20K Leagues Under The Sea

Contributed by Greg Orypeck

Over the years, especially since actors began to talk, there has been a general consensus among both movie-goers and critics that certain stars, able to submerge themselves in the personalities of an historical or fictional character, become entirely transformed—new—individuals. Bordering on a cliché, but true nonetheless, they were “born to play” their parts.

These roles are forever thereafter associated with them, and all subsequent attempts by other stars pale by comparison. In some cases, an individual star/role may be unsurpassed, even unchallenged; occasionally, as with F. Murray Abraham’s portrayal of Salieri in Amadeus, though it rates the “born to play” category, a star may rise from obscurity for just one moment of glory.

How many “born to play” stars come to mind? Fifty, maybe? Hardly. Far less.

First, the elimination from the running of those who, though Oscar winners, were simply playing themselves, however well: Gary Cooper in Sergeant York (was he not just as good in Mr. Deeds Goes to Town?), Burt Lancaster in Elmer Gantry (conceivably, Spencer Tracy seared us more that year in Inherit the Wind) and Charlton Heston in Ben-Hur (James Stewart’s absolute best role in Anatomy of a Murder topped Heston’s standard stiff mannerisms and stony expressions).

The stars who transcended their own psyches to create once-in-a-lifetime roles might be numbered on the fingers of two hands, depending upon how severe the criterion. Among the possibilities, there are—and we speak, always, in the present tense, since these stars live and breathe on film—Gloria Swanson in Sunset Blvd. and Paul Scofield in A Man for All Seasons, to name two. Olivia de Havilland rightly won an Oscar for The Heiress, a broader, more three-dimensional role than her nominated Melanie in Gone with the Wind. Orson Welles was nominated for Citizen Kane but did not win. He should have. The list, if not endless, is varied and tantalizing—and some deserving stars were not even Oscar-nominated.

For the moment, and for this one view, the approach of a star per decade, from the 1930s to the ’70s, does narrow the list, with maybe a doubling in some decades.

1930s - The ’30s? Hey! Can there be any doubt? Who comes to mind? Especially for women and lovers of soap operas on the grandest scale. The obvious: Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind. Her Scarlet O’Hara—originally named “Pansy” in the book—is strong-willed, even for, in reality, a frail, diminutive, not always healthy English woman who had dreamed of playing the Southern belle, and had read and reread the book before coming to Hollywood. In her second scene—with Thomas Mitchell, her father in the film—she appears weak and simpering at the prospect of losing a beau. But that night, during family prayers, she abruptly becomes adamant and resolute—and remains so for the remainder of the film, maintaining that selfish, proud, deceitful, coquettish, materialistic, charming, self-centered nature that disgusted and shocked family and fascinated and disarmed her male admirers. Leigh may be the quintessential example of a star born to play a role.

GWTW was a product of that unsurpassed year of great films, 1939. Before examining the next decade, in that same year there was, not one, but, in fact, two films which solidified the career of an actor who became the ideal Sherlock Holmes and came the closest, many think, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s image of his detective creation. The Hound of the Baskervilles and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes thrust into movie history, almost casually by 20th Century-Fox, the personage of Basil Rathbone. Despite having already established himself as one of filmdom’s greatest villains (in Captain Blood and The Adventures of Robin Hood), his incisive diction, calm demeanor, intelligent delivery, even his dramatic profile, lent credence to his becoming, after all, Sherlock Holmes himself, in the flesh.

1940s - From the abundant choices of “born-to-play” roles in the ’40s, Humphrey Bogart’s defining moment comes rather early in the decade, in 1941. His Rick in Casablanca has earned him immortality, he was nominated for The Caine Mutiny and won an Oscar for The African Queen. But, no, his archetypal role is in The Maltese Falcon, still the greatest detective film, even if some feel his Sam Spade is an extension, to a degree, of his gangster roles of the ’30s. Thanks to an irresistible supporting trio of Mary Astor, Sydney Greenstreet and Peter Lorre, screenplay and direction by John Huston and cinematographer Arthur Edeson, Bogart and the film, both, practically jump from the screen. [click to continue…]