A TRIP DOWN MEMORY LANE

DOCUMENTARY: JUDY GARLAND - BEFORE THE RAINBOW

2026-06-10T07:39:00.000-07:00

CELEBRITY DEATH CERTIFICATES: VINCENT PRICE

2026-06-07T13:29:00.000-07:00

Here is the death cerificate for legendary actor Vincent Price who died at the age of 82 on October 25, 1993...

A NIGHT AT THE OPERA: A PERFECT MARX BROTHERS MOVIE

2026-06-03T12:17:00.000-07:00

"A Night at the Opera" (1935) came about, in fact, because "Duck Soup" had failed so badly at the box office in 1933. The Marx Brothers’ earlier films had been successful, but this one, regarded today as a classic, had laid a giant egg in its own time. (According to small-town theater owners, grassroots America much preferred the homespun comedy of Joe E. Brown to the Marx Brothers in any case.)

It was Irving Thalberg, the brilliant production head of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and erstwhile “boy genius” of Hollywood, who came to the Marx Brothers’ rescue. He became acquainted with Chico Marx on the high-stakes bridge circuit in Beverly Hills, and this led to a discussion about the brothers moving to M-G-M. “I can make a film with you that would have half as many laughs as your Paramount films, but they will be more effective because the audience will be in sympathy with you,” he told Groucho.

As Groucho told Richard Anobile some forty years later, “He was right. If you recall the opening of 'Night at the Opera' where Harpo is trying on the costume of the lead singer, the singer comes into his dressing room and discovers Harpo, and begins beating him. This immediately established sympathy for Harpo, and puts the audience on his side. The plot of the film revolves around our helping two lovers, Kitty Carlisle and Allan Jones, get together. The audience was in our corner. This is exactly what Thalberg wanted.”

The trick was to integrate Groucho, Harpo, and Chico into such a story without diluting their own anti-establishment brand of humor—no mean feat, considering the insipid nature of most romantic subplots in films of this sort. But Thalberg wasn’t about to destroy the appeal of the Marx Brothers. In fact, he spared no expense or effort to make this film a success. He hired playwright George S. Kaufman and his partner Morrie Ryskind to work on the script. They were no strangers to Marx territory, having written both "Cocoanuts" (made into a 1929 film) and "Animal Crackers" (made into a film), but they were firmly established in New York (where they’d recently won a Pulitzer Prize for their play "Of Thee I Sing") and had no particular desire to move West. Thalberg lured Kaufman to Hollywood with a salary of $10,000 a week! In true M-G-M/Thalberg fashion, other hired hands were brought on board to improve and “doctor” the script. In all, the film boasted eight writers, though only three received credit.
Thalberg made the unprecedented decision to test the finished material “on the road,” in a specially-prepared stage version of the screenplay. Every performance was a test: what worked, remained. What didn’t, was changed.

With the comedy honed to perfection, Thalberg made sure the other elements of the film were their equal. A recent M-G-M arrival named Allan Jones was hired for the juvenile lead, and a newcomer from Broadway named Kitty Carlisle was borrowed from Paramount, where she had appeared in two films with Bing Crosby. Their unaffected performances and attractive singing voices contribute a great deal to the “tolerability” of the straight material in "A Night at the Opera". (And the songs aren’t bad, either. “Alone,” by M-G-M’s house songwriters Nacio Herb Brown and Arthur Freed, became a hit.)
The Marx Brothers are further aided and abetted by a hand-picked supporting cast, including the indispensable Margaret Dumont, the imperious Siegfried Rumann, the insufferable Walter King, and the incompetent Robert Emmett O’Connor. Perfect foils, all.

Last, but not least, it should be said that "A Night at the Opera" presents the Marx Brothers at the peak of their powers. Groucho and Chico never had a funnier encounter than the “party of the first part” contract negotiation. Chico never had a better double-talk showcase than his description of the aviators’ trouble-ridden trip to America. And the threesome never participated in a funnier single set piece than the stateroom scene.

So it was M-G-M, never noted for its contributions to screen comedy, that produced one of the greatest comedies ever made. Not by chance, or circumstances, but by gathering together a group of outstanding talents and channeling their efforts toward a goal of perfection. Best of all, their work has stood the test of time...

RALPH FIENNES AND 1993

2026-05-31T13:09:00.000-07:00

1993 was Ralph Fiennes' "breakout year." He had a major role in Peter Greenaway's film "The Baby of Mâcon" with Julia Ormond, and, later that year, he became known internationally for portraying the brutal Nazi concentration camp commandant Amon Göth in Steven Spielberg's "Schindler's List." For this, he was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor. Though he did not win the Oscar, but did win the Best Supporting Actor BAFTA Award for the role. His portrayal of Göth also saw him listed at number 15 on the AFI's list of the top 50 film villains.

Fiennes later stated that playing the role had a profoundly disturbing effect on him: "Evil is cumulative. It happens. People believe that they've got to do a job, they've got to take on an ideology, that they've got a life to lead; they've got to survive, a job to do, it's every day inch by inch, little compromises, little ways of telling yourself this is how you should lead your life and suddenly then these things can happen. I mean, I could make a judgment myself privately, this is a terrible, evil, horrific man. But the job was to portray the man, the human being. There’s a sort of banality, that everydayness, that I think was important. And it was in the screenplay. In fact, one of the first scenes with Oskar Schindler, with Liam Neeson, was a scene where I'm saying, 'You don't understand how hard it is, I have to order so many-so many meters of barbed wire and so many fencing posts and I have to get so many people from A to B.' And, you know, he's sort of letting off steam about the difficulties of the job."

Fiennes put on 28 pounds to play the role. He watched historic newsreels and talked to Holocaust survivors who knew Göth. In portraying him, Fiennes said, "I got close to his pain. Inside him is a fractured, miserable human being. I feel split about him, sorry for him. He's like some dirty, battered doll I was given and that I came to feel peculiarly attached to."

Spielberg on Fiennes' audition: "I saw sexual evil. It is all about subtlety: there were moments of kindness that would move across his eyes and then instantly run cold."

When survivor Mila Pfefferberg was introduced to Fiennes on the set, she began shaking uncontrollably, as he reminded her too much of the real Göth...

THE BANNING OF THE OUTLAW

2026-05-28T09:05:00.000-07:00

In 1941, while filming "The Outlaw," Howard Hughes felt that the camera did not do justice to Jane Russell's bust. He employed his engineering skills to design a new cantilevered underwire bra to emphasize her figure. Hughes added curved structural steel rods that were sewn into the brassiere under each breast cup and connected to the bra's shoulder straps. This arrangement allowed the breasts to be pulled upwards and made it possible to move the shoulder straps away from the neck. As a result, the design allowed for a larger amount of Russell's bosom to be exposed. Contrary to many media reports afterward, Russell did not wear the bra during filming; according to her 1988 autobiography, she said the bra was so uncomfortable that she secretly discarded it. She wrote that the "ridiculous" contraption hurt so much that she wore it for only a few minutes, and instead wore her own bra. To prevent Hughes from noticing, Russell padded the cups with tissue and tightened the shoulder straps before returning to the set. She later said "I never wore it in 'The Outlaw', and he never knew. He wasn’t going to take my clothes off to check if I had it on. I just told him I did." The famed bra ended up in a Hollywood museum—a false witness to the push-up myth.

Although the film was completed in February 1941, Hughes had trouble getting it approved by the Hollywood Production Code Administration due to its emphasis on and display of Russell's breasts. The Production Administration set the standards for morally acceptable content in motion pictures, and ordered cuts to the film. Hughes reluctantly removed about 40 feet, or a half-minute, of footage that prominently featured Russell's bosom. However, 20th Century Fox decided to cancel its agreement to release "The Outlaw"; as a result, Hughes stood to lose millions of dollars. Ever the resourceful businessman, he schemed to create a public outcry for his film to be banned. Hughes had all his managers call ministers, women's clubs and housewives, informing them about the 'lewd picture' Hughes was about to release.

The public responded by protesting and trying to have the film banned, which generated the publicity Hughes needed to establish a demand for the film and get it released. The resulting controversy created enough interest to get "The Outlaw" into theaters for just one week in 1943, and then it was pulled due to violations of the Production Code. The film was released widely on April 23, 1946 when RKO Radio Pictures premiered the film in San Francisco, where the theater owner was arrested for showing a film "offensive to decency." The MPAA maintained that Hughes switched prints and did not show the version that was approved. Hughes resigned from the MPAA and filed a $1,000,000 lawsuit demanding triple damages. He lost the suit and all the appeals. Despite the legal battles and many bans, United Artists continued to roadshow the film in 1946 and 1947 and it set records almost everywhere it was shown. Originally banned in New York, it was finally shown on September 11, 1947 when the ban was lifted...

GARRETT MORRIS: THE EARLY YEARS

2026-05-24T13:01:00.000-07:00

The first seasons of Saturday Night Live feature big names we all remember. Bill Murray, John Belushi, Dan Aykroyd, Gilda Radner, Chevy Chase (OK, we remember Chevy but we don’t have to like him). Most of them went on to movie stardom, celebrity rehab, or both. But there’s one name we hear about much less: Garrett Morris.

Which is strange. Garrett Morris was the first Black performer on Saturday Night Live, paving the way for Black actors in televised sketch comedy. Without Garrett Morris, is there an Eddie Murphy? How about Tracy Morgan or Kenan Thompson? Morris laid the groundwork for Key & Peele and the ladies on A Black Lady Sketch Show.

One would think he would be a greater presence in the pantheon of beloved SNL performers. One would think we’d celebrate him every Black History Month. Or that he would constantly be welcomed back to the SNL stage alongside all the other legendary living alums of this show. But he is often forgotten or sidelined.

The sad truth? Garrett Morris’s time on the historic comedy show isn’t remembered as a precious moment in comedic history. Rather, it is a bitter time capsule filled with disrespect, heavy drug use, and racism.

There was a lot of turmoil for Morris to get onto that Studio 8H stage in the first place.
He came to the show a trained theater actor, not an improv Second City guy like Belushi or Aykroyd. While he did have an improvisational background, it looked a lot different than his castmates’ experiences in Chicago and Toronto.

“I learned improv with Imamu Amiri Baraka, not at Second City. And the workshops were more about talking about problems in the ghetto — the aim wasn’t necessarily comedy,” Morris confessed to Maya Rudolph in the Hollywood Reporter. “So, when John Belushi and Gilda Radner got into Saturday Night Live, they had a comedy range from one to a hundred. My range was from “Hate Whitey” to “Kill Whitey.”

Though he was light on improv training, Morris arrived at SNL with some serious chops in his toolbelt. Morris began his journey in show business as a playwright; in fact, he exclusively thought of himself as one. “Mind you, I had two plays that had been produced in New York City,” Morris remembers. “In fact, New York commissioned a play from your boy, okay, and then I wrote another play, which was produced in New York and in L.A.”

With his theater work proving successful, it was a leap of faith for Morris to even take the TV job. But despite his reservations, he entered the Saturday Night Live fray as a writer. That position seems like a natural fit given his background but trying to transition from plays to sketch proved to be a challenge for Morris. “I’m a playwright, so I was having trouble getting my stuff down to a minute or a minute and a half, to fit into some sketch.”

In addition to the writing challenges, Morris was met with America’s pastime: racism. “I was a little disappointed in Michael O’Donoghue,” Morris remembers. “Because he was associated with National Lampoon, I made some progressive assumptions I shouldn’t have made. He was a racist motherfucker. I suggested I could play in this skit, a doctor. He had the nerve to tell me, ‘Garrett, people would be thrown by a Black doctor.’ … So once or twice, he and I did some stuff together, but I always knew what he really was.”

Being the only Black person in the room is never easy. Often, the solo Black person in question will think the racist comment or moment was in their head, or even that they made it up. Fortunately for Morris (or unfortunately, depending on how you see it), he knew his perception of racist behavior wasn’t simply one man’s opinion. Other cast members noticed what was going on.

“Garrett was treated horribly, horribly— by the writers, by some of the performers, and Lorne,” notes OG cast member Jane Curtin. “They just dismissed him... I found it amazing that he let it go on for as long as it did, but it took its toll, it clearly took its toll on Garrett.”

So the problem wasn’t just making the transition from theater to TV. It was personal. Morris was not liked by his fellow writers. His sketches were not getting put on the air, not being taken seriously, and even worse, they were stolen.

“The first three months or so, a guy there stole an idea and then added a little something to it, and he didn’t even give me credit for co-writing,” Morris remembers about one particularly egregious example of joke theft. “This guy stole from me and then told Lorne I couldn’t write.”

There was a silent coup underway, led by white writers, to oust Garrett Morris from the writer’s room. What was head honcho Lorne Michaels’ response? Put Garrett Morris in the cast! You can’t say Lorne didn’t get creative.

“When the challenge came to get rid of me as a writer, Lorne let me audition for the Not Ready for Prime Time Players,” Morris remembers. “He did not fire me. And to this day, I am thankful for that.”

MUSIC BREAK: NOEL COWARD - LET'S DO IT

2026-05-22T09:08:00.000-07:00

HISTORY OF A SONG: LET'S DO IT

2026-05-20T08:55:00.000-07:00

Songwriter Cole Porter has recorded many controversial songs in his long career, but the lyrics to "Let's Do It" are probably his most controversial. The first of Porter's "list songs", it features a string of suggestive and droll comparisons and examples, preposterous pairings and double entendres, dropping famous names and events, drawing from highbrow and popular culture. Porter was a strong admirer of the Savoy operas of Gilbert and Sullivan, many of whose stage works featured similar comic list songs.

The first refrain covers human ethnic groups, the second refrain birds, the third refrain marine life, the fourth refrain insects and centipedes, and the fifth refrain non-human mammals.

With "Let's do 'it'" a euphemism for sexual intercourse in English, author Sheldon Patinkin wrote that it was "the first hit song to proclaim openly that sex is fun." The author of Staging Desire: Queer Readings of American Theater History drew a line from Porter's use of barely veiled double entendres such as "Moths in your rugs do it, What's the use of moth-balls?" to his "pleasure" in barely masking his homosexuality from the public.

The song has regularly lent itself over the years to the addition of contemporary or topical stanzas. For example, in 1955 the lines "Even Liberace, we assume, does it," "Ernest Hemingway could just do it" and many more were added by Noël Coward in his Las Vegas cabaret performance of the song, in which he replaced most of Porter's lyrics with his own.

In Porter's publication from 1928, the opening lines for the chorus carried three derogatory racial references: Chinks, Japs, and Laps.

The original was:

Chinks do it, Japs do it,
up in Lapland little Laps do it...

The original line can be heard in several early recordings of the song, such as a recording made by the Dorsey Brothers & their Orchestra (featuring a vocal by a young Bing Crosby), Rudy Vallée, Paul Whiteman And His Orchestra, all in 1928, and a version of the song by the singer and well-known Broadway star Mary Martin (with Ray Sinatra's orchestra), recorded in 1944. Another example is Billie Holiday, in 1941. Peggy Lee with the Benny Goodman orchestra recorded a version in 1941 with these lyrics.

CBS came up with less offensive lyrics, which NBC adopted, and changed the opening to the refrain: "Birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it." when they recognized that the line was offensive...

MUSIC BREAK: BENNY GOODMAN - LET'S DO IT

2026-05-16T09:06:00.000-07:00

HOLLYWOOD URBAN LEGEND: JUDY HOLLIDAY

2026-05-13T07:25:00.000-07:00

URBAN LEGEND: Was actress Judy Holliday, who sometimes played dumb blondes on the screen really a genius?

ANSWER: YES!

A New York girl, born and raised, Judith Tuvim was the only child of parents Abe Tuvimand Helen. In school, she excelled in academics, winning several awards for her skills as a writer. While in her early teens, she developed what would become a life-long love for theater. In 1938, she made her professional debut as part of a nightclub act called "The Revuers". Her partners in the act included aspiring playwrights Betty Comden and Adolph Green. "The Revuers" had a loyal following and even their own weekly radio show on NBC. In 1944, The Revuers broke up after a failed attempt to break into films. Judith adopted the stage name of "Judy Holliday" as part of a "makeover" process that was orchestrated by 20th Century Fox.

Despite her image as a "dumb blonde", Judy Holliday had an IQ of 172. She often said that it took a lot of smarts to convince people that her characters were stupid. "You have to be smart to play a dumb blonde over and over and keep the audience's attention without extraordinary physical equipment."

A MOMENT WITH ED O'NEIL

2026-05-10T07:43:00.000-07:00

Ed O’Neill, remembered as Al Bundy from Married with Children, never wanted to return to sitcoms. By 2008 he was semiretired, enjoying life in Hawaii, and pursuing occasional dramatic roles. When asked to meet Modern Family creators Christopher Lloyd and Steven Levitan, he resisted, declaring he was done with sitcoms. Even after agreeing, he warned them: “I did eleven years on Married with Children, and that’s enough.” His aversion came from disliking live-audience formats, which he felt ruined timing. The creators pitched their idea differently—two cameras, shot like a movie—and eventually convinced him to read the script. He was struck by its quality: “Oh shit, this is good.”

But O’Neill wasn’t the obvious choice. Craig T. Nelson was initially favored, chosen after a literal coin toss. Nelson, however, demanded star money, and his reputation for being difficult, coupled with a controversial remark, soured the network. In contrast, everyone described O’Neill as humble and easy to work with. Willing to take less money, he embodied the grounded patriarch Jay Pritchett. The role reinvented his career, balancing humor with gravitas. For O’Neill, Modern Family was more than a hit: it validated his craft and gave him a second iconic character...

GUEST REVIEW: HIGH SOCIETY

2026-05-08T07:15:00.000-07:00

The late movie reviewer Bruce Krogan is back to our blog pages to review the nearly perfect musical High Society - which turns 70 years old this year...

MGM was pretty lucky to secure the talents of Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Grace Kelly, Celeste Holm, and Louis Armstrong to get involved in this great musical adaption of The Philadelphia Story.

Cole Porter contributed a great original score for this film with songs very specifically written to suit the talents of High Society's players. I do wish Celeste Holm had been given more to do than just the duet with Frank Sinatra, Who Wants To Be a Millionaire. On Broadway Celeste Holm was a musical star with Oklahoma and Bloomer Girl to her credit, but MGM didn't want to recognize that.

For this film, the story is reset from Philadelphia to Newport, Rhode Island to bring in the famous Jazz Festival. Philip Barry's social commentary is toned down and a very partisan Greek Chorus is added in the person of Mr. Louis "Satchmo" Armstrong. Satchmo tells you right up front who he's pulling for to win Grace Kelly and he helps musically along the way.

Satch and Bing have that classic Now You Has Jazz duet, so successful was it that they did an album together a few years later. Bing Crosby during his life was crazy about jazz musicians and there was no one he liked better than Louis Armstrong. No one on the planet could resist that man's joy for living.

Grace Kelly got a chance to bat 1000 in the recording industry. She was no singer as she would have freely admitted, but Cole Porter wrote True Love specifically to accommodate her limited range and when she does the last two bars of True Love with Der Bingle she got a million selling record for her one and only platter. As for Bing he got his 20th Gold record and the only one not with Decca records.

True Love was nominated for Best Song at the Oscars but lost to Doris Day's Que Sera Sera which boomed all over the charts in 1956. It was sadly Cole Porter's last opportunity to win an Oscar for one of his movie songs.

Frank Sinatra got a couple of good ballads in You're Sensational and Mind If I Make Love to You, but what he's best remembered for is that classic Well Did You Evah duet with Bing. Today's fans can't possibly appreciate the screen meeting of the two best and best known singers for the previous generations. A musical summit conference.

High Society's tone is a lot lighter than the Philadelphia Story. The cast in terms of acting ability are not in the same league as Grant, Stewart, Hepburn, and Hussey. But folks it is a musical. I doubt those stars could have carried off the Cole Porter score.

You can't miss with a cast like this, in either film for that matter...

BRUCE's RATING: 10 out of 10

MY RATING: 10 OUT OF 10

THE QUIET LOVE STORY OF MAXENE ANDREWS & LYNDA WELLS

2026-05-05T23:30:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, Hollywood manager and model Lynda Wells passed away at the age of 84 after a vallant battle witth cancer. She was the manager and companion of Maxene Andrews as well. For much of her life, Maxene Andrews lived in harmony—literally and figuratively—with the world watching. As the soprano voice of the Andrews Sisters, she helped define the sound of America during World War II, her voice ringing out from radios, USO stages, and movie screens as a symbol of patriotism and optimism. Yet behind the carefully maintained public image of smiling glamour and perfect harmony existed a private life shaped by restraint, secrecy, and ultimately, devotion. At the center of that life was Lynda Wells.

When Maxene met Lynda Wells in the early 1970s, she was in her mid‑50s and already a legend. The Andrews Sisters’ heyday had long passed, and Maxene’s relationship with her surviving sister, Patty, had deteriorated into estrangement. It was a period of personal recalibration following decades of fame and pressure, and it was during this quieter chapter that she and Wells connected. Various accounts describe Wells first as Maxene’s manager, but describing her role that way alone misses the depth of their bond. Wells soon became Maxene’s most constant companion, her advocate, and eventually her family in every way that mattered, even if the law did not yet recognize it.

Their partnership unfolded in an era when same‑sex relationships, especially among public figures tied to patriotic imagery, were not merely frowned upon but could have destroyed careers and legacies. Maxene had already experienced how carefully image had to be managed. Earlier in her life, she had married music publisher Lou Levy, a union that ended in separation in 1949, and while she later entered relationships with women, these remained deeply private. With Wells, however, something shifted. Friends and later historians have noted that this was not a fleeting romance but a lasting, stabilizing relationship that endured for more than two decades, until Maxene’s death in 1995.

What makes their love story particularly poignant is the way it was lived: plainly, quietly, and without bitterness toward a world that gave them no vocabulary for legitimacy. Wells traveled with Maxene, managed her later career, and cared for her in health and illness. They made a home together, not as a rebellion but as a natural extension of companionship. In later interviews, Wells emphasized that Maxene did not frame her life through labels or activism; singing remained her great love, and Wells was the person who made life around that love possible.

Because same‑sex marriage was not an option, Maxene and Wells took a step that may seem unusual today but was a known legal strategy among queer couples in the twentieth century: Maxene legally adopted Wells as her daughter. This act was not about redefining their personal relationship but about ensuring basic protections—hospital access, inheritance rights, and recognition as family—at a time when the law offered no other path. Historians have since documented this practice as a quiet form of resistance and survival rather than secrecy for its own sake.

Their bond remained largely invisible to the public during Maxene’s lifetime, but it was undeniable to those who knew her. When Maxene died of a heart attack on October 21, 1995, she was vacationing on Cape Cod with Lynda Wells at her side. Wells was there not as a footnote, not as an assistant, but as the person who had shared Maxene’s private world for over twenty years. In death, as in life, their connection was quietly acknowledged, even if never publicly celebrated in the way it might be today.

In recent years, as scholars, journalists, and filmmakers have revisited the lives of historical figures with fuller honesty, the love story of Maxene Andrews and Lynda Wells has begun to emerge from the margins. Projects like An All American Affair: The True Story of Maxene Andrews aim to tell that fuller story—not to diminish Maxene’s legacy, but to deepen it by acknowledging the reality of the woman behind the voice.

Their story is not one of scandal or tragedy. It is a story of endurance, of choosing companionship in a world that demanded silence, and of finding love not in defiance of identity but in its quiet acceptance. Maxene Andrews spent her life singing in perfect harmony with others. With Lynda Wells, she finally found a harmony that required no performance at all...

BING CROSBY: THE HOLLYWOOD YEARS - PART 12

2026-05-03T07:19:00.000-07:00

ROBERT ARMSTRONG AND HIS APE MOVIES

2026-04-30T08:56:00.000-07:00

It was in 1932 that Robert Armstrong became acquainted with an ambitious and adventurous pair of Hollywood filmmakers. Both were World War I fliers, big-game hunters and animal trappers, and partners in high adventure documentaries, Merian C. Cooper and Ernest B. Schoedsack had found a friend in rising producer David O. Selznick, who brought them on board at RKO, with Cooper as production idea man. Schoedsack was the technical side of the pair, knowledgeable about the actual physical and technical side of filmmaking, and became the actual director of their projects, with Cooper as an associate producer and sometime co-director. They turned out what would be the first of a string of horror-tinged adventure movies, "The Most Dangerous Game" (1932), with Armstrong having a part in it, albeit a less dimensioned character who had an early demise--the film centered on Joel McCrea and still young silent screen veteran Fay Wray. Cooper saw much of himself in Armstrong's general personality and wanted him for a film that he had been wanting to make for quite a few years, an adventure yarn dealing with the stories he had heard during his years making films in jungles all over the world of giant, vicious apes.

The resulting film, "King Kong" (1933), would put Armstrong at stage center as big-time promoter Carl Denham (very much Cooper himself). The film also began co-star Fay Wray on the road to stardom. With Copper and Schoedsack co-directing and the legendary Willis H. O'Brien heading up a visual effects team supporting his for-the-time astounding animated miniature sequences, the film was a treasure trove for RKO, bringing newfound respect for a studio known mostly for its "B" action films and westerns. It was Armstrong's defining moment and set the stage for the plethora of leading man and second lead roles he would play through the 1930s.

A sequel, "Son of Kong" (1933), followed almost immediately with the same production team and, though not achieving the critical or box-office acclaim as its predecessor, showcased another Armstrong strength--a great sense of comedic timing that had been evident, but not really traded upon, in previous films.

Cooper--gorillas still on his mind--came calling for Armstrong again for his "Mighty Joe Young" (1949), which he made about midway in his association with partner John Ford in their Argosy Pictures venture under the wing of RKO. Armstrong was again a reincarnation of Carl Denham as Max O'Hara, a fast-talking promoter looking for a sensation in "Darkest Africa". The Ford touch is perhaps seen in the cowboys who go along with young Ben Johnson as romantic lead to enthusiastic--to say the least--Terry Moore with her pet gorilla Joe (about half as big as King Kong but definitely no ordinary gorilla). It is a great little movie, with more light-hearted tone than "Kong" and a red-tinted fire scene recalling silent films...

DON AMECHE AND TRADING PLACES

2026-04-26T07:12:00.000-07:00

Don Ameche's strong religious convictions made him uncomfortable with swearing. This proved to be a problem for the scene in the movie "Trading Places" (1983), where he had to shout out "F*ck him!" to a group of Wall Street executives. When he did act out the scene, it had to be done in one take, because Ameche refused to do a second one.

Ralph Bellamy and Ameche "cheerfully admitted" they were unfamiliar with Eddie Murphy and Dan Aykroyd's work prior to working on the film. The two also said that Murphy and Aykroyd acknowledged that they were unfamiliar with Bellamy and Ameche. While this was Bellamy's ninety-ninth film, and Ameche's forty-ninth, this was only Murphy's second film, and he joked: "Between the three of us, we've made one hundred fifty movies!"

The scene where Mortimer Duke (Ameche) is trying to catch the money clip, and having trouble, wasn't supposed to happen that way, but both kept going with it, and not breaking character, so it was kept in the movie.

This was Ameche's first film since "Suppose They Gave a War and Nobody Came" (1970). He had been doing television guest appearances. Ameche had no agent listed with the Screen Actors Guild, but he was in the phone book, so director John Landis simply called him and asked if he'd play the part. This movie jump started his return to theatrical films, including an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor for "Cocoon" (1985)...

FRANK SINATRA IN 1994

2026-04-22T06:47:00.000-07:00

At age 78, Frank Sinatra stood on stage before 20,000 fans — but something wasn’t right. Midway through a song, he faltered. The words, so familiar for decades, slipped from his memory. He paused, apologized softly, and began to walk off. For a moment, the silence in the arena was heavy. It felt like the quiet end of a monumental career.

But then, from the stillness, a single voice rose: “All right, Frank! Because we love you!” The words echoed through the venue, and suddenly the entire audience erupted in applause. It wasn’t polite. It was powerful, roaring, full of warmth. It reached Sinatra like a lifeline, reminding him of who he was and what he meant to people.

Moved by the outpouring, Sinatra turned around, walked back to the microphone, and dove into “Mack the Knife.” The performance that followed had all the old swagger, strength, and soul — a glimpse of the young crooner who had once commanded every room he entered. It was not a comeback. It was a reaffirmation.

That night didn't just save a performance. It extended a legend. Sinatra went on to sing for two more years, continuing to tour despite age, health, and doubt. What might have been his final curtain became one of the most touching moments of his career — not because of perfection, but because of the grace in imperfection.

Frank Sinatra may have been the Chairman of the Board, but in that moment, he was simply a man lifted by love. And thanks to one voice in the dark, the song — and the singer — went on."

THE LAST DAYS OF CLARK GABLE

2026-04-19T06:49:00.000-07:00

Clark Gable's last film was "The Misfits" (1961), with a script by Arthur Miller and directed by John Huston. Co-starring with Gable were Marilyn Monroe (in her last completed film), Montgomery Clift, Eli Wallach and Thelma Ritter. Many critics regard Gable's performance to be his finest, and Gable, after seeing the rough cuts, agreed, although the film did not receive any Oscar nominations. Miller wrote the screenplay for his wife Monroe; it was about two aging cowboys and a pilot that go mustanging in Reno, Nevada, that all fall for a blonde. In 1961, it was a somewhat disconnected film with its antihero western themes, but it has since become a classic.

In a 2002 documentary, Eli Wallach recalled the mustang wrangling scenes Gable insisted on performing himself, "You have to pass a physical to film that" and "He was a professional going home at 5 p.m. to a pregnant wife." The New York Times found "Mr. Gable's performance as a leathery old cowboy with a realistic slant on most plain things" ironically vital, with his death before the film's release.

On November 6, 1960, Gable was sent to Hollywood Presbyterian Medical Center in Los Angeles, California, where doctors found that he had suffered a heart attack. Newspaper reports the following day listed his condition as satisfactory. By the morning of November 16, he seemed to be improving, but he died that evening at the age of 59 from an arterial blood clot. Medical staff did not perform CPR for fear that the procedure would rupture Gable's heart, and a defibrillator was not available.

In an interview with Louella Parsons published soon after Gable's death about speculation on his physically demanding role in "The Misfits", wife Kay Gable said, "It wasn't the physical exertion that killed him. It was the horrible tension, the eternal waiting, waiting, waiting. He waited around forever, for everybody. He'd get so angry that he'd just go ahead and do anything to keep occupied." Monroe said that she and Kay had become close during the filming and would refer to Clark as "Our Man," while Arthur Miller, observing Gable on location, noted, "No hint of affront ever showed on his face."

On March 20, 1961, Kay Gable gave birth to Gable's only son, John Clark Gable, at the same hospital in which her husband had died four months earlier. Marilyn Monroe attended his son's baptism...

JACKIE COOGAN: THE ORIGINAL CHILD STAR

2026-04-16T09:31:00.000-07:00

Charlie Chaplin discovered Jackie Coogan in the Orpheum Theatre, a vaudeville house in Los Angeles, on the stage doing the shimmy, a then-popular dance. Coogan's father was also an actor, as was his younger brother, Robert. Coogan was a natural mimic and delighted Chaplin with his abilities. Chaplin cast him in a small role in "A Day's Pleasure" (1919). The following year, Chaplin cast Coogan as the abandoned child raised by his Tramp character in the silent comedy-drama "The Kid" (1921). In 1922, Coogan was cast in the title role in "Oliver Twist", directed by Frank Lloyd. Coogan was one of the first stars to be heavily merchandised. Peanut butter, stationery, whistles, dolls, records, and figurines were among the Coogan-themed merchandise on sale. He was tutored until the age of 10, when he entered Urban Military Academy and other prep schools.

As a child star, Coogan earned an estimated $3 to $4 million. When he turned 21 in October 1935, his fortune was believed to be well intact. His assets had been conservatively managed by his father, who had died in the car accident five months earlier. However, Coogan found that the entire amount had been spent by his mother and stepfather, Arthur Bernstein, on fur coats, diamonds and other jewelry, and expensive cars. Bernstein had been a financial advisor for the family and married Coogan's mother in late 1936. Coogan's mother and stepfather claimed Jackie enjoyed himself and simply thought he was playing before the camera. She insisted, "No promises were ever made to give Jackie anything," and claimed he "was a bad boy." Coogan sued them in 1938, but after his legal expenses, he received just $126,000 of the $250,000 remaining of his earnings. When he fell on hard times and asked Charlie Chaplin for assistance, Chaplin handed him $1,000 without hesitating.

The legal battle focused attention on child actors and resulted in the 1939 enactment of the California Child Actor's Bill, often referred to as the "Coogan Law" or the "Coogan Act". It required that a child actor's employer set aside 15% of the earnings in a trust (called a Coogan account), and specified the actor's schooling, work hours, and time off.

Coogan continued to act throughout his life, later earning renewed fame in middle age portraying a bumbling Uncle Fester in the 1960s television series "The Addams Family". After suffering from heart and kidney ailments, Coogan died of heart failure on March 1, 1984, at the age of 69, in Santa Monica, California. Coogan had a long history of heart trouble and hypertension and had previously suffered several strokes. He had been undergoing kidney dialysis when his blood pressure dropped. Coogan was taken to Santa Monica Hospital, where he died from cardiac arrest.At Coogan's request, his funeral was open to the public and was attended by several fans. John Astin, Coogan's co-star from The Addams Family, delivered the eulogy...

KITTY CARLISLE AND A NIGHT AT THE OPERA

2026-04-12T06:43:00.000-07:00

Kitty Carlisle, on working with the Marx Brothers on "A Night at the Opera" (1935):

"Groucho would come up to from time to time to ask me, 'Is this funny?'' Then, totally deadpan, he'd try out the line. I'd say, 'No, I don't think it is funny', and he'd go away absolutely crushed and try it out on everyone else in the cast. Chico was always playing cards in the back room and had to be called on the set. Harpo would work well until about eleven o'clock. Then he'd stretch out on the nearest piece of furniture and start calling at the top of his voice, 'Lunchie! Lunchie!'"

Carlisle initially refused to take the part when she was asked to mime to someone else's voice. She won, and the song she performs, "Alone", later became her signature tune.

The first sneak preview for this film, held in Long Beach, California, is generally considered one of the greatest bombs in Hollywood history. The Marx Brothers and Irving Thalberg wanted to survey the public's reception to the film, which contained greater continuity and a lengthier side-story romance than the troupe's previous films with Paramount. The audience at Long Beach, the first stop on the preview tour, despised the film and barely uttered a laugh. Cast members reported that Groucho Marx was despondent, and nearly suicidal, immediately following the poor Long Beach reception, while Chico Marx suggested that the crowd may have simply been feeling the after-effects of the recent death of the town's mayor. The reasons for the cool reception in Long Beach is unclear, but Thalberg urged the brothers to continue with the tour, and the next night's preview in San Diego produced riotous laughter that called the nerves of everyone involved...

A DISCOGRAPHY MOMENT: GENE KRUPA - APRIL 8, 1946

2026-04-08T09:29:00.000-07:00

On this day in 1946 - 80 years ago the great Gene Krupa and his orchestra recorded a series of transcription discs in Hollywood, California...

Date: April 8, 1946

Location: Radio Recorders, 7000 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood, CA
Label: Capitol

Gene Krupa and his Orchestra
Charlie Kennedy, Harry Terrill (as), Charlie Ventura, Buddy Wise (ts), Joe Koch (bar), Jimmy Millazzio, Red Rodney, Joe Triscari, Ray Triscari (t), Bob Ascher, Nick Gaglio, Tasso Harris, Dick Taylor (tb), Mike Triscari (g), Teddy Napoleon (p), Irv Lang (b), Joe Dale, Gene Krupa (d), Carolyn Grey, Buddy Stewart (v)

1. Yesterdays
2. Baby, Won’t You Please Come Home
3. Prisoner Of Love – vBS
4. 1 Ain’t Nowhere – vCG
5. Sweet Lorraine
6. Wire Brush Stomp
7. Old Folks At Home – vBS
8. You Go To My Head – vBS
9. Bird House*
10. Bugle Call Rag
11. In The Moon Mist – vBS
12. Where Or When – vBS
13. It’s Up To You
14. What Is This Thing Called Love
15. Idaho