Thursday, December 27, 2007

STOMPANATO: Today's as good a day as any to return to a regular feature here: hey, what's everybody reading? For me, it's Jeanine Basinger's The Star Machine, an meticulously researched (yet fast-moving) survey of Hollywood's golden age. Its focus is on how the studios turned no-names and wanna-be actors into Stars, using an array of make-up artists, public relations gurus, diction coaches, dentists, singing coaches, posture gurus, plastic surgeons, biography fabulists and the like to spin straw into gold, an inexact science that sometimes turned Margarita Cansino into "Rita Hayworth" but usually failed. An excerpt:

It’s a crackpot business that sets out to manufacture a product it can’t even define, but that was old Hollywood. Thousands of people in the movie business made a Wizard-of-Oz living, working hidden levers to present an awe-inspiring display on theatre screens: Movie Stars! Hollywood made ’em and sold ’em daily, gamely producing a product for which its creators had no concrete explanation. Sometimes they made films that told the story of their own star-making business, and even then they couldn’t say what exactly a movie star was. They just trusted that the audience wouldn’t need an explanation because it would believe what it was seeing—star presence—could verify its own existence. “She’s got that little something extra,” muses James Mason in 1954’s A Star Is Born, quoting actress Ellen Terry for credibility. Since he’s talking about Judy Garland as he watches her sing “The Man That Got Away,” the point is made. ...

The truth is that nobody—either then or now—can define what a movie star is except by specific example, but the workaday world of moviemaking never gave up trying to figure it out. As soon as the business realized that moviegoers wanted to see stars, they grappled with trying to find a useful definition for the phenomenon of movie stardom, which is really not like any other kind. Marlon Brando called all their attempts “a lot of frozen monkey vomit.” Adding up the monkey’s offerings, it’s clear that over the years, Hollywood collected a sensible list of informed observations: A star has exceptional looks. Outstanding talent. A distinctive voice that can easily be recognized and imitated. A set of mannerisms. Palpable sexual appeal. Energy that comes down off the screen. Glamour. Androgyny. Glowing health and radiance. Panache. A single tiny flaw that mars their perfection, endearing them to ordinary people. Charm. The good luck to be in the right place at the right time (also known as just plain good luck). An emblematic quality that audiences believe is who they really are. The ability to make viewers “know” what they are thinking whenever the camera comes up close. An established type (by which is meant that they could believably play the same role over and over again). A level of comfort in front of the camera. And, of course, “she has something,” the bottom line of which is “it’s something you can’t define.” There’s also the highly self-confident version of “something you can’t define” that is a variation of Justice Potter Stewart’s famous remark about pornography: “I know it when I see it.”

[Go ahead: watch this short 1936 film which introduced Judy Garland and Deanna Durbin, and you'll know that Garland has something Durbin doesn't, even if you can't articulate it.]

Basinger's hefty book is a witty journey through the factory where Hollywood's sausage was made, and helps give insight into present day attempts to define celebrity-dom downwards (The Hills?) and create new stars (Gretchen Mol?) in front of our eyes. My only wish is that there could be an e-version of it full of YouTube clips of the films as they're being discussed.

What are you reading?

No comments:

Post a Comment