My mom loves old movies. Not just any old movies. The movies must be from the 1930s or 40s, and be in black-and-white (get out of here with that Technicolor business).
Most of what we watch together are classics of the era. Casablanca, It’s a Wonderful Life, I Remember Mama, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Gaslight, Rear Window. Jimmy Stewart, Ingrid Bergman, Bogey.
For a girl born in the early eighties, these movies were like cave writing to me in comparison to the Brat Pack and Hugh Grant’s romantic comedies. From the clothes to the censorship, I viewed the actors, the plots, even the scenery, as something from another planet. A pretty, seductive planet, but not mine.
Lucille, a biography of Lucille Ball, and All That Heaven Allows, a biography of Rock Hudson, forced me to understand the pretty faces on the big screen as flawed, strange, real human beings. In Brady’s book, Lucille Ball comes through in all of her glories, from her early Flapper days in upstate New York through her old age, in which she grabbed for acclaim in a serious role but was always just Lucy Ricardo to her fans. In Griffin’s much longer biography of Rock Hudson, he paints a vibrant picture of 1940s Hollywood, where pretty girls and boys fresh off the bus from Iowa got new names, new eyebrows, and a seven-year studio contract, provided they were willing to chain themselves to the casting couch.
Given Rock Hudson’s closeted sexuality and tragic death at age 59 from complications due to AIDS, much of the book is devoted to the way that homosexuality in Hollywood was a source of shame and a weapon for tabloids to use against the biggest stars. Griffin’s exploration of the topic is fascinating, and he treats Rock Hudson with respect and care.
Golden Age actors are people, too. Who would have guessed it.