved for the 103-year-old actress’s movie roles. Hunt’s personal integrity was central to her life onscreen and off, as she fought back as a victim of the Hollywood Blacklist and later fueled her passion and energy into activism.

As a liberal-minded American, Hunt found her upstanding character attacked in the late 1940s. Horrified that 19 of her Hollywood colleagues were denied their constitutional rights in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC), she traveled to Washington in 1947 with the Committee for the First Amendment to “defend as best we could the rights and freedoms” of her blacklisted associates. The events in Washington disturbed Hunt and her husband, Robert Presnell Jr. so much that they subsequently lent their talents to the radio program “Hollywood Fights Back,” co-written by Presnell, to denounce the hearings and show their support of free speech in Hollywood.

Hunt’s actions proved controversial at the height of the Red Scare. Upon returning home from a European vacation in the early 1950s, she found that work offers, including several for her own TV show, had disappeared as a result of her name landing in Red Channels, a 1950 pamphlet cataloging alleged Communists and sympathizers in the industry. Ever the fighter, Hunt pushed back against the mistreatment and intimidation; she even wrote to those television networks to salvage the offers, detailing her vast patriotic enterprises and her wartime volunteer service, to no avail.

“Apparently, I could resume working if I apologized, and there was nothing to apologize for,” Hunt said in 2015. “I had done what I felt was needed and was not in the least ashamed of it.”

While Hunt continued to appear sporadically on film, TV and the stage throughout the 1950s and beyond, she turned the harshly imposed career hiatus into an opportunity to focus on other activities. The strong character Hunt demonstrated through her blacklisted period also manifested in another way: activism. After performing in a play in Australia in the mid-1950s, Hunt and her husband hopped around the globe. The journey opened her eyes to the beauty and hardships around the world, leaving Hunt a self-proclaimed “planet patriot” and setting her off on a humanitarian path to help global citizens over the ensuing seven decades.

Hunt’s first stop: the United Nations. Though many stars used their celebrity to promote the war effort, few did so for philanthropic causes in times of peace – but Hunt was one of them. From 1956 to 1983, she remained active in the United Nations Association, utilizing her fame to educate the public about the UN’s global work and serving as president of the San Fernando Valley Chapter. The actress even produced a short documentary to raise awareness and funds for the UN’s World Refugee Year, A CALL FROM THE STARS (’60), featuring friends like Harry Belafonte, Paul Newman and Jean Simmons. She also wrote the song “We’re All One,” which UNICEF translated and distributed to member nations around the world.

For the past several decades, Hunt has focused her attention on hunger and poverty. In addition to bringing innovative fundraising approaches to her work with the American Freedom from Hunger organization, she crafted the concept for “Thankful Giving” in the early 1970s, a Thanksgiving program designed to create awareness and amass funds for world hunger. After seven years of lobbying, the House and Senate officially backed the congressional resolution Hunt wrote, and President Jimmy Carter made “Thankful Giving” the centerpiece of his 1978 Thanksgiving Proclamation. (Sadly, it didn’t catch on.)

Hunt even put her title of honorary Mayor of Sherman Oaks, California, her home since the 1940s, to use from 1983 to 2001, making a difference in her community by forming the Valley Mayor’s Fund for the Homeless, among many other initiatives. Hunt’s extraordinarily inspiring efforts inside and outside Hollywood showcase the actress’s benevolence, perseverance and integrity in the face of adversity.

“I may have disappeared from the limelight in the 1950s, but I didn’t disappear from life,” she told the Los Angeles Daily News in November 2020. “I think I made a difference.” Lucky for us, both her screen performances and altruistic efforts endure.

Mickey Rooney’s home studio wanted him to serve his country during World War II … but not in the way that you think. During World War II, Hollywood film studios helped express patriotic ideas through film. This could be through a film on soldiers experiencing military life, depicting Americana or Americans on the World War II homefront making sacrifices for those overseas.

As Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer’s top box-office draw, Rooney was cast in homespun comedies and musicals with wholesome values. Since 1937, Rooney starred in the Andy Hardy film series, where he played a teenager that figured out life, love and turned to his judge father for a “man-to-man talk” when he needed help. In total, there were 15 Andy Hardy films from 1937 to 1946 (and one later in 1958 with Andy Hardy as an adult) and they were hugely successful for the studio.

MGM felt that Rooney’s films, like Andy Hardy, personified American ideals and what servicemen and women were fighting for overseas. At least … that’s what MGM told the draft board.

With the war raging overseas, it was a real possibility that Rooney would be drafted, especially when other MGM contract players enlisted or were drafted. But studio heads wanted to keep Rooney out of the war and in front of film cameras, according to his biographers Richard A. Lertzman and William J. Birnes.

In 1942, Eddie Mannix, MGM executive and “fix it” man, sent formal documents to the local draft board to get Rooney an occupational deferment. Mannix cited the Andy Hardy films and their patriotism and that Rooney would soon begin production on another film important to the American homefront, THE HUMAN COMEDY (’43). Lertzman and Birnes noted that Mannix also stated the main reason MGM didn’t want Rooney in the military: the studio would lose millions.

The appeal was denied, but Rooney received an extension; allowing him to make THE HUMAN COMEDY. Based on a story by William Saroyan and directed by Clarence Brown, THE HUMAN COMEDY is a quiet story that follows an American family, the Macauley’s, during a year of adjustments in the small town of Ithaca. The film is narrated by Mr. Macauley, played by Ray Collins, who died two years prior. The eldest son Marcus (Van Johnson) is drafted. To help support the family, teenaged Homer (Rooney) gets an evening job in the local telegraph office. Homer’s family is rounded out by Ma (Fay Bainter), his sister Bess (Donna Reed) and his five-year-old brother Ulysses (Jackie “Butch” Jenkins).

As Homer gets more comfortable in his job, he matures and feels like everyone around him is changing — when it’s really just that he is growing up. As a telegraph delivery boy, he takes difficult messages to mothers who have lost their sons, and he has the responsibility of looking after alcoholic telegraph operator Willie Grogan, played by Frank Morgan. Everyone around Homer also changes and adapts. Bess and her friend Mary allow three soldiers on furlough to join them at the movies; knowing that soon they will see action on the battlefield. Homer’s boss Tom Spangler and socialite Diana Steed marry — bridging a social class gap and realizing that they are more similar than they think. Even Ulysses starts to learn more about life around him, like what it means to be afraid.

While the entire cast of notables play their roles superbly, Mickey Rooney is the standout performance in THE HUMAN COMEDY, and earned an Academy Award nomination for the role. In many of his other films, Rooney’s characters were variations of his Andy Hardy character. It didn’t matter if Rooney was portraying Huckleberry Finn or putting on a musical show with Judy Garland, shades of Hardy shine through.

But in THE HUMAN COMEDY, he plays the role in a restrained and mature manner. He’s emotional but doesn’t overact. It’s one of Rooney’s best performances. Perhaps because of a warning director Clarence Brown gave him: “The first time you shed an unnecessary tear or start any of the mugging you’re famous for, I’m going to halt everything, walk right out in the middle of the set, and give you a swift kick in the pants.”

Despite the early admonishing, Brown later said that Rooney was one of the greatest film talents and “could do no wrong in his book,” according to Brown’s biographer Gwenda Young. In one scene, Rooney had to emotionally read a telegram and react to the bad news. Brown was amazed that with each take, Rooney would “read it as though he’d seen it for the first time.” Brown and Rooney both later said that THE HUMAN COMEDY was one of the best films they made.

The film also features new talent such as Van Johnson, Donna Reed, Don DeFore, Barry Nelson and Robert Mitchum in his first film role.

Released in March 1943, the film garnered mixed reviews from critics, but ultimately was a success. Critics like Bosley Crowther of the New York Times said it was charming and had “moments of extraordinary beauty” but was also filled with “maudlin gobs of cinematic goo” when it came to some of the sermon-like dialogue. Critics overseas, who were closer to the battlefield, struggled with the message of “all men are angels,” according to Young.

As Rooney was filming THE HUMAN COMEDY, Mannix continued to submit appeals to the draft board from August 1942 to February 1943. Studio physician Dr. Edward Jones even stated that Rooney had a heart flutter, classifying him as 4F — unfit for duty, according to Lertzman and Birnes. Eventually, Rooney was able to serve his country more than in his film roles. Rooney was reclassified as 1A and he was enlisted in the Army in June 1944. Rooney later said he was proud of his service and continued to support veterans and attend World War II veteran ceremonies, including leading the Memorial Day Parade in Washington, D.C. in 2008.

Norma Shearer was the epitome of ambition. Early in her career, Shearer had disastrous encounters with Broadway producer Florenz Ziegfeld and pioneer film director D.W. Griffith, for whom she appeared in a bit role in his film WAY DOWN EAST (’20). They basically told her that she’d never make it in show business, noting that her figure didn’t fit the ideal standard and the cast in her right eye gave her a slightly cross-eyed appearance. But that wasn’t a deterrent to Shearer. She was a woman in control of her career. Shearer worked with a doctor on manipulating her right eye, she learned how to dress to compliment her figure and she became an expert on how to look best in front of the camera.

Shearer soon caught the eye of Louis B. Mayer who put her under contract. She climbed the ranks to become an important player at MGM not by luck or talent but through hard work. She wasn’t satisfied with limited screen time, weak characters and poor lighting. She wanted leading roles, top billing and the best hair, make-up and costumes that a major studio like MGM could provide. She wasn’t destined to be a star. She made herself one.

Over the trajectory of her career, Norma Shearer constantly fought tooth and nail for better and better roles. She went from bit player to leading lady and proved her worth with films that turned into box-office hits. She successfully made the transition from silent to sound with THE TRIAL OF MARY DUGAN and THE LAST OF MRS. CHENEY (both ‘29). Her husband, movie mogul and producer Irving Thalberg, didn’t believe she had what it took to star in the sexually charged pre-Code THE DIVORCEE (’30). Shearer proved him wrong with a glamorous George Hurrell photoshoot that demonstrated she had sex appeal. She went on to star in the film and won the Academy Award for her performance. She was also nominated for her performances in THEIR OWN DESIRE (’29), A FREE SOUL (’31), THE BARRETTS OF WIMPOLE STREET (’34), ROMEO AND JULIET (’34) and MARIE ANTOINETTE (’38).

Critics might point to her advantageous marriage to Thalberg as the sole basis of her success. And while she tended to lean on the powerful men in her life, Shearer didn’t rest on her laurels. She carved a path for herself in the industry. But when Thalberg died at the tender age of 37 in 1936, Shearer not only lost the love of her life but also her biggest champion. She negotiated a six-picture contract with MGM. A few more hits came her way through a variety of “prestige” pictures and her last two box-office hits THE WOMEN (’39) and ESCAPE (’40). She took some time off before making WE WERE DANCING (’42), which was a critical and commercial failure.

Unfortunately, it was around this time that Shearer was making some bad decisions. She turned down plum roles in films like MRS. MINIVER (’42) and NOW, VOYAGER (’42). Her appearance was everything to her, and she did not want to be relegated to playing older women on screen. Now in her 40s, her days of being a romantic leading lady were quickly winding down.

Shearer’s next picture, HER CARDBOARD LOVER (’42), would be her last. For the film, she re-teamed with director George Cukor, with whom she had a good professional and personal relationship. The film is just the sort of high society romance she craved, and playing a woman desired by two charming men (George Sanders and Robert Taylor) seemed ideal. But the film was out of touch with contemporary audiences. Cukor later regretted making the film, saying “the plot was already too dated to engage a wartime audience.”

HER CARDBOARD LOVER put the nail in the coffin of Shearer’s acting career, although she wasn’t quite ready to admit to it. The film completed her obligation to MGM, and she informed Louis B. Mayer that she would not renew. A few weeks after the release of the film, Shearer married ski instructor Martin Arrouge and was preparing for a new chapter in her life.

According to Shearer biographer Gavin Lambert, “she denied that she had given up on acting and said she would return to the screen if the right part came along.” And a few projects did come her way. Using her strong connections in the industry, she made an attempt to produce a film adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novel The Last Tycoon, which was partially based on the life of her husband Thalberg. Several attempts were made, but the project never came to fruition. (It was later adapted in 1976 and directed by Elia Kazan.) According to Lambert, Daniel Lewis of Enterprise Productions was working with Shearer in 1948 on a film project. When the film ARCH OF TRIUMPH (’48) set the company back financially, Shearer’s project was scrapped.

For a while, Shearer focused her attention on two things: discovering new talent and protecting the legacy of Irving Thalberg. Shearer came upon a picture of Janet Leigh and soon convinced talent agent Lew Wasserman to take a chance on the young woman whom she believed had star potential. For the biopic of Lon Chaney, MAN OF A THOUSAND FACES (‘57), Shearer insisted on casting the actor who would play Thalberg. Shearer spotted a young Robert Evans, who had acted as a child on stage but was then in the clothing business, at the Beverly Hills Hotel where she was currently living. Shearer and her husband Arrouge approached Evans and got him the part, which catapulted the future producer and studio head’s Hollywood career. Gavin Lambert notes that Shearer turned down Normal Lear and Bud Yorkin who were interested in making a biopic on Thalberg. Shearer said, “I do not believe it is something Irving would want and I would never consent to someone else playing me on the screen.”

Even out of the spotlight, Shearer seemed always to be in control of her destiny. She retreated from public life, preferring to spend time with her husband and a close-knit circle of friends. She never did return to acting but left behind a legacy fit for the Queen of MGM.

In 1987 at the age of 64, legendary tap dancer Ann Miller performed “Shakin’ the Blues Away” on the television special Happy 100th Birthday, Hollywood. In 1988, Miller performed a medley from the nine-year running production “Sugar Babies” on the Palladium stage along with Mickey Rooney, and in 1989 she performed the tap dance routine from 42ND STREET (‘33) for the Disney-MGM Studios Theme Park Grand Opening television special.

While recently watching these productions, I feared that I was going to witness a frail elderly woman, who was still convinced she “had it,” either embarrass or hurt herself. Thankfully, my future 64-year-old self is encouraged to say I was utterly wrong.

I watched each performance with unblinking eyes, in complete shock and jaw-dropping disbelief. Generally, mature performers are surrounded by dancers and ornamentation as distraction, while the older dancer waves their arms and kick their feet a time or two then get whisked off stage. Not so with Ann Miller. It’s true, a bevy of tap dancers joins her, but they are only for Broadway effect. She owns every performance, complete with her rapid-fire footwork and powerful Broadway belt (and when I state the term “belt,” I do not mean she sang well for her age, I mean “where did that voice come from Ethel Merman belt”). Miller claimed she never had to practice vocalizing, that her power came naturally. I suppose being used to many stars that were dubbed, I never questioned whether Miller’s voice was actually being used during her performances. I was too busy dissecting her dazzling costumes, lavish sets and trying to figure out how she could possibly execute gun-machine taps and appear as if her feet did not leave the ground.

Houston-born Johnnie Lucille Collier (her father anticipated a boy) aka Ann Miller was enrolled in dance school from the age of six. And, after confronting her philandering father who was caught red-handed with a nude woman in his bed, Miller and her mother of Cherokee descent, Clara, moved to California.

The naturally adept Miller eventually won a contest where she appeared for two weeks at the Orpheum Theatre. At 13 years old while performing at a supper club, Miller was discovered by talent scout Benny Rubin and comedienne Lucille Ball, who suggested she test with RKO. Required to prove her age, Miller enlisted her father, a criminal lawyer whose clients included Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker (yes, that Bonnie and Clyde), to provide a false birth certificate stating she was 18 years old. As she began quite young in films, her mother Clara was her constant companion and protector, a memory that Miller would speak fondly of. The two remained close until Clara’s passing. Miller worked for multiple studios including RKO, Columbia and MGM, toured with major Broadway productions and had numerous television appearances.

Her debut was an uncredited role in ANNE OF GREEN GABLES (‘34). She performed on Broadway at age 16, and after a two-year stint she returned to Hollywood. She mainly appeared in B films until she auditioned for MGM’s EASTER PARADE (‘48), where she performed the entertaining number “Shaking the Blues Away.” In an interview with Robert Osborne, Miller admits to performing the number in a brace, due to her former husband’s physical abuse where in a drunken rage, he threw her down a flight of stairs breaking her back. Miller, who was nine months pregnant at the time, gave birth to her daughter, who tragically survived for only a few days.

A believer in the metaphysical, Miller wrote a book, Tapping Into the Force, about what she concluded were her psychic gifts. She would recall during the opening night of “Sugar Babies” in New York while standing alongside Rooney: “In the middle of the number, I felt this force hit me! It almost knocked the breath out of me. All of a sudden I started singing like I’d never sung before!” When returning backstage, her earring, which was securely fastened, fell from her ear landing near a piece of scenery with the letters “J-U-D.” Miller stated, “This inner voice I have said…Ann it’s me, Judy!” In explaining her supernatural experience to Rooney, Miller revealed to Rooney, "Judy was on the stage with us tonight,” to which Rooney replied…“I know it.”

Big hair jokes aside, there really is something absolutely adorable about Miller that is hard to place your finger on. Beams of light still seemed to emanate from her face in her elder years. Not only was she the consummate professional, exuberant and entertaining with the mind of a steel trap, she was an essential keeper of the flame of all things Golden Age.

Her performances in KISS ME KATE (‘53), EASTER PARADE (‘48), LOVELY TO LOOK AT (‘52) and HIT THE DECK (‘55) were showstoppers, and those are only from her MGM years. Even her Stan Freberg directed Great American Soup commercial was one-minute and three-seconds of camp genius. If you are a musical fan and have not seen this commercial, stop reading now and look it up…don’t worry, I’ll wait. The way she rips her apron off to reveal her glittering costume as if she has been desperately awaiting this chance for her entire life, the overwhelming expression of sheer unadulterated rapture on her face, how she tosses her top hat with dynamic gusto, performing her signature twirls returning to the set of the kitchen— there is even a touch of Busby Berkeley for good measure. It simply could not be more gloriously MGM-musical perfect.

“It’s funny I never studied a lot of acting, I just thought acting was being me!”-Ann Miller

Usually, I have no issue detailing my favorite performances, however, with Miller I simply cannot. Each performance is consistently perfect and sure-footed with precise accuracy—it’s almost impossible to choose one over another. Although she was not a Hollywood leading lady, she was showbiz through and through. Miller did, however, state in a 1990 interview with Bob Thomas, “Sugar Babies gave me the stardom that my soul kind of yearned for.” If you watch her in interviews and her performances, you will find there is no line of delineation. Miller was a willing, fully assembled readymade pre-packaged star born for the spotlight. From her earliest performance to her last, one thing is resoundingly true—Ann Miller was not created for Tinseltown, Tinseltown was created for Ann Miller.

On January 1, 1945, actress Susan Peters’ life was forever changed. Peters was on a duck hunting trip with her husband, then actor and later director Richard Quine, and a few of her in-laws. As they were heading back from their hunt, Peters reached for a .22 caliber rifle that was hidden in some bushes. The trigger caught on a twig and sent a round into her stomach with bullet fragments lodging into her spine. She was rushed to the hospital. As a result of the accident, Peters was paralyzed from the waist down. Despite this setback, she persevered. She was hopeful that she could walk again, and when it became clear that her paralysis was irreversible, Peters forged ahead with her life, determined to continue with her still fledgling acting career.

Susan Peters didn’t start off wanting to be an actress. In fact, when she was studying in Hollywood High School, drama was her worst subject. But it was there that she caught the eye of talent scout Lee Shoelm, who invited her to do a screen test for the upcoming MGM film SUSAN AND GOD (’40). Peters had plans to become a doctor but decided to give acting a shot. If it didn’t pan out in a couple of years, she figured she would go to medical school instead. Peters was cast in bit parts in a variety of films for Warner Bros. and RKO. Warner Bros. gave her a contract, and Peters studied with Max Reinhardt to develop her craft.

After appearing with Humphrey Bogart in THE BIG SHOT (’42), Warner Bros. dropped her from their studio roster. Warner Bros.’ loss soon became MGM’s gain. Director and producer S. Sylvan Simon saw something in Peters: she was charming and photogenic. Her delicate features and gentle nature made her perfect for the roles she was cast in. As historian Kirk Crivello once wrote, “fawnlike Susan Peters’ face had the perfection of a fragile porcelain doll.”

Simon recommended Peters to director Mervyn LeRoy who eventually cast her in the part of Kitty in RANDOM HARVEST (’42). This role would be the pinnacle of her career. Cast opposite matinee idol Ronald Colman, Peters was in acting heaven. She received an Academy Award nomination for her performance, and she seemed destined for greatness. MGM began grooming her for stardom. She got plum roles in WWII films like ASSIGNMENT IN BRITTANY (’42), SONG OF RUSSIA (’44) and KEEP YOUR POWDER DRY (’45).

Peters and Quine had planned to raise a family, but a particularly bad miscarriage landed her in the hospital and required her to take an extended break from acting. Her spinal cord injury meant that natural birth was out of the question, so she and Quine looked into adoption. In 1946, they adopted an 11-month-old boy they named Timothy Richard Quine. Actress Laraine Day threw a baby shower for her, and the adoption was celebrated by fellow actresses Anne Shirley, June Allyson and Eleanor Powell. Peters’ mother didn’t live to see the adoption as she tragically died of a heart attack 12 months after Peters’ injury.

Peters had a strong network of supportive friends. One of her closest allies was Lucille Ball, who encouraged Peters to get back to work. MGM kept Peters under contract, paying her $100 a week and sending her scripts for consideration. In an interview Peters said, “Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer kept sending me Pollyanna scripts about crippled girls who were sweetness and light, which I kept turning down. Two years after my accident, I gave up and broke my contract. I won’t trade on my handicap.” If Peters was going to return to the silver screen, it had to be worth it. It had to be a role that would challenge her as an actress. Peters found that role in THE SIGN OF THE RAM (’48).

According to a New York Times article from 1947, Peters’ friend, actor Charles Bickford, brought her a copy of Margaret Ferguson’s best-selling novel THE SIGN OF THE RAM. In the novel Peters found her villain character, a wheelchair-bound poet who exhibits manipulative and possessive tendencies that threaten to destroy her family. Peters brought the novel to the attention of her agent Frank Orsatti, who in turn negotiated with then retired director Irving Cummings. Cummings started a production company with his son Irving Cummings Jr. called Signet Productions and clinched a deal with Columbia Pictures to produce and distribute the film. Orsatti negotiated for Peters to receive 33% of the film’s profits. THE SIGN OF THE RAM was Peters’ moment to prove herself. She shined as the film’s villainess. Even when the film got mixed reviews, critics praised her performance. Peters needed constant help on the set, and her husband, as well as her aunt, a trained nurse, were on hand to assist. According toThe Hartford Courant, a wheelchair was specially built for Peters and cost the studio $450. It was upholstered to match her Jean Louis-styled wardrobe.

THE SIGN OF THE RAM would be Peters final film, but it wouldn’t be her last acting project. She traveled East and appeared in off-Broadway productions of The Barretts of Wimpole Street and The Glass Menagerie (she received permission from Tennessee Williams to play the character Laura from a wheelchair). In an interview Peters said, “I never would have had the guts to go on the stage if I hadn’t been paralyzed… But I knew I had to find new ways of earning a living — or starve.” 

The now divorced Peters was determined to make it on her own to support herself and her son. She continued to suffer from complications from her injury and the medical bills were piling up. Peters kept busy by performing in Lux Radio broadcasts and writing articles for Photoplay magazine. She was contracted by NBC to star in a 15-minute afternoon show, televised live, called Miss Susan. On the show she played the title character, a small-town lawyer, and her disability was a prominent part of the story. The show kicked off in March 1951. It ran for 210 episodes, but by the end Peters had to be written out of several episodes due to her deteriorating health. After the show was canceled, Peters found herself in a dire situation. She traveled back to California to live with her brother. She kept her physical and mental health struggles to herself. She died on October 23rd, 1952 at the age of 31. The official cause was kidney failure and pneumonia and complications from anorexia nervosa, but her doctor was famously quoted as saying that “she had lost the will to live.”

Despite all odds, Susan Peters persevered. In the end, her health struggles overwhelmed her, and she just simply let go. In THE SIGN OF THE RAM, audiences get a glimpse of her potential as an actress, and we will always wonder about what could have been had Peters’ life followed a different trajectory.

Some people might find it hard to work alongside an ex-spouse. Especially in a movie that requires their characters to fall in love. But that’s exactly what Carole Lombard and William Powell did in the highly acclaimed screwball comedy MY MAN GODFREY (‘36). Lombard and Powell’s Oscar-nominated performances rank among their best, but while their characters meet at the start of the picture, the actors themselves had been good friends and lovers for a number of years.

William Powell had spent almost a decade in Hollywood by the early 1930s. The suave actor transitioned into lead roles with the arrival of talkies and early was best known for playing detective Philo Vance in films such as THE CANARY MURDER CASE (‘29). Powell palled around with a close group of male buddies, but his social activities appeared to slow as he approached 40.

The opposite seemed true for outspoken Carole Lombard. In her early 20s at the start of the 1930s, Lombard was razor focused on her career and enjoyed hitting Hollywood hotspots. With over 40 features and shorts under her belt, several for comedy legend Mack Sennett, Lombard was slowly rising up the Hollywood ranks, though she had yet to establish the spirited screen personality she’d grow into.

Powell and Lombard were two people probably not destined to make each other’s acquaintance without the help of Hollywood; even when they did, some worried his more refined nature would clash with her blunt personality and language. So, when the actors reported to set for MAN OF THE WORLD (‘31), in which Powell plays a blackmailer who targets Lombard and her uncle in Paris, a meeting was arranged before cameras rolled to discuss the picture and test their compatibility. In reality, no one needed to have worried. As recalled in Michelle Morgan’s book Carole Lombard: Twentieth-Century Star, Powell told a reporter: “The day I met Carole I had the same feeling as a 16-year-old boy on his first date. I was embarrassed and fidgety. I worried over whether or not I was making a good impression on her.”

Powell may not have won Lombard over in MAN OF THE WORLD, but their palpable chemistry spilled off-screen. They were “torridly fascinated with each other,” Picture Play reported. Seeking to capitalize on any free publicity their romantic relationship offered, Paramount quickly paired the lovers in LADIES’ MAN (‘31), released about a month after their first picture. Once again, Lombard falls for an unscrupulous Powell, but they don’t end up together at the end.

That 0-2 streak onscreen paralleled their real-life relationship at that point. “I think I asked Carole to marry me on average of every half hour,” Powell quipped. He initially wanted Lombard to quit acting, but she certainly wasn’t going to give up her career, so she continued to resist his proposals. Once Powell changed his tune and committed to fully supporting Lombard’s endeavors, she agreed to marry him, and they wed on June 26, 1931.

Lombard tried to be the wife Powell wanted and he became her greatest advocate, but their personalities and priorities proved too fundamentally different, and the pair split amicably in July 1933. Lombard explained to Movie Mirror: “We couldn’t make each other happy because there was never complete contact between our minds and our natures… And even though we were devoted to each other and still are, our marriage was doomed to failure.” The fondness the actors openly showed each other led to speculations of reconciliation, but friends they remained, and they eventually moved on to new relationships.

Curiously, the year following their divorce became a key one for the ex-lovers. Powell’s move to MGM and subsequent popular pairing with Myrna Loy in MANHATTAN MELODRAMA (’34) followed by THE THIN MAN (’34) changed his career. Meanwhile, Lombard found true stardom in TWENTIETH CENTURY (’34), a foundation of the screwball comedy genre.

If TWENTIETH CENTURY verified Lombard’s comedic prowess, two years later another quintessential comedy, MY MAN GODFREY, solidified her as one of screwball’s queens. Amusingly, it was her ex-husband who pitched her for the part of the scatterbrained socialite Irene. Detecting parallels to their own romance in the characters, Powell refused to take the role of forgotten man-turned-butler Godfrey if Lombard didn’t play opposite him. Though the whole experience proved joyous and successful for all involved, it turned out to be the last time Powell and Lombard shared the screen.

The actors retained a fierce friendship off-screen, supporting each other professionally and personally. “I admire him as an actor and a man,” Lombard said of their platonic relationship. “I know that we are vital to each other. We have a mental balance founded on respect.” That they did, and the stars remained close until Lombard’s death in a 1942 plane crash, a tragedy that shocked the film community and particularly devastated Powell.

From actors to athletes, an injury can end or postpone career. On a March night in 1943, a wreck not only could have halted a promising new film career, but actor Van Johnson was nearly killed. Johnson came to Hollywood from Broadway in 1940. For the next four years, he had brief or secondary roles in Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer films, such as playing a reporter who interviews Marie Curie in MADAME CURIE (’43). The same year, he received his first credited film role in THE WAR AGAINST MRS. HADLEY (’43), which Johnson later credited as the beginning and “then things began to roll.”

In 1944, Johnson was cast in a leading role in the World War II drama, A GUY NAMED JOE (’44). Cast alongside Hollywood veterans Irene Dunne and Spencer Tracy, Johnson plays a young Army Air Corps pilot who is guided by his guardian angel, played by Tracy. The title of the film references the universal nickname United States servicemen were called abroad. “Anybody who’s a right chap is a guy named Joe,” a child says in the film while watching pilots land.

Maj. Pete Sandidge (Tracy) is a good but daring pilot, who narrowly escapes both danger and formal reprimands for his reckless actions. His girlfriend Dorinda Durston (Dunne) is also a pilot who ferries aircraft. Dorinda worries that Pete will be killed during a mission, and while bombing a Nazi aircraft carrier, Pete is killed. Finding himself in heaven, Pete is tasked with being a guardian angel flight instructor to Ted Randall (Johnson) during flight school and in combat. However, this becomes complicated when Ted and Dorinda meet and start a romance. Johnson’s character of Ted doesn’t appear until 45 minutes into the two-hour film, but this was his first leading role.

Johnson was announced for the role in February 1943. Robert Young was originally slated to play Ted, but MGM officials felt that Johnson would attract the teen audience. Nervous during his screen test with a major star like Irene Dunne, Dunne gave Johnson a pep talk and also pretended to be nervous to put Johnson at ease, as recounted in Van Johnson: MGM’s Golden Boy by Ronald L. Davis.

Spencer Tracy also helped the young actors on set. Actor Barry Nelson, who co-stars in A GUY NAMED JOE, said, “He liked young actors and he tried to help them … he was certainly a role model,” according to Spencer Tracy: A Biography by James Curtis. But on March 30, 1943, an event happened that almost caused Johnson to be replaced in the film and almost killed him.

Johnson was in his DeSoto convertible driving to a screening of the film KEEPER OF THE FLAME (’43). The passengers were his friend and actor Keenan Wynn, Wynn’s wife Evie and two servicemen friends. Another vehicle ran the red light at Venice Boulevard and Clarington Street, hitting Johnson’s DeSoto, turning the car on its side. Johnson hit his head on the windshield and then was thrown from the car into a gutter, where he hit his head again. He later said his face was wet with blood. Evie sustained a back injury and the other passengers were shaken but okay. Johnson’s condition was much more grave; a bystander even thought he was dead.

Johnson had a skull fracture, facial injuries, glass cuts on his face and neck, and the back of his head was peeled off, with his brain pierced by skull fragments. A doctor later told him he was almost decapitated, but Johnson was never unconscious. While waiting 45 minutes for an ambulance, Davis states that Johnson lost three quarts of blood.

A GUY NAMED JOE director Victor Fleming, Tracy and Dunne visited Johnson at Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital. The Chicago Daily News reported that Tracy volunteered to donate blood for Johnson, and Dunne again gave him a pep talk: “You are going to get well and you are going to finish that picture. It’s a great role and you’re not going to lose it.”

Doctors and MGM leaders weren’t so sure. Doctors initially said Johnson would never work again in movies, and he would be lucky if he lived. MGM was planning to replace Johnson in A GUY NAMED JOE with John Hodiak or Peter Lawford. But similar to his role in A GUY NAMED JOE, Tracy looked after Johnson and went to bat for him. Tracy went to MGM studio head Louis B. Mayer and said he and Dunne would walk off the set if Mayer didn’t shut down production of the film until Johnson recovered, according to the book, Irene Dunne: First Lady of Hollywood by Wes Gehring.

Due to the support from his co-stars, Johnson was kept in the film. His treatment and recovery included several surgeries, including a five-inch long metal plate on the left side of his head and a muscle graft from his right arm to help rebuild his forehead. After three months, Johnson returned to filming A GUY NAMED JOE in June 1943. He was still weak and had headaches each day, but he was thankful to be working and alive. “Things like that you never forget. I’m a man with a debt to pay,” Johnson said.

Not only did the film role bring stardom, but so did the publicity of the accident. By the time the film was released, the wreck was heavily covered and film fans rallied behind Johnson’s recovery. Johnson’s scars are visible in A GUY NAMED JOE, and you can spot a long scar on his forehead in later film roles. The injuries from his wreck and the metal plate kept Johnson from serving in World War II, but he frequently performed in military roles, and within a year was a top box office draw. Doctors said Johnson would be lucky if he performed again. Performing until 1992, luck seems to have been on Van Johnson’s side.

If Frank Sinatra was the favorite singer of bobbysoxers in the 1940s, Van Johnson was every teenage girl’s dreamboat. And for good reason. He was adorable: tall, athletic, freckle-faced with reddish blond hair, a warm smile and a charming screen presence. He was the perfect boy-next-door any mother would want her daughter to marry. In fact, when he went to the New York premiere of A THRILL OF A ROMANCE (‘45), a Technicolor romantic comedy also starring MGM’s aqua star Esther Williams, he was waylaid by the bobbysoxers who even ripped the buttons off his shirt.

Johnson was also a lyric in the Prehistoric Man number in ON THE TOWN (‘49): “What has Gable got for me and Mrs. Johnson’s blond boy Van, I want a handsome Joe from ages ago, a prehistoric man!” But he was more than just a pretty face. He more than held his own opposite Spencer Tracy and Irene Dunne in his first major starring role in the romantic fantasy A GUY NAMED JOE (‘43), and he was moving as a real-life flier who loses his leg in the stirring THIRTY SECONDS OVER TOKYO (‘44).

In my L.A. Times interview with him in 1991, Johnson, then 75, told me, “I never expected or thought about the movies. It was a never-never land out there. It was soooooo glamorous.” During his years under contract with MGM, he noted that he would pinch himself to realize he was in fact a movie star. “Every day I drove on the lot, I looked up at Leo the Lion and I couldn’t believe it was me, this little kid from Newport, R.I., up there with all of those famous people. I never got over it.”

Born in 1916, Johnson’s childhood was less than idyllic. His alcoholic mother abandoned the family when he was young. His Swedish-immigrant father was cold. But young Johnson found solace in the touring companies that appeared in Newport. After he graduated from high school, he went to New York. He was 19 when he got a part in the Broadway revue New Faces of 1936, followed by roles in the musicals Too Many Girls and Pal Joey. He came to Hollywood to do the 1940 film version of TOO MANY GIRLS.

It was Lucille Ball, star of TOO MANY GIRLS, who introduced him to the MGM casting director Billy Grady. Johnson recalled in a 1963 interview that Ball told him, “I’m going to introduce you, and at least you’re going to act like you’re the star I think you are.” Johnson began to work his way up the MGM ladder when he got a role in A GUY NAMED JOE. But he nearly died in early 1943 when his DeSoto convertible was struck by another car. He suffered a fractured skull, major facial injuries, a severed neck artery and bone fragments that pierced his brain. After several surgeries and several months, his forehead was left with major scars. He also had a metal plate put into the left side of his head.

He later remembered he was told he had been nearly decapitated. “But I never lost consciousness. I spent four months in the hospital after they sewed the top of my head back on,” Johnson noted. MGM wanted to replace him, but Tracy and director Victor Fleming insisted production be halted until he was well enough to return to work. And a star was born. Ironically, bobbysoxers would abandon him in 1947 when he married pal Keenan Wynn’s ex-wife. His popularity waned but he continued to work usually doing three or four films a year.

I think he did some of his best work once he lost the matinee idol moniker in such films as the World War II drama COMMAND DECISION (‘48); William A. Wellman’s gritty acclaimed World War II action-drama BATTLEGROUND (‘49); THE LAST TIME I SAW PARIS (‘54), a romantic drama based on F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story “Babylon Revisited” and most notably in the classic THE CAINE MUTINY (‘54), which also starred Humphrey Bogart as the maniacal Capt. Queeg. He also drips with charm in IN THE GOOD OLD SUMMERTIME (‘49) and the perfect partner for Judy Garland in the delightful musical remake of Ernst Lubitsch’s romantic comedy THE SHOP AROUND THE CORNER (‘40). MGM didn’t renew his contract in 1954, so he went to Columbia to do such movies as the romantic drama THE END OF THE AFFAIR (‘55) with Deborah Kerr. Johnson also starred in a dual role in the truly bizarre NBC musical The Pied Piper of Hamelin, which aired Thanksgiving weekend in 1957.

In the 1960s, Johnson not only had two bouts with cancer, he saw his film roles dry up. So, he began touring in such musicals as Damn Yankees and The Music Man. He said in an interview why he turned to theater: “Because the phone didn’t ring. Because the film scripts were getting crummier and crummier. Because I sat beside my pool in Palm Springs one day and told myself, ‘Van, you’ll be 45 this year. If you don’t start doing something now, you never will.”

Besides doing an occasional movie, Johnson appeared on countless TV series, movies and miniseries, earning an Emmy nomination for the ABC miniseries Rich Man, Poor Man. He returned to Broadway in 1985 in Jerry Herman’s Tony Award-winning musical La Cage Aux Folles and that same year he appeared in a small role as an actor in Woody Allen’s enchanting THE PURPLE ROSE OF CAIRO (‘85). “These are supposed to be my September years” he once told an interviewer. “I’m supposed to be at home enjoying them, but I still love to tour.”

When I interviewed Johnson, he was in town to appear in a production of Show Boat in Pasadena. He was set to play Cap’n Andy, a role he had done several times. Even at 75, he still was boyish and charming. But I felt bad for him. He had damaged his ear drums after flying with a cold and was extremely hard of hearing. And he was fighting a bad case of bronchitis. Johnson never went on stage because he developed pneumonia before opening night. He retired in 1992 and died at 92 in 2008.

Though many actors bristled being under contract, Johnson confessed in a 1985 interview he loved his years at MGM. “It was one big happy family and a little kingdom,” he noted. “Everything was provided for us, from singing lessons to barbells. All we had to do was inhale, exhale and be charming. I used to dread leaving the studio to go out into the real world, because to me the studio was the real world.”

Accessibility to classical music performances is an issue in many communities. In July 2019, a letter from David Williams to The Guardian lobbied to address the imbalance in the classical music world and to increase opportunity for those without the access. This issue is nothing new. In the 1940s and 1950s, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer incorporated more classical music acts into their films to bring classical music to broader audiences.

MGM’s studio head Louis B. Mayer wanted to bring classical music and operettas to the masses, according to Lion of Hollywood: The Life and Legend of Louis B. Mayer by Scott Eyman. Some of MGM’s contract stars included opera singers like Jeanette MacDonald, Kathryn Grayson and Jane Powell. Mayer also sought out established classical musicians, like pianist José Iturbi.

“I entered pictures because, first of all, I thought I’d enjoy it – which I did! And, second, I felt that classical music should be a more recognizable part of everyman’s entertainment, and it has been my great hope that through motion pictures a larger group of people would learn to like classical music and attend live concert performances,” Iturbi said in 1945.

Born in Spain, Iturbi started making a name for himself as a pianist in 1912 at age 17 and made his American debut in 1929. Iturbi was also interested in conducting, and he became one of the top conductors and pianists in the world. He conducted the Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra in New York from 1936 to 1944. In the 1940s, Iturbi took his talents to the screen and was in a total of seven MGM films from 1943 to 1949. His roles varied, but he always played a variation of himself with a character named José Iturbi. In a few films, Iturbi was a featured musical performance, like in THOUSANDS CHEER (’43) and TWO GIRLS AND A SAILOR (’44).

In others, like the musical MUSIC FOR MILLIONS (’44), Iturbi plays himself but is an integral part of the plot. In MUSIC FOR MILLIONS, Iturbi conducts a New York City symphony. The credits tout that Iturbi is conducting the music of George Frideric Handel, Antonín Dvorák and Claude Debussy.

In the film, as men are drafted to fight in World War II, Iturbi finds himself with an all-female orchestra. This brings new challenges that he isn’t used to, like a pregnant string bass player. The plot mainly focuses on young Mike (Margaret O’Brien), who comes to live with her sister Barbara (June Allyson). Barbara’s husband is fighting overseas, and when a telegram comes that says her husband is missing in action, the other women in the orchestra (Marsha Hunt, Marie Wilson, Helen Gilbert) keep it from Barbara to protect the health of her and the unborn baby.

Iturbi’s character gets irritated by Mike, especially when she walks out on stage during a performance. Iturbi eventually softens towards the child, but Mike becomes the problem of Iturbi’s manager Andrews (Jimmy Durante). Iturbi is strictly business for much of the film but sympathizes with pregnant Barbara and plays “Clair de Lune” for her, which reminds her of her husband. In the end, he is eagerly waiting for the birth of Barbara’s baby with the rest of the orchestra.

While Iturbi occasionally played “boogie woogie” in films, he sticks strictly to the classics in MUSIC FOR MILLIONS. The jive is left to Durante, who sings two humorous songs, “Toscanini, Iturbi and Me” and “Umbriago.” Iturbi’s role in MUSIC FOR MILLIONS is similar to his other more dramatic roles. The only film where José Iturbi performs as lead actor, rather than a specialty performer or supporting character, is THREE DARING DAUGHTERS (’48).

Iturbi’s films at MGM were popular musical comedies and these films helped share classical music with a larger audience of people. But his status in the music community slipped. Because of his involvement in Hollywood films, Iturbi was not taken seriously again. Composers like Erich Wolfgang Korngold and the Gershwin brothers faced the same fate. Ian Jackman and Michael Feinstein’s detail in their book The Gershwins and Me: A Personal History in Twelve Songs how the music community saw it as “selling out” by going to Hollywood.

Despite the snobbery, Iturbi was still successful with music fans. He was one of the first classical artists to break classical recording sales and reach the sale of one million copies of a single record. He received two gold records for his “Polonaise in A Flat” by Chopin in 1950 and “Clair de Lune” by Debussy in 1953.

Iturbi continued to perform until his 80s, and he died in 1980 at the age of 84. Iturbi’s last film appearance was in 1950 and his last television appearance was in 1962. Regardless, his mission of making classical music accessible to everyone is still in motion through the José Iturbi Foundation, which was created in his memory.