John Wayne, Comic Actor-"The Quiet Man"

As performers, John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara were at their best when wooing, fighting and laughing their way across the big screen. Close friends in real life, their chemistry was effortless. He was never more at ease, or disciplined, as an actor than when he had the fiery Irish redhead to play off of: he exhibited a likable charm in their scenes together that he could never muster when playing opposite anyone else.In the films made after John Wayne the actor became John Wayne the icon (Classic Hollywood's favourite method of maintaining Box Office Gold),you never forget who you are watching. The image always comes first, the characterization second.

Only in his films with Maureen O'Hara does John Wayne recede into the background. "The Quiet Man" (1952) is the rarest of films for the American legend. It is quite possibly the sole full characterization he achieved in his nearly forty years of superstardom.In action films, he was a titan:terse, muscular and, even when mortal, somehow untouchable. In "The Quiet Man", he is robust and masculine but also human.He is fine and funny in this fast-paced, intelligent comedy. For 129 minutes, John Wayne does not exist: Sean Thornton does.

We meet the affable yet proud boxer upon his arrival in Innisfree. Newly retired, he falls in love with the spirited, kind and beautiful Mary Kate Danaher, younger sister of the churlish, rascally local Squire. We follow him as he adjusts to life at a different pace, amongst the peculiar villagers. As he falls in love and marries he is accepted by everyone but his traditional and greedy brother-in-law.

The greatest fight in screen history--it is nearly ten minutes of pure perfection-- secures a happy ending that is just right.It involves every element you could possibly need for an impromptu and mobile set-to:wounded masculine pride/honor, water, betting Priests, an entire Irish village egging you and your opponent on, more water,an Intermission pint at the local pub, yet more water and a dying man's spontaneous recovery.

To view the fight scene, click on the YouTube clip embedded below. The film itself airs on TMC at 8:00 PM EST, on St. Patrick's Day. It is a truly delectable and infectious comedy classic, capturing the cast ( including Victor McLaglen, Barry Fitzgerald, Mildred Natwick and Ward Bond) and director John Ford at the height of their always stellar powers.

John Ford won the Academy Award for Best Director. Winton C. Hoch and Archie Stout were awarded the Oscar for Best Cinematography, Color. It received 5 other nominations, including Victor McLaglen (Best Actor in a Supporting Role), Frank S. Nugent (Best Writing, Screenplay) and Best Picture.

Photo-John Wayne in Australia, 1943.

The Greatest Cinematic Fight Scene Ever

It's a Small (Press) Life For Me

A surprising majority of the finest writers of the early Twentieth-Century found their only ready audience in the small bands of readers, usually subscribers, of the "little magazines". These were often kitchen-table affairs, funded on non-existent budgets and the hard-wrought words of dedicated and often neglected artists. The rostrum of publishers, editors,columnists and contributors to these independent periodicals offers an amazing roll-call of the innovatory, diverse and brilliant talent so associated with the writers of that era. To list them all here, while impressive,would be ridiculously space-consuming. I will make do with a representative few: James Joyce,Ford Madox Ford, Kay Boyle,Gertrude Stein, H.D.,Marianne Moore,T.S. Eliot,Ernest Hemingway, Ernest Walsh,Mina Loy, Ezra Pound,Wallace Stevens, Edith Sitwell,Robert McAlmon, D.H. Lawrence,Glenway Wescott and Djuna Barnes.

As with countless wordsmiths before and since,many writers and poets of the '20's had to make do financially,often only scraping by,working day-jobs or accepting hand-outs. T.S. Eliot famously worked for a banking house in London while Kay Boyle was the shop girl for the Parisian retail establishment of Raymond Duncan, Isadora's half-charlatan brother.Across the Atlantic, Marianne Moore was a librarian in New York City and William Carlos Williams a small-town (i.e. poorly paid) doctor.

Eighty or ninety years ago, these small, passionately produced magazines weren't just a romantic, idealistic alternative to the big glossies. For many, publishing works in the always-revolving coterie of arty mags was the only way to get published at all. There were a few "big name" affairs to be found in New York City, Paris and London.They tended to be traditional, stuffy things, exclusive in their outlook and hard to break into.

Groups of artists, sometimes with the help of a moneyed backer or two, more often relying on their own spare change or donations, formed reviews and journals as a method of disseminating their work.They wore many hats while touting the work of themselves, friends and often complete strangers.In their limited way, they served a function similar to that of the Impressionists when they broke free the Academy and its esteemed show, the Salon de Paris,to exhibit without restraint as the Societie Anonyme Cooperative des Artistes Peintres, Sculpteurs, Graveurs. Both came about through a combination of forced circumstances and exceptional avocation.Neither was a cohesive movement at the time;labels came later.

Their writing careers were usually aided with the occasional book deal, often with equally independent publishing set-ups, such as: The Hogarth Press ( created by Leonard and Virginia Woolf), Contact Editions (Robert McAlmon) and the Black Sun Press (Harry and Caresse Crosby).

Literature, no less than any other art form,is a tough world in which to find one's way,or to even stay afloat.For every true star-by which I mean any one widely known outside of company circles--there are hordes of aspiring or working writers piled leagues deep.The difference between an aspiring writer and a working one can be as simple as taking matters into your own hands, i.e. the willingness to act as publisher,editor,agent and anything else that may be required.That is exactly what the aforementioned poets, novelists and essayists did.Many of us , even in a world of vaster choice, continue to do the same.

Today,there are countless outlets and, with a bigger population,more readers to be engaged. The Internet alone has drastically changed how, and who,any one writer can reach. Yet, limiting ourselves to paper editions alone,we still find our selection to be much superior,at least in number,to what Boyle or Eliot had to pick from a mere 80 years ago.Even the big glossies are more numerous in our time.A career can, if one is willing to tow the line of writing to order, in subject and style,be found in penning product for the fancy, still well-read magazines.

For certain of us, myself included,that could never be an option.I am an avid,unashamed reader of a plethora of magazines that I would never write for.I may be a Cosmo girl but I am not a Cosmo writer.The world has enough of those:I would rather lend it my small, eccentric voice than change it to suit others, however gargantuan that audience may be.

Don't misunderstand:I wish to have readers for my writing. If I didn't, I would not be on here nor would I work with the wonderful independent presses that publish my work elsewhere.I would, doubtless, write on the sly,hiding my work in a sewing basket whenever a family member entered the room. No, wait. That is another Austen, Jane.

I simply wish to maintain a level of control over my work that I would be forced to cede if working for glossies.While I am happy and eager to have others edit and critique my writing, I would become demented and austere if unable to be the full mistress of my subject matter; it is mine, not a foreign thing to be dictated and directed by others.

There is a satisfying synchronization to what I do that I believe would diminish if the end-result of my art was writ large rather than small.Every encouraging comment, erudite opinion and insightful appreciation that I have ever gotten has been genuinely received.

My refusal to go mainstream with my artistic and intellectual goods is not born of ego.It is the result of a conscious choice to be sovereign, to be outside yet to be connected to a lasting movement, of creators creating what they choose and helping each other in the endeavor.

"A Small Press Life" will be a regular column on 1000 Follies, appearing at my whim and discretion, naturally!

Photos, Top Row :Mina Loy, Ford Madox Ford.

Middle Row: Djuna Barnes

Bottom Row: James Joyce.

Umbrella Series #4-Some Impressionists and Others

From top to bottom: Renoir, A. Lynch, Lautrec,
Degas and Manet.

If I Were a Silent Movie Queen......(Circa 1925)

I would:

1-Dye my hair an outrageous colour not found in nature. As the flickers are black and white, it will not affect my characterizations of innocent farm girls/milk maids or telephone operators.

2-Dye the fur of my pet hounds to match my hair.

3-Have my touring car painted to match my hair.

4-And, so that we are all coordinated, force my "chauffeur" to wear a uniform that matches all of the above. This way, when I go shopping....

5-All eyes will be on me. Knowing that I will be the center of attention at all times is the only reason I bother getting out of bed in the first place. Otherwise....

6-I would just stay in bed all day with my chauffeur.

7-Spend more money on exotic furs than many nations can claim for their GNP.

8-Change my ensembles at least 4 times a day. To do so, means that I must constantly shop. I cannot be photographed in the same gown twice. That would be a disaster.

9-Never buy jewels as they will be showered on me by my various admirers: actors (preferably married co-stars), producers (also married), and directors ( see previous). However, although many photographs will be circulated of me opening gifts from fans, I will never keep any of that trash. My assistants handle matters involving the peons.

10-Refuse to make at least one film a year on moral or artistic grounds. This makes me seem like an artiste or sensitive church-goer. While on suspension from the studio, I must go to Europe where I will be photographed incessantly while shopping and sightseeing.

11-When I come back to America after my studio has caved to all of my demands, I must have a titled man of some sort in tow, as my new husband. I will, if at all possible, marry and divorce in a cycle of no longer than 3 years.

12-I will adopt two children, a boy and a girl. This will make me seem maternal while allowing me to keep my figure.

13-Decide that pet hounds are so yesterday. My new animal of choice will be some kind of small monkey, dyed to match my hair.

14-Never be surprised that my photograph is being taken. Of course there is press every where I go, it is what I am paid for. When there are no photographers about, then I will worry.

15-Never leave my house without my full-face on, even if I am wearing so much make-up that, close-up, I look like a clown. As long as I look good in the fan magazines nothing else matters.

16-Refuse to get out of bed for less than $15,000.00 per-week. Tax-free, of course!

Caricature by Ralph Barton, 1921.

Movie Star Shoes

I bought this pair of pumps last weekend. It was love at first glimpse. I was desultorily scanning the clearance shoes at Target--I write desultorily because I did not really think that they would have any size 5 1/2's--when I spied these babies. As all women know, some articles--whether clothing or accessories--are so perfect for you that they practically have your name written on them. That was the case with me and these shoes.

They remind me of Classic Hollywood, circa 1935. When I tried them on in the middle of the aisle on a busy Saturday, I was thinking of Jean Harlow or Ginger Rogers. The stitching, the width of the heel, and the old-fashioned bows scream (casually) dancing with Fred or verbally sparring with Clark.

I initiated them today, in casual Friday mode with a pair of denim trousers,and I could not possibly have felt more sophisticated or put-together.

SHOES: XHILARATION (TARGET)

The Edge of the World-1937

The wind rings fierce in its desolation. Seagulls somehow manage to stay aloft, their cries barely reaching the ears of those below. Half-wild, dirty sheep, fleet-hoofed of necessity, have run of the fields and tor-sides and stone paths, their guard-dogs always within sight. Waves torment the rocks, spitting sea spray in all directions.

There is entrancing beauty to be found within the isolated fishing island's physical struggle with the elements. Born of green meadows, the cliffs drop off perilously to the moving water below. Houses, village buildings--even the kirk--are carved from the hillsides. Nothing in Hirta is separate from the earth or the weather.Everything that has been made from the hands of man is as tied to nature as the inhabitants are to their Lord and their Laird.

We first meet the final residents of Hirta, already a decade gone, as their memories move ghost-like through the village, treading down the path to shore. From this point, to the closing credits, we are given their story first-hand.

Although, elsewhere, it is the Roaring Twenties, the island is a living museum to the old ways. The residents have become increasing aged, as youth--particularly males--flee to the mainland as soon as they are able.It is a vast old folks home, where even the middle-aged, though infectiously hearty,seem older than they are.

Robbie, Ruth and Andrew's youth shines forth like a beacon. The trio of young-adults represents the best hope for the island's future. Robbie and Ruth are amicable twins, Andrew is best-friends with the former and betrothed to the latter.

The fate of Hirta itself has already divided the small community, with some favouring abandonment and removal to Scotland and others preferring to stick it out. The two young men are in strong disagreement. A lazy Sabbath afternoon turns quickly from camaraderie to a stand-off, resulting in a silly boy's bet that ends with death, feuding and broken promises.

Andrew successfully completes the wager by climbing, without gear, the tallest cliff on the island. Robbie plunges to a sodden death in the sea below. The entire village is plunged into mourning. It is a culture where a tragedy affects everyone, and where celebration is equally shared. There will be no wedding, only a funeral. Robbie's father, Peter Manson, delivers the funeral invitations orally, as he solemnly walks from house to house with the news that they already know.

Andrew leaves Hirta for a life elsewhere. He cannot stay so near to the woman whom he is no longer allowed to marry. Small dramas unfold herein,including the birth and sickness of Ruth's daughter, illegitimate but welcomed as a gift by every islander. The reconciliation of Andrew, Ruth and her father is expected but not forced. It is a small point of happiness in a film barren of either hope or a conciliatory happy ending.

It is Peter Manson who ultimately signs the letter of appeal that is sent to the mainland. His daughter and her family now safe off of the island, he prepares to depart along with the others. Families, their belongings and livestock are all en route to the boat that will take them away from their embattled but beloved island home. A girl shepherds her kittens into a basket, signs are torn from businesses, keys are turned in locks one last time. They are removing themselves wholesale from the only place they have ever loved because their way of life is no longer tenable in the modern world.

The end of the film is anticipated from the very beginning yet it is wrenching in the most unexpected ways. I held my fingers to my lips,actually biting my nails, as the last tragedy unfolded terrifyingly slowly. It plays out in real time, taking several minutes to occur.

"The Edge of the World" (1937)begins with a prologue, set in the year of its release. A party of three, two men and a woman, sail to the island on a day-excursion. One of the former knows the sad events behind the island's abandonment; it is he who starts the narration, giving us the story behind a tombstone bearing the inscription "Peter Manson-GONE OVER."

It is easy to imagine "The Edge of the World" as a silent film. The dialogue is appropriately spare, direct and passionate. Yet it is a logical step to think of how it would play if words were excised altogether. The cutting of the film would lend itself admirably to a silent feature: it moves quickly from scene to scene, allowing for no smooth transition. There is no time to mull things over and it is visually jumpy.The black and white cinematography is balm to the harsh landscape, resulting in something that is wonderful to watch. The Women of The Glasgow Orpheus Choir provide the mournful soundtrack to the drama, infusing it with the only other stimulus needed.

So many of the scenes seem like tableaux from an earlier cinematic era: fiddlers and dancers alike moving to a reel; Andrew's father clicking his heels together as he walks with a lantern in one hand, a pipe in the other; the old women of the village, sitting arow on a hillside, knitting for the newborn babe, while she is being rocked by her mother.

"The Edge of the World" is an endangered species: it is a film that crawls in your head and sticks there, for all of the best reasons. It is not memorable for violence, sex, or action. It is stark and visually stunning. Its story, inspired by real life events, is forceful, empathetic, unvarnished and understated. It improves with each viewing yet its impact does not become diluted.

"THE EDGE OF THE WORLD"-1937 Written and Directed by Michael Powell

Starring-

John Laurie

Belle Chrystall

Eric Berry

Finlay Currie

Niall MacGinnis

Grant Sutherland

and, in the Prologue:

Michael Powell and his wife Frankie Reidy

The photo is of the subtle, superlative John Laurie, taken during the production of a later film, "Happy Go Lovely".