Book Review-- Olivia de Havilland: Lady Triumphant

Olivia de Havilland: Lady Triumphant
Victoria Amador
University Press of Kentucky, 2019

It is comforting to know, that at this moment 102-year-old Olivia de Havilland is living in luxury in a Parisian hotel. With her bright white hair, pearls, and velvet caftans, she still entertains visitors, and shares pink champagne with them. That is behavior befitting the last of the greats of classic Hollywood. In a new book about de Havilland, Victoria Amador draws on her personal relationship with the actress, which includes indulging in sparkling wine together, to tell the story of her life, which was remarkable even for a movie star.

With her brown, doe eyes and sweet smile, it can be easy to forget de Havilland's iron will. That gentle beauty belies the determination of a woman who was before her time in the way she fought for career, independence, and happiness on her own terms. Perhaps her most famous accomplishment beyond acting is a legal victory she won early in her carer, known as The de Havilland Decision, in which she challenged the studio’s ability to add time onto seven-year contracts for suspensions; a win which changed the fabric of Hollywood and made life better for generations of film workers.

She had agency in her personal life as well. De Havilland made her career a priority for years, having affairs with the likes of John Huston and Jimmy Stewart and earning herself the title of “bachelor”.  When her eventual marriage to writer Marcus Goodrich didn’t work out, she got out with a minimum of fuss and with custody of her beloved son. When her second marriage to Paris Match editor Pierre Galante fizzled into a friendship, she crafted a modern, friendly arrangement for the sake of her children that worked brilliantly. In the end she managed to have a strong career and a satisfying personal life, all on her own terms.

Amador covers all of these events, but she focuses on de Havilland’s career and how she fought to play roles with meaning on the stage, screen, and television. Popular success was never enough for the actress; she wanted the challenge and glory of great parts. By the time she got them, she felt she’d aged out of screen stardom and turned her focus to family. It was not quite the end for her though and she had the luxury of being selective and filming what she pleased in the final years of her career.

The book is organized in an unusual way, it is essentially chronological, but it has chapters devoted to the core elements of her life, like her relationship with frequent costar Errol Flynn, her legendary appearance as Melanie in Gone with the Wind (1939), and her notoriously rocky relationship with her sister, the actress Joan Fontaine. Amador seems to be aware that readers will skip to these topics that have so often been the subject of juicy gossip and she approaches them all with a steady perspective, challenging what rumors she can, but granting de Havilland her wish to keep some things private. She strikes a good balance between “here’s what happened” and “none of your business.”

For the most part I appreciated the way these focused chapters gave Amador the space to fully examine the major elements of de Havilland’s life. The necessary repetition of facts and events in the more general chapters could be a bit tedious and confusing, but for the most part the narrative flow dips back and forth in time with ease. I was a little more disturbed by a couple of instances where her sources seemed unreliable: one where she refers to something learned on the notoriously undependable Internet Movie Database, another where she admits that her source was "admittedly dubious," but went ahead and shared what they said anyway.

Amador has had the opportunity to meet with de Havilland multiple times over the years and has maintained a friendly correspondence with the actress. As a result, she has gotten many direct quotes from her which are as interesting for the character they reveal as they are for the clarification of various details. I appreciated that while the author clearly wanted to be respectful of her friend and subject, she didn’t hesitate to acknowledge her flaws. The book could have easily been a hagiography written by an adoring fan, but she seems to understand that kind of whitewashing would be a disservice to such a forthright actress.

Many thanks to University Press of Kentucky for providing a copy of the book for review.

On Blu-ray: The Swarm (1978), The Cyclops (1956), The Queen of Outer Space (1958)--Oh My!

I love films that entertain in ways their creators haven't planned. It’s such a happy accident when a story approached with sober intent becomes a little off-kilter, and as a result much more interesting. These kinds of flicks are my bread and butter, because they serve as a constant reminder not to take anything too seriously. That’s a philosophy one should consume daily. A trio of films like these recently made their Blu-ray debut through Warner Archive and I had a blast watching them.

The Swarm (1978)

This bee-blasted epic is the flick that killed the enormously profitable disaster movie industry. Helmed by the granddaddy of the genre, Irwin Allen, it was such a flop that the director refused to ever discuss the film again. Disaster films aren’t known for their sober dramatics, so the fact that this take on large scale chaos is known for being one of the goofiest of the genre is something special.

The Swarm seems to star just about everyone with name recognition who held a SAG card at the time, as was typical for the genre. The massive cast is led by Michael Caine as a scientific expert who is always arching an eyebrow and shouting because he can’t believe how dumb everyone is about bees. He falls for a military doctor played by Katharine Ross, who usually has someone making her life miserable in her films, so she might as well deal with bees. In the midst of the “always constipated” phase of his career, Henry Fonda plays another scientist, though he does demonstrate uncharacteristic warmth for that period. Other names in this astonishing gathering of stars include Richard Chamberlin, Richard Widmark, Ben Johnson, Patty Duke, Jose Ferrer, Lee Grant, Bradford Dillman, Slim Pickens, Fred MacMurray, and Olivia de Havilland.

As an elegant schoolteacher sought after by Johnson and MacMurray, de Havilland perfectly captures the spirit of the film in a notorious moment where she observes the destruction caused by the bees outside the schoolhouse window and slowly turns to utter “ohhhhh” in a deep, guttural moan. It’s how you feel watching the movie and it also encapsulates the tone of the frenzied performances, gigantic bee hallucinations, and sweaty PTSD induced by these furry guys.

For a while it’s a blast. Then the action slows down a bit too much in the second half. However, nothing can erase the chic delight of Olivia’s old Hollywood-style anguish.

Special features on the disc include a theatrical trailer and the behind-the-scenes documentary Inside the Swarm.

The Cyclops (1956)

This is the kind of movie where a scientist muses, “Now I know I wasn’t imagining things when I thought I saw that giant lizard yesterday” in the same tone he might wonder where he put his car keys. Astonishing things happen, but no one seems to find them all that strange. The titular mono-sighted monster of this kooky sci-fi romp doesn’t make an appearance until minute 45 of its 66 minute running time (though you do get a dramatic blast of “Cyclops vision” before that happens). Before then, in addition to that oversized reptile, you get a glimpse of an enormous bird chomping on a rat, and the feeling that something has gone drastically awry.

Before these astonishing creatures make their appearance, a group of four embarks on an expedition. Susan Winter (Gloria Talbott) assembles three men to assist in her search for her missing test pilot fiancé (Duncan Parkin). They are a varied bunch: a scientist (James Craig), a pilot, and a mining expert (Lon Chaney, Jr.) who’s an opportunist with his own extracurricular activities planned for this journey. Those giant creatures, which reached mega-size due to that popular 1950s culprit radiation, change their plans.

Legendary, and that overused term is apt here, voice artist Paul Frees supplies the animal sounds, which are amazing because they fit the beasts, and yet sound precisely human at the same time. You can almost picture him at the microphone, having a wonderful time.

Once the one-eyed wonder appears, he doesn’t speak, instead alternating between groaning and shouting. His abrupt entrance at the mouth of a cave, where he pops up and bellows “RAWR!” is bizarre in the most delightful way. He is in full “get off my lawn” mode, no curiosity, no fear, just pure rage that these people exist. Eventually he adds lust to his repertoire when he spots Susan, though you’ve got to wonder what he plans to do with such a tiny lady. Is this her boyfriend on radiation?

Despite his having no verbal ability, Susan insists on asking a barrage of questions, all of which are answered by a moan and more longing looks. The exchange gives the audience the opportunity to examine the creature’s melted face, crowded, dirty teeth and unblinking marble of an eyeball. The moment ends abruptly, because a snake plops onto the monster’s neck and he slowly begins to wind the confused, but remarkably calm animal around his neck in an attempt to make it look like they are fighting. That limp battle pretty much sums up the spirit of this odd flick.

The Queen of Outer Space (1958)

When I first heard that Zsa Zsa Gabor was the star of this sci-fi flick I thought she was a perfect choice for Queen of Outer Space. It turns out that title goes to Laurie Mitchell, Gabor's actually a scientist, but the kind of scientist who wears evening gowns and a full face of make-up while doing experiments, so she remained on brand. She’s also part of the resistance on her home planet Venus. The entire population is women, because men have been banned, and you know our girl Zsa Zsa wouldn’t stand for that.

Queen of Outer Space begins on Earth, with a group of men embarking on a journey to visit a space station. They have to change course though when the station is destroyed before their eyes. When they land on Venus, the crew is pleased to find themselves surrounded by women in miniskirts and heels. Obviously this script was written by a man, because that would never be a popular costume on a planet with only ladies.

The men find it hilarious that ladies are in control and do everything short of smacking bottoms to show they have no respect for their captors. While most of the women see this as all the more reason to keep men away from Venus, Zsa Zsa and her friends find the men irresistible. The battle of the sexes begins, with warriors in heels pursuing their masculine invaders down starkly, but tastefully decorated corridors, while Gabor and company get as much snoggling time as they can with their new boyfriends.

It’s all very much of its time; some of the men’s lines make you want to throw a rock at the screen, but the high camp feel of it makes up for a lot. It’s also a great looking film. The set design is gloriously artificial and, as impractical as they are, the ladies’ costumes are beautiful as well. There are even some innovations that predict the future, like a flat screen TV with a remote that the queen uses to make video calls.

The disc includes commentary by the Queen of Outer Space herself, Laurie Mitchell. She has a pleasant chat with film historian Tom Weaver. While she doesn’t have any dirt to dish about life on the set, her memories are interesting to hear.


Many thanks to Warner Archive for providing copies of the films for review. To order, visit The Warner Archive Collection.

Book Review: Olivia de Havilland Adores Paris in Every Frenchman Has One

Every Frenchman Has One
Olivia de Havilland
Crown Archetype (2016 reissue)

What does every Frenchman have? I wouldn't dream of spoiling the surprise for you. Suffice to say, it isn't as sexy as you might think.

In reading the recent reissue of Olivia de Havilland's 1961 memoir of adjusting to life in France, I didn't learn anything about the interior life of Academy Award-winning actress, but I enjoyed the light-hearted fun of this breezy read. It's a series of unconnected vignettes about her years in mid-century France, covering, among other things, her social life, learning the language, hairdressing and the less predictable topics of liver care and the bladder capacity of the French.

The chapters float by as if buoyed on a sea of froth. de Havilland captures the essence of her new culture with an eye for detail, but always with a humorous air. It is short, and clever. You could gobble up this book in one sitting if you got caught in its spell.

de Havilland moved to Paris, France in the 1950s for love. Freshly divorced at the Cannes Film Festival, she had met, and connected with journalist and Paris Match editor Pierre Galante there, and when the French government deemed she had remained unattached for a sufficient period, the pair married and took up residence with her three-year-old son from her previous marriage to writer Marcus Goodrich. This new union wouldn't last, but the pair would remain friends until Galante's death and de Havilland would make her permanent home in Paris.

The action takes place after de Havilland's Hollywood heyday and a few years before her entertaining late career trio of The Light in the Piazza (1962), Lady in a Cage (1964) and Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1964). She doesn't speak much of her career, though there are a few mentions, including references to Not as a Stranger (1955) and The Proud Rebel (1958).

While she doesn't completely ignore her career, de Havilland's focus is on her life away from the camera. Her problems are definitely of the privileged white lady variety. She becomes faint when the painters mix up the color combo for the façade of her house, and she devotes much attention to the horrors of instructing French workers in the craft of making an American-style dishwashing station. You also hear of her humiliation in not knowing how to properly address the Comtesse de Paris and the headache-inducing problems of understanding fancy French dinner invitations.

It's an interesting peek into a world of wealth and prestige, in which an American movie star can be happily distraught by the cosmetic problems of life. Of course it is a fantasy, spotlighting the glitz while discarding the grime, but it is a most entertaining one.

On DVD: Olivia deHavilland Goes Screwball in Government Girl (1943)

As a screwball comedy, Government Girl misses the mark, but while the laughs never come when they seem to be prompted, I was never bored watching this film. It's not exactly good, it definitely isn't bad, or even so bad it's good. Perhaps the best description is odd.

Olivia de Havilland is Elizabeth "Smokey" Allard, a secretary working for the US in packed-to-the-gills World War II era Washington. Assigned to an ambitious munitions manufacturer (Sonny Tufts) with plenty of business savvy, but no knack for handling government red tape, she helps him navigate D.C. politics and falls in love. Given the lackluster, and sometimes unpleasantly aggressive attitudes of her other suitors, you can't blame her.

Smokey also tries to find a private room for her perky roommate May (Anne Shirley) and her new husband, a sergeant who she married on his leave, and tries to manage the slights of Agnes Moorehead as a breezily snooty D.C. hostess. In fact, there's rarely a moment that she isn't blasting full speed ahead to solve some kind of a problem.

The cast is decent, several rungs above serviceable, but they often seem to be acting in different films. Most noticeable is the lack of chemistry between de Havilland and Tufts. It's hard to believe they have much interest in each other, let alone feel blossoming love. Moorehead comes off the best, cozily comfortable in her deliciously rude role. She elevates everyone around her in her brief scenes.

It's easy to spot the scenes that are supposed to be hilarious. There's a wild motorcycle ride and a drunk scene so wacky you wonder how it even came to be. I don't recall laughing much at either, but I loved both of them. The pacing was weird, and there was no magic to the execution, but the actors are uniformly goofy, as if they all came from the same insane asylum. There's palpable energy here, if misdirected, and it was fascinating to watch.

I enjoyed the way Government Girl explored the challenges of life in D.C. in the early days of the war. The city was full of young women working temporarily for the war effort. They filled every available room, preened for the few eligible bachelors in town and scrambled for steak, stockings and other wartime rarities. All of these issues are played for humor and hit the mark more often than not.

I'm not a big fan of de Havilland, I respect her more than I like her, but her missteps in Government Girl almost made me adore her. I've read that she desperately did not want to make this film. She had been fighting for stronger roles and this part on loan-out to RKO did not meet her standards. In fact, she would not make another film for two years as she fought to be released from her Warner Bros. contract.

I didn't know that when I watched the movie, but in hindsight, I'm guessing that the weird vibe I kept catching from her was resentment. Maybe she overplays and flails around because she actually couldn't handle this kind of comedy, but I wonder if some of the off-kilter quality of her performance comes from boiling anger. Perhaps that's why even though she isn't particularly funny, de Havilland is strangely appealing in this role. The fire in the real woman was colliding with the frothy intent of her character.

Many thanks to Warner Archive for providing a copy of the film for review. This is a Manufacture on Demand (MOD) DVD. To order, visit The Warner Archive Collection.

TV Tuesday: Olivia de Havilland on the Dinah Shore Show

In an appearance on The Dinah Shore Show, Olivia de Havilland gets adorably flustered while she gushes about her romance with Errol Flynn. Panelmates Shelley Winters, Shirley Jones, and Eva Marie Saint look thrilled, and a bit stunned, by her candor.