Ray Charles. The genius. We all know Ray Charles was sensational. Or at least, we all should know. And yet, even when the enormously popular, Oscar winning Ray underscored this point (though missing some of the better, grittier details) way back in 2004, many need to be reminded again, and beyond that "and then this happened" biopic. Need I say it again? Ray Charles was cool as hell -- sublimely, raucously, heartbreakingly and effortlessly cool.
O-Gênio is a grand celebration of such cool and of course, "The Genius," or, in Portuguese,O Gênio. Unearthed a few years before Charles' death (from Charles' own vault) the 1963 Sao Paulo concert (and rehearsal) is a rare, somewhat astounding document that gives us Charles at one of his musical peaks -- a year after he'd recorded Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music, when he was broadening the boundaries for the type of soul music he'd created. Already an innovator, blending gospel and blues (to many Christian's disapproval) and after he'd left Atlantic and signed with ABC-Paramount where he was the first artist to own his own masters, Charles was now positioned at the top, flying high. And higher. And higher still.
Taking on "What'd I Say," "Take These Chains from My Heart," and an absolutely swinging, gorgeous rendition of "You Are My Sunshine" during which the astonishing Margie Hendricks lets loose her growling solo so emblematic of Charles' stunning version. You'll never think of that typically safe sounding song in the same way ever again. He continues with "Set Me Free," "Carry Me Back to Old Virginny," "My Bonnie," a mesmeric, stirring "In the Evening (When the Sun Goes Down)," "Margie," "Hit the Road Jack," "Moanin'," "Birth of a Band," "Hallelujah I Love Her So" and an untitled jazz instrumental... I could list them all but I'll stop... But, and for lack of better words, Charles and band are, to put it simply, fu**ing brilliant.
Watching Ray, his extraordinary talent, his smooth sensuality, his perfect suits and that iconic sway (really, he doesn't sway or tick out as much as the impersonations show) and with his faultless band including Wilbert Hogan and the impossibly cool saxophonist David "Fathead" Newman and of course, The Raelettes (here, Hendrix, Gwen Barry, Darlene McCray and Patricia Richards) you'll wish (so much) that more of his concerts were recorded for posterity. Strangely, as ubiquitous as Ray Charles is, he remains ever mysterious, which is part of his power.
As many times I've watched Charles (in any early performance I can get my hands on), he never fails to leave me with an almost painful, yet delicious sensation of enigmatic... wow. With the tumults of his pain and unbridled joy -- from "Crying Time" to "Let's Go Get Stoned" (yes, let's) -- he's both immensely moving and beyond our reach. Part of this is Ray Charles real-life complexity. As Charles once told a reporter, “I’m the kind of guy, I conform when it suits me, and when it doesn’t suit me I don’t.” Straight-forward, but complicated, honest but mysterious. So provocative and magnetic was Charles, so private yet revealing, so smooth yet rough-edged, so troubled yet supremely business minded, so ready to laugh during an interview or cry onstage in classics like “Drown in My Own Tears,” Charles was, and is indeed... O Gênio. Watch.
When Madonna's "Sex" was released, actor Udo Kier, who was featured prominently in some of the photo book's best pictures (forever beautiful Udo does not take a bad shot), was asked about Ms. Ciccone. What she was like? But more specifically, since Kier had ample chance to see, What was her vagina like? Mr. Kier's answer? "Organized."
He could have been talking about Tippi Hedren's handbags in Marnie.
The Hitchcock handbag -- they're quite fetishistic, vaginal things. I'm not the only one who's noticed this predilection and I don't find it a stretch. With all those crisp, snapped, soft or hard bodied rectangular satchels and muffs, Hitchcock's women clutched wombs of wonder that, like, many ladies obsessed with their handbags, seem to serve the purpose to only mystify men. Who cares so much about a damn handbag? Women do. And not just for fashion, as Hitchcock so astutely noticed, but for what Kier also so astutely pointed out. Organization. Organization in that chaotic organ that will spill out of your satchel in messy, sticky, dysfunctional passionate disarray. And purses, they always lose control.
But back to Marnie, my favorite Hitchcock picture, I find her purses, suitcases, ID cases and wallets the most intriguing.
The yellow purse a raven-haired Marnie clutches while walking to the train looks (or feels?) vaginal. It can’t be an accident, at least I don’t want it to be -- she needs that thing. A cool blonde goddess, a compulsive liar and thief so traumatized by her past that her only arena for both escape and personal gain is work, she moves from city to city, nabbing jobs with her expert demeanor and skills (she is an efficient secretary) only to embezzle from employers. And dump that money in her various, vaginal bags.
Perhaps the imprisoning Freudian arms of Mark Rutland (Sean Connery) understands a well functioning handbag. Rutland. Yes. He'll fix her. Icy, frigid, a traumatized woman who can't stand the color red (of course she'll spill scarlett in liquid menstruation form) and one who has an unusually strong bond with her horse (saddles), she's clearly never had a normal sexual encounter and though she shows flickers of attraction and flirtation, she appears to hate men. Or maybe just all of humanity. But she does possess one heartaching weakness -- she loves her cold, flinty mother to the point of masochism.
In "The Women Who Knew Too Much: Hitchcock and Feminist Theory," author Tania Modlesk discusses other feminist takes on Hitchcock's use of purses, keys and safes. But she makes a fascinating case for Marnie, her mother and that fur wrap -- the luxurious non-utilitarian opposite of the clenched, accessory-stuffed purse. It's a sensual gift. And one her mother will reject. Modlesk writes: "But there is a fetish that no one to my knowledge has remarked upon, oddly enough since it is one of the most classic fetishes of all time -- the fur piece. On the first visit to her mother, Bernice, Marnie brings her this fur and wraps it around her mother's neck. A few minutes later, the fur set aside, Marnie watches with longing as Bernice combs [the young blonde girl visiting] Jessie's hair, captured in a signature shot of Hitchcock tracking into the hair at the back of the head, evoking desire and longing on the part of the one who looks [Marnie is the one looking]... Jessie leaves the house, and Marnie immediately places the fur around her mothers neck. Shortly thereafter the two go into the kitchen (to make 'Jessie's pie')..."
Jessie's pie. Well, that leads to a jealous argument. And Bernice admonishes her daughter with the potent demand, "Mind the drippings, Marnie." What a muddled household. Not unkempt, just mentally untidy. Brushing Jessie's hair and minding Jessie's pie are more important than stroking that sweet furry piece. And worse, her mother (an ex-prostitute), remarks that Marnie's hair is, well, whoreish: "Too-blonde hair always looks like a woman's trying to attract a man." Never mind her mother's hair is also quite light. Marnie needs to get out of there. It's time for her to change identities (Marnie Edgar/Margaret Edgar/Peggy Nicholson/Mary Taylor) and stash more jack in her pocketbook.
However, it's only a matter of time when Mark Rutland will figure her out. Here come the man readying to shake that pocketbook and empty the thing out, stick his hands inside, figure out her secrets, lies and perhaps the red-lipstick/hot sex within. Most women don't like it when you open up their very personal purses without asking (you think Catherine Deneuve wants you to spy the dead rabbit she's carrying in her Repulsion reticule?), and he doesn't. Gripping and grabbing (by force) her soft flesh, he'll take apart her clutches -- those creamy canals just waiting to be cracked. Vaginal satchels more than likely approved by Hitchcock but chosen by costumer Edith Head. Certainly Ms. Head understood the power of the purse. The male Hitchcock and the female Head (these names are just too much) must have enjoyed penetrating their pursey mystery and allure.
Though Mark's the romantic lead, he's a pervert himself, and maybe not the healthiest partner for this wounded woman. And yet, he is trying to understand her. The movie, Mark (and Hitchcock) are sympathetic towards understandably troubled Marnie, making it tough to blame the woman for her antisocial tendencies. In her experience, men (people) are beasts who've only done her harm (flashback to a very young Bruce Dern freaking out a very young Marnie). The world is a cold-hearted place and she finds no solace at home, no father and no maternal warmth.
In return she violates the world (men) by lying, cheating and stealing without ever giving them the full pleasure of her lovely body. There are moments (of which I can do nothing, this is Hitchcock filling the controlled receptacle) when I think Marnie should just flee Mark, everyone, in fact, and ride her horse Forio ("Oh, Forio, if you want to bite somebody, bite me!") and push her remaining pleasure into her sex-repressed satchels. She may move on to something better, something more loving. Like pretty, organized purses and their vaginal sisters, there is such a thing as productive, controlled chaos. Or, what the hell and why not sister Marnie? Embrace the pussy riot.
Some fine person has been rooting around the same purse I've been rooting around in:
John Garfield would have been 100 years old today and his simmering, gorgeous genius of masculine menace, charm and vulnerability is, still, sorely missed. He's one of my favorite actors (among a top five that alternate, but Garfield always remains), and an actor who almost literally knocked me for a loop when I first saw him on screen (in The Postman Always Rings Twice). I was a teenager and I was hooked. I had to know more about him. As a result, this blog has been properly Garfield obsessed since its inception. Dear Lord. All that sensitivity and rugged good looks, intelligence and intense, noir sex appeal and I was a goner. Sure Jessica Lange and Jack Nicholson's furious, flour-dusted fornication on the kitchen counter is damn erotic in the steamy re-make (which I do enjoy), but John and Lana need only to simply look at each other and... that's it. You know what they're up to later, and the wondering is part of the picture’s tremendous turn-on (not to mention Lana's lipstick).
But Mr. Garfield... perhaps like poor Priscilla Lane checking out all his tough guy artistry, smoking that ciggie while playing the piano in his unforgettable 1938 film star debut (Four Daughters) you're just too much! Like Joan Crawford’s wide-eyed attraction and anger during his virtuoso "Flight of the Bumblebee" interlude in Humoresque, women can’t function properly when looking at him or thinking about him. They become all moony and swoony and tongue tied and... hitch-hike away from that depressing roadside diner, a la Lana (they don't make it far. Only towards murder). Or take that long, sad walk on the beach like Joan. Poor Garfield-tortured Joan. But there's so much more to the man's intense, obvious sex appeal. So much more.
With all that, you'd think he'd be more famous. Though he's certainly picked up much more appreciation in the last several years, I still ask: why isn't he supremely famous? Why isn't he a household name? Why isn't he better recognized? For reasons I cannot decipher, this brilliant, brooding actor, though well respected by those who know better, isn't considered the legend a la Bogart, Clift, Brando or Dean. Why isn’t he properly appreciated? This massive talent with genuine bad-boy street cred (he was born Julius Garfinkle and raised tough on the streets of Brooklyn and the Bronx) was an acting innnovator and a huge star in his day, so much so that his 1952 funeral was attended by more folks than Rudolph Valentino's ceremony. So why, aside from true movie lovers, isn't he the huge star he was? He's certainly not dated. Watch Clift, Brando, Dean and other "method" actors and you see Garfield's complex, plain speaking, natural anti-hero influence.
If you've never seen a John Garfield performance, you have been (in a supreme understatement) missing out. If you've only watched one or two, you're sorely behind. If you need to catch up, check (among many other pictures -- please check the Warner Archive if you need to see some rare ones) his intense, oftentimes roughly romantic and edgy performances in movies such as Gentlemen's Agreement, They Made Me a Criminal, The Postman Always Rings Twice, The Sea Wolf, Air Force, The Fallen Sparrow,
Body and Soul, Castle on the Hudson, Force of Evil, Out of the Fog, The Breaking Point (the superior version of Hemingway's To Have and Have Not featuring one of Garfield's most naturalistic, powerful performances), Nobody Lives Forever, Humoresque, Flowing Gold, Between Two Worlds, We Were Strangers and (one of my favorites) He Ran All the Way -- his last film and, tragically, a quite fitting one considering how he left this world.
And God...what an exit Mr. Garfield. In my mind, one of the first method actors (he trained in the famed Group Theater and worked with Clifford Odets), he was also victim to one of cinema's darkest, most shameful moments when the left-wing, progressive actor (and patriotic actor, he helped created The Hollywood Canteen for heaven's sake) testified at the scabrous House Un-American Activities Committee, who suspected him and certain colleagues, Communist. Unlike many other actors, writers and directors (including one of his former directors, Elia Kazan), Garfield refused to name names.
As both a once young street tough and a man of principle, Garfield would not rat. Not surprisingly, work was then harder to come by and at the young age of 39, Garfield died of coronary thrombosis. Many speculate an already present heart condition was worsened by the stress caused by the House's inquisition. I think this assumption is correct. His mislabeling and death is so tragic that it angers me to this day.
I had the pleasure of presenting John Garfield's final picture, John Berry's He Ran All the Way, for Turner Classic Movies when I guest programmed for them, and another time with his daughter, the wonderful, charming Julie Garfield at the Palm Spring Film Noir Festival. An acclaimed stage actress and teacher, Julie had much to say about her heroic, brilliant father when I interviewed her on stage. And the picture was so powerful to watch on the big screen with Julie at my side.
A picture made by many victims of the blacklist, including director Berry and co-writers Hugo Butler and Dalton Trumbo (who was jailed as one of the "Hollywood Ten"), the story of a criminal on the lam, a desperate man, a man in a panic who takes a family hostage only to be tortured by his conscience and the cold hands of fate, held extra resonance. There was the power of the film itself, the history and real life tragedy of its star, and then again, Julie sitting next to me. She had never seen her father's final film on the big screen, and experiencing her taking in daddy so beautifully shot by James Wong Howe, and his tough, vulnerable, wounded, complicated performance was especially moving.
Discussing the movie, her father and his life, from the kindness of New York educator Angelo Patri, who mentored the young, troubled kid Garfield and led him into acting, to the evils of HUAC, Julie (on stage and off) is what I imagine her dad was like. Fiercely intelligent, down to earth, funny, warm, and charming as hell -- a one-of-a-kind. If ever a woman is charismatic enough to play De Niro's wife inGoodfellas (and to make that much of an impression when Ray Liotta's Henry Hill testifies against him in court -- that look she gives!), it is Julie.
And she discussed this unforgottable bit of history about her father -- one of his early jobs was as a door-to-door diaphragm salesman. That's correct. John Garfield knocked on doors and sold contraceptives to women. What was I saying earlier? That he was too much? Now that is just too much. Can you imagine opening the door?
Happy 100th Birthday to one of the greatest actors who ever lived. And he didn't live long enough. Today is a day for John Garfield movies. I plan on watching the brilliant The Breaking Point again and maybe, dropping a tube of lipstick in his honor. We can always imagine him picking it up and not handing it back to you. My lord, to have John Garfield make you walk towards him to fetch your lipstick. You're not so cool, Lana. Once he leaves his indelible impression, he never leaves your mind.
Watch Julie Garfield talk about her father and Joan Crawford, Garfield's infidelity, her favorite roles, HUAC's hounding, renewed interest in her father, and a beautiful quote from He Ran All the Way director John Berry. Check out more of the interview here and here.
