Riding the Yellow Trolley Car: Selected Nonfiction

  But revival was impossible. The era of the Valentino style was as dead as its central figure. The closest thing to Valentino in the subsequent years was Robert Taylor (who starred with Garbo in a remake of Camille). He was equally handsome, but the women had already seen Gable in his undershirt, saw him spank unruly women, and a new romantic style was born. Tyrone Power (who did The Mark of Zorro, a remake of a silent Fairbanks film of the same name, and similar in plot to The Eagle with its masked hero posing as a foppish dandy) was another Valentino offshoot—the intense and pretty swashbuckler.

  We passed from Gable’s supremacy (over Taylor, Power, and other challengers) and into the time of Bogart, who brought the potentiality for meaningful fantasy to the average man. Bogie wasn’t a pretty boy. He wasn’t even handsome like Gable. He wasn’t a stripper, not even an undershirt man. He was just tough. Also, he was hip. And hipness was suddenly a romantic quality.

  The male audience could also get carried away by Bogie in a way that wasn’t possible with Valentino, who was a bit too dainty. Valentino played a tough sheik, a fearless torero, a masked outlaw. But he didn’t seem authentic. When Bogart punched a gossip columnist in a nightclub, off-screen, it wasn’t a publicity stunt. It was an extension of the personality we’d seen him manifest on the screen. Valentino got his publicity by press agentry, by having a canary and black bedroom, by naming his hilltop hacienda Falcon’s Lair, and so on.

  What Valentino did have, and this is what impressed that first-time woman viewer, was a real talent for silent film acting. The women doted, to be sure, on that brooding look that said he was an obviously exciting lover. But he was also capable of facial expressions that reflected what the film’s moment called for—innocence, stupidity, guilt, semi-debauchery, stunned incredulousness, a mind full of high jinks, foppish fear, willful vengeance, and much more.

  Very likely it was this talent that gave his handsome face its notorious fame; for dozens of other handsome faces flashed once, then disappeared. Gable also had this talent-plus-looks, probably in equivalent degree. Bogart didn’t have much in the way of traditional good looks, but his face went with his toughness, and he had more talent than Gable and Valentino put together.

  However they differed, the element they all had in common was the star “personality.” Albert Camus wrote that “to have a personality of your own is an idea which is peculiar to a certain form of civilization. Other people may find it the worst of misfortunes.”

  In the bygone era of the stars, having such a personality was essential. You reasserted it, as Valentino did in each film, and you packed the movie houses forever. People knew you, loved you.

  It may seem unfair to give the last word of a Valentino essay over to Bogart, but Bogie, because of his intelligence, would seem a far better candidate for “going down through posterity” (as Clarence Brown predicted) than Valentino or Gable. The point is not whether we’re talking of silent films, or even good films. The point is what you do with your personality.

  We can be curious about Valentino if we’ve never seen him, and maybe we’ll go back for more. But it will very probably be mere curiosity, soon sated. Fun. With Bogart, it’s not just the fun of films, or absorbing the work of a film star. It’s not even the study of such a sociological phenomenon as Valentino was. The issue is, much more interestingly, an awareness of life, and our enduring attraction to people who have that awareness to an extraordinary degree. It pervades Bogart’s personality, but not Valentino’s. Valentino knew what made women sigh, but Bogart knew what made them tick.

  1969

  Cassius Clay Arrives

  At five minutes to ten there was plenty of 5–1 and 6–1 in the lobby of the Palace Theater. There were a few takers, such as the man who liked the odds, and the fact that Joe Louis hasn’t picked a winner in eight fights.

  The sentiments were overwhelmingly the same: this Clay can’t fight. Liston catches him and it’s all over.

  The Theater Network Television image of ringside at Miami Beach flashed onto the Palace screen, showing the jammed ringside.

  “Imagine paying $250 to see this thing?” a man said.

  Cassius was doing a cha-cha-cha in his corner, and on the screen announcer Steve Ellis was chatting with Joe Louis, dapper with his mustache, bow tie and gray hair. The great champs were introduced at ringside: Rocky Marciano, Sugar Ray and contender Eddie Machen. Then came the challenger: Cassius. The first sound was a boo and then mild applause in the Palace.

  The camera closed in on the champion, the glowering mask, the sullen jowls of Sonny Liston, looking unblinkingly at the challenger.

  “He won’t have to hit Cassius. He’ll scare him to death.”

  But then the fight began and the crowd that expected a quick knockout watched Clay pedal back away from the champion, who pushed forward, shuffling like an old Joe Louis, but awkward, full of power but missing with a wild left and a dozen jabs. The marvel was Cassius’s head. Sonny couldn’t hit it.

  “Come on Cassius,” was the cry. “Stay away from him. Don’t get him, mister. Keep running, Clay.” Clay pushed his glove in Sonny’s face, danced and bobbed.

  “How do you like this Clay?”

  Applause went up at the challenger’s performance and it was clear even then that fight fans had a new favorite. “Twenty-two and he’s still got a long way to go, if he don’t get killed.”

  The second was a quiet round. Mike Ferrandino and Tim Sullivan in the Palace balcony were enthused, vocalized their enthusiasm.

  “Keep moving … coast … keep coasting … don’t close your eyes.”

  It was a slow round but: “Well, he goes two full ones anyway.”

  Came another voice: “I got my five dollars’ worth. I seen two rounds.”

  In the third round Sonny was on the ropes and the sentiment you could hear was “Come on Clay … look, Clay’s got Liston so mad he don’t know what he’s doing … uh oh, Clay’s slowing down … yeah, this is it … Clay’s groggy … he’s got him now … he’s hurt somewheres … he ain’t even trying to get away.”

  Post-round analysis was that Clay had been hit in the gut, the solar plexus, under the heart, someplace where it counted.

  Steve Ellis announced in the fourth that Sonny had a puff below his right eye. Cassius’s newfound friends warned him: “Keep that glove in his kisser … you might make five rounds if you stay away from them corners.”

  In the rest period before the fifth, Clay proved again his talent for making faces and Joe Louis commented: “I think Clay surprised the whole world.” Then came the news from Steve Ellis that Clay was blinking, had something in his right eye. Everybody knew what that meant: “This is the buildup for the next fight … he’s got his alibi all ready … this is it … this is the round … he ain’t tryin’ to throw a punch … what is it? … neither one is doing anything … now what the hell is going on? … the fix is in.”

  Joe Louis explained in the rest period it could have been Vaseline in Cassius’s eye. The fans believed it was a rematch.

  In the sixth: “It’s gravy from here. I got six to five it wouldn’t go this far.” But then Cassius came out dancing and he was a hero again: “He’s got some heart … you gotta have heart … he’s a cocky kid, that’s what he is.”

  The round was slow to start, with Clay jabbing and Liston especially slow-moving. It ended slow, with jabs and feints, and then with a closeup of Liston in his corner: “The ugly bear is cut.” The camera focused on the left side of his face, where a welt had risen. And then suddenly Cassius was in the middle of the ring, dancing, his arms in the air. And then the referee raised his arm in victory.

  And then: “Oh my God.”

  Cassius was rarely off camera then, speaking, screaming, throwing kisses, and when the microphone wasn’t near, just mugging crazily to fortify his image as the sprout who makes faces at the world.

  Cassius explained his victory: “I’m the greatest.… I don’t have a mark on me.… I’m only twenty-two years old.…
I must be the greatest.… You must listen to me.… I’m the greatest.… I whupped him.… He couldn’t touch me.… I’m one of the prettiest things that ever lived.”

  And then, of course, he recited his poetry:

  “I was gonna take him in eight,

  As you can see.

  But he wanted to go to heaven,

  So I took him in seven.”

  Joe Louis on camera called the fight the “biggest upset in boxing history.” It was all of that. It reversed the field of opinion of the world in twenty minutes.

  “Boy,” said Bucky Greenwood. “He’s the greatest.”

  “Cassius is faster than Liston,” said Arnold Harris. “I like him as a champ. He fought. He fought.”

  Said Danny Andrews, five-time Golden Gloves featherweight champion locally: “Liston was a great champ, but he never talked to interest people and pull people on his side.”

  Said fourteen-year old Hubert Ballou:

  “Liston, the bum,

  Is done.”

  1964

  Ballet:

  Everybody Loves a Fat Girl, Right?

  “Want to dance with the ballet?” the headline read.

  Does a kid ballplayer want to play with the Yankees? Do actress hopefuls want a screen test? Does anybody want to hit the lottery?

  News stories heralding the tryouts for the children’s parts in the New York City Ballet’s upstate premiere performances of The Nutcracker on July 4 to 7, indicated forty-one children would be used in the performances. But when Una Kai, the blonde ballet mistress of the company, looked out at the 173 very young ladies in anxious waiting, she shortened their odds considerably: “There are only twenty-five parts, so a lot of you are going to … I’m sorry … But …”

  The tall, erstwhile ballerina, wearing street clothing, a blue dress of miniskirt length, semi-high heels and gold jewelry stood in the middle of the rehearsal hall at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center. The 173 children lined three walls, two deep, looking generally professional in leotards, tights, ballet slippers (a few in toe shoes) and in varying color combinations of black, white, pink, blue, and one young lady in purple.

  The call was for 3:00 P.M. but at 3:25 it was bedlam in the hall with a long line of girls still not registered. But the line dwindled at last and the ballet mistress shushed the noise and put the gawking parents and dance teachers out of the room. Then she broke the children into age groups, eight to nine, nine to ten, ten to eleven, twelve and older.

  She confronted the oldest group and asked for those with only a year or so training, or less, to raise their hand. The children eyed her like army recruits looking with suspicious eyes on a corporal asking for volunteers. Nobody raised a hand.

  “I really only need advanced dancers out of this group,” she added, and a few finally confessed to being beginners and were weeded out. The older group was sent outside to wait. Young ballerinas bite their nails when they are apprehensive, just like ordinary little girls.

  “Now,” said Miss Kai, “all you eight-to-nine people … make a straight line … shhhhh … Now we’re going to salute.… Feet together … 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8 … Salute on 7-8.… Stand at attention.… That doesn’t look like attention.… Be a soldier.… 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8 … Put your hand down when I come back to the count of one.…”

  The eight-to-nine people saluted with something less than precision. No Rockettes they. Miss Kai eyed them and went to the far end, where the smallest of the small people stood. She drew out four. Those not picked looked straight ahead, wondering what it meant. After all, this couldn’t be the end. Nobody even danced yet.

  Miss Kai lined up the nine-to-ten people, and repeated the process, picked eight, then the ten-to-eleven people. She had two dozen lined up, and sized them by height. And it was obvious now who were the chosen few. It was obvious (Wasn’t it?) (No, probably not) that the choice was being made on the size of the girls, not on their balletic talent.

  Then she had the group sized completely, eighteen girls only out of perhaps 125. The eyes of all followed her every motion. She moved back to the front of the hall and talked to them all again.

  “There’s no dancing involved in these parts,” she said. “It’s really by size and shape that I’ve chosen. Don’t feel too badly.”

  Lips quivered, small faces registered large shock. The filing out en masse was the evacuation of a disaster area. Miss Kai explained privately her method of selection: “I just chose by size and shape. I couldn’t take any fat ones. I chose all the skinnies.”

  Her purpose was to tailor the children to the elaborate and fanciful costumes already made—the toy soldiers, the angels. The advance publicity was explicit: nobody more than four feet ten inches would be chosen. But it didn’t say anything about poundage.

  The older group was called back from the hallway and broken into several groups of ten. From about fifty, seven would be chosen for dancing roles that called for the use of hoops. Miss Kai started the eliminations by having each group twice do grands jetés across the floor. Quickly she eliminated the fat girls, pointed them to the corner. Then she narrowed the field to about twenty and told the rest: “We can’t use you. Thank you for coming.” A child who tried mightily to influence the ballet mistress by always being in the foreground, always looking into the mistress’s eyes when she danced, doing not what came naturally but very likely what Mama told her would work, was eliminated.

  “You can’t use me?” she asked.

  “No, we can’t use you,” Miss Kai said.

  That child’s problem was that she was just not very good, not in the same league with the seven accomplished young people finally chosen, one of them a boy who travels to New York City each week for his dance classes. These seven, said Miss Kai, were also chosen for their slenderness, but technique, ability were important.

  When the selections were complete and all but the twenty-five chosen ones were dismissed, it was time for insistent mothers. “They told my daughter to wait, but she never danced.” … Mistake, sorry. “My daughter is a little confused. She said she was picked and then not picked.” … No, not.

  And the losers: “I don’t think it was fair. I didn’t get a chance to dance.… See that girl over there in the blue dress? She’s crying.… My sister made it.… See the girl in pink? She made it.… The ballet lady told the bigger girls that she rejected them because they were too fat. I don’t think that was very nice.”

  Everybody loves a fat girl, right?

  Wrong.

  1968

  Roberta Sue Ficker Is Going to Become Suzanne Farrell

  “A lot of it is taste,” said Suzanne Farrell.

  A lot of what is taste? Well, liking Suzanne Farrell, for instance. That doesn’t put you in a minority, but there is an element that thinks she is still young, not mature enough to lead a ballet company yet, said one eminence of the critical world. That could be. Also it couldn’t. Take George Balanchine, for instance, who creates ballets for her, who gives her the plums such as the lead in his revised version of “Slaughter on Tenth Avenue.” Take him.

  “Mr. B. does like me,” said Suzanne, “and not some other ballerinas. And he’s been criticized for that.”

  Being ill-equipped indeed to decide whether or not Suzanne Farrell should, or should not, lead a ballet company such as the New York City Ballet, of which she has been a part since 1961, let us begin by affirming the future: that if she isn’t ready now, she will be. The affirmation stems more from faith than from reason, faith in a particular kind of talent that shows itself, even to an outsider’s eye, to be a singular thing.

  Watching her perform was like rereading Young Man with a Horn, the Dorothy Baker novel in which the young Bix Beiderbecke–like hero plays cornet like no one else on the scene, a boy coming from, nowhere into the full-blown world of jazz and establishing his authority with a flourish. The same theme was repeated with less subtlety in The Hustler, pool-playing wunderkind fresh in from the street whipping Minnesota Fats, the great one.
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  It is the quality of being recognizably extraordinary.

  It was recognizable throughout July when the New York City ballet performed at Saratoga Performing Arts Center, and it was indeed recognized by this noncritic of the dance on the night that Suzanne Farrell, twenty-two, born Roberta Sue Ficker of Cincinnati, a roller-skating, tree-climbing tomboy until Kismet and other talent scouts directed her toward a career in ballet, was performing on stage at Saratoga, first in “Barocco” and then in “Slaughter.”

  She finished the classically elegant “Barocco,” with music by Bach and movement by Balanchine, and then she was, all of a sudden, that doomed stripper in the skit within the play, the “Slaughter” sequence from “On Your Toes,” with music by Rodgers and Hart and movement by Balanchine. But this movement was also by Farrell. There was Roberta Sue showing Gypsy Rose and Sally, and all the rest of them who were alive and kicking on the runways of 1936, what they should have looked like but no doubt didn’t when they did their stuff. Bump bump. Kiss and toss a flower. Grind grind. Twirl a pretty garter.

  Could this be the same girl whose performance of a Stravinsky-Balanchine ballet was described as “a living piece of kinetic sculpture”? Was this the girl with “every physical gift, from the pure, beautiful Botticelli face to the long, strong and pliant body whose turnout already has an air of authority”? Was this “the seraphic Farrell”?

  One and the same.

  “‘Slaughter’? It’s fun,” she said. “It’s easy because it’s just a pleasure. It’s fun because I get to be a nasty girl, which believe it or not is a diversion for me.”

  But that stripper routine. The authority she brought to it.

  “I’ve never been,” she said, smiling demurely, meaning not, of course, that she had never been a stripper, but meaning that she had never even seen a stripper in the native habitat of strippers. And so the logical assumption is that Roberta Sue had been choreographed to a fare-thee-well by Mr. Balanchine. But no.