The New Biographical Dictionary of Film: Completely Updated and Expanded (440 page)

Then came two films that radically enlarged his image:
Fort Apache
(48, Ford), in which he played a cavalry captain, and
Red River
(48, Howard Hawks). Not least of his achievements as a guide to players is the way Hawks was the first to see the slit-eyed, obdurate side to Wayne’s character. Tom Dunson is a fine character study: a man made hard by an early mistake and by the emphasis on achievement with which he tried to conceal that mistake. With Ford again, Wayne was one of
Three Godfathers
(48), a truly awful movie. But in 1949, he was Captain Nathan Brittles at the point of retirement in
She Wore a Yellow Ribbon
(Ford), and in 1950 the trilogy was completed with the leisurely
Rio Grande
(Ford). Asked to be older, a husband and a father, Wayne became human and touching.

All the while, Wayne had soldiered on at Republic:
The Wake of the Red Witch
(48, Edward Ludwig);
The Fighting Kentuckian
(49, George Waggner); and
Sands of Iwo Jima
(49, Allan Dwan). In 1951, Wayne made two oddities at RKO:
Flying Leathernecks
(Nicholas Ray) and
Jet Pilot
(Josef von Sternberg, but remade by Howard Hughes), and in 1952 he made his last, and best, film at Republic: as
The Quiet Man
(John Ford)—which reunited him with Maureen O’Hara (his costar from
Rio Grande
), one of the few actresses capable of addressing and interesting him.

Wayne was now a Warners actor—not that the films were much better:
Big Jim McLain
(52, Ludwig)—one of the first movies in which Wayne’s rabid anti-Communism was made clear;
Trouble Along the Way
(53, Michael Curtiz); and
Island in the Sky
(53, William Wellman). But
Hondo
(53, John Farrow) was far better in the way it pursued the abrasive solitary man revealed in
Red River. The High and the Mighty
(54) and
Blood Alley
(55)—both by Wellman—were above average, but
The Sea Chase
(55, Farrow) was foolish and
The Conqueror
(55, Dick Powell) ludicrous with Wayne a sulky Genghis Khan. Next, however, came
The Searchers
(56, Ford), one of his finest films—once more a study of an unapproachable, stubborn man, finally excluded from the family reunion as a romantic but lonely figure facing the landscape. He coasted with
The Wings of Eagles
(57, Ford),
Legend of the Lost
(57, Hathaway), and
The Barbarian and the Geisha
(58, John Huston), before making
Rio Bravo
(59, Hawks). Once more, Hawks enlarged Wayne by concentrating on an alcoholic Dean Martin and having Wayne watch him “like a friend.” It worked—as did the application of Angie Dickinson’s talkative emotional crises to Wayne’s solidity—so that
Rio Bravo
is not just Wayne’s most humane picture but the one that makes him most comic.

In the 1960s, Wayne became a monolith of survival. He subdued cancer, seemingly ignored age, and increasingly became an American public figure. His real veterans were less intriguing than the older men he played in
Red River
and the cavalry trilogy. Gradually he succumbed to lazy Westerns for Andrew V. McLaglen, but, against that, comedy adventure lightened the potential heaviness:
The Horse Soldiers
(59, Ford);
North to Alaska
(60, Hathaway);
The Comancheros
(61, Curtiz);
The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance
(61, Ford);
Hatari!
(62, Hawks);
Donovan’s Reef
(62, Ford); still battling with Maureen O’Hara in
McLintock!
(63, McLaglen);
In Harm’s Way
(65, Otto Preminger);
El Dorado
(67, Hawks);
The War Wagon
(67, Burt Kennedy);
Rio Lobo
(70, Hawks);
The Train Robbers
(73, Kennedy);
McQ
(74, John Sturges)—all these are worthy films for one old man.

It was disheartening that his unavoidable Oscar should have come for
True Grit
(69, Hathaway), and no one could argue but that he looked nearly seventy. In
The Cowboys
(71, Mark Rydell), the monolith even died, to be avenged with fantastic, cold blood-lust by the band of children he has employed as cattlehands. The cinema shook, my son wept, but Wayne was truly dead.

He knew no restraint: disappointed in Vietnam and loyal to Nixon, he attended Carter’s inaugural gala; a survivor of cancer, he then appeared in TV ads for research funds, using that scene from
The Shootist
(76, Don Siegel), in which he is himself diagnosed.
The Shootist
is a modest picture, but Wayne had rarely disclosed such warmth or gentleness. Elsewhere, he was a Chicago cop in London in
Brannigan
(75, Douglas Hickox), and with Katharine Hepburn in
Rooster Cogburn
(75, Stuart Millar).

His death moved nearly everyone, as had his brave walk down the Academy staircase, two months before death, to give the best picture Oscar to
… The Deer Hunter
(that’ll be the day, indeed).

He made too many pictures, of course; but only because for so long he was a guarantee of profit. There were challenging genres that he never tried. So it is not right to regard him as a great actor. But what a star, what a presence, and what a wealth of reserve he brought to that bold presence. (So you wonder if he couldn’t have played comedy.) Nor has he dated. All one can say is that he filled the screen role of a necessarily difficult man as naturally as most actors wore clothes. There was an age when people could be stars without undue grandeur or self-mockery. Whether Wayne is looking at the land that may make a great ranch, or turning in a doorway to survey his true home, the desert, every gesture was authentic and a prized disclosure. He moved the way singers sing, with huge confidence and daring. You have to imagine how it all began in the way Raoul Walsh saw him carrying that armchair—as if it was a young girl in a red robe being lifted up in mercy and wonder.

Sigourney Weaver
(Susan Weaver), b. New York, 1949
Lofty, droll, ready for surprise, smart, attractive, and plainly desperate for comedy, Sigourney Weaver has a robust reasonableness worth bearing in mind when other actresses kill themselves, ascend the Olympus of vanity, or disgrace the human race. In
Alien
(79, Ridley Scott) and
Aliens
(86, James Cameron), she went by sheer willpower and assertiveness from the bimbo in bikini underwear to the driven crew leader who gave the second picture dramatic substance. By
Aliens
³
(92, David Fincher), she was coproducer and proud about getting her piece of the action, yet in the rush of business she had let herself take on a victimized look and a tragic role. Didn’t she know she was made to be heroic?

In one year, Weaver was nominated as best actress in
Gorillas in the Mist
(88, Michael Apted) and as supporting actress for the thankless role in
Working Girl
(88, Mike Nichols). At other extremes, she was insouciantly naked for much of
Half Moon Street
(86, Bob Swain), deliriously vampy in
Ghostbusters
(84, Ivan Reitman), and mysteriously along for
Ghostbusters II
(89, Reitman). She tried France in
One Man or Two
(86, Daniel Vigne), southeast Asia in
The Year of Living Dangerously
(83, Peter Weir), and conventional female support in
Eyewitness
(81, Peter Yates) and
Deal of the Century
(83, William Friedkin).

Susan Weaver was the daughter of NBC executive Pat Weaver and actress Elizabeth Inglis. She attended Stanford and the Yale Drama School, and she played on Broadway in David Rabe’s
Hurlyburly
, earning a Tony nomination.

It is in her readiness to go to extremes—to be out of breath and control, unmade up, naked in a flop, or slumming in a silly hit—that Weaver is most herself. Who knows what the system can make of her at and beyond fifty? At last, the creature in
Alien
got her—unless she comes back as a fatal carrier, a sweet-smiling destructress. She is so intelligent, so well-spoken, she could end up in Merchant-Ivory films or on PBS. In which case, watch for her introduction of slapstick.

She played Queen Isabella in
1492: Conquest of
Paradise
(92, Scott) and she returned to comedy in
Dave
(93, Reitman).

I’ve left my questions open from 1994, but the answers are richer than I imagined. Yes, Ripley did come back, in
Alien Resurrection
(97, Jean-Pierre Jeunet), and it’s only fair to say that that mistake hinged on Ms. Weaver making a lot of money (like $12 million). The fourth part of the quartet was awful, but it has extraordinary hints of what might have been—not least a lithe, dangerous Weaver (closing in on fifty), who sees the monster as her true kin. It should have been better, but the quartet may stand up years from now as one of the most fascinating narratives of the late twentieth century. And it was clear, at the end, that for good and ill, she was Ripley.

Elsewhere, Weaver continues to take risks: anguished and passionate in
Death and the Maiden
(94, Roman Polanski), but let down by the material;
Jeffrey
(95, Christopher Ashley); as a dotty shrink in
Copycat
(95, Jon Amiel); excellent in
The Ice Storm
(97, Ang Lee); fascinating and hideous as the stepmother in
Snow White: A Tale of Terror
(97, Michael Cohn); wonderful in the badly overlooked
A Map of the World
(99, Scott Elliott); hilarious in the not-to-be-ignored
Galaxy Quest
(99, Dean Parisot);
Heartbreakers
(01, David Mirkin); and the woman with a hot stepson in the very low budget
Tadpole
(02, Gary Winick).

She does a little more theatre now, but she was also seen in
The Guys
(02, Jim Simpson, her husband);
Holes
(03, Andrew Davis);
Imaginary Heroes
(04, Dan Harris);
The Village
(04, M. Night Shyamalan);
Snow Cake
(06, Marc Evans);
The TV Set
(06, Jake Kasdan); as Babe Paley in
Infamous
(06, Douglas McGrath);
The Girl in the Park
(07, David Auburn);
Vantage Point
(08, Pete Travis);
Be Kind Rewind
(08, Michel Gondry);
Baby Mama
(08, Michael McCullan); a voice in
WALL-E
(08, Andrew Stanton);
Prayer for Bobby
(09, Russell Mulcahy); and Dr. Grace Augustine in
Avatar
(09, Cameron).

Clifton Webb
(Webb Parmallee Hollenbeck) (1891–1966), b. Indianapolis, Indiana
The legend goes that when Otto Preminger took over
Laura
(44) from Rouben Mamoulian, he introduced the Broadway actor Clifton Webb to play the bitchy columnist Waldo Lydecker, as thin and exquisite as a case clock. But Webb had made films before. He had been a dancing teacher and a star actor in musicals and reviews. In 1925, however, he had small parts in two films:
New Toys
(John S. Robertson) and
The Heart of a Siren
(Phil Rosen). Clearly, it was
Laura
that established Webb, even if he seldom caught the elderly, baleful homosexual so well again—or was allowed to. “I’m not kind, I’m vicious,” says Lydecker. “It’s the secret of my charm.”

Webb’s skill at nastiness was too often swaddled in sentimental comedy, chiefly the Mr. Belvedere part. He may have suffered from Preminger’s introduction of him in that he remained a Fox player. That studio had a short supply of the dialogue Webb needed and few sophisticated directors. Instead, he was asked to coax out an acidulous smile as the sort of uncle who yearned secretly to knife a nephew:
The Dark Corner
(46, Henry Hathaway); very camp in
The Razor’s Edge
(46, Edmund Goulding);
Sitting Pretty
(48, Walter Lang);
Mr. Belvedere Goes to College
(49, Elliott Nugent);
Cheaper by the Dozen
(50, Lang);
For Heaven’s Sake
(50, George Seaton);
Mr. Belvedere Rings the Bell
(51, Henry Koster);
Dreamboat
(52, Claude Binyon); as John Philip Sousa in
Stars and Stripes Forever
(52, Koster);
Titanic
(53, Jean Negulesco);
Three Coins in the Fountain
(54, Negulesco);
Woman’s World
(54, Negulesco);
The Man Who Never Was
(56, Ronald Neame);
Boy on a Dolphin
(57, Negulesco);
The Remarkable Mr. Pennypacker
(59, Henry Levin); and
Satan Never Sleeps
(62, Leo McCarey).

Harvey Weinstein
, b. Buffalo, New York, 1952
Actually most sources cite “circa 1952” for the birth—as if some legendary imprecision was there from the beginning (and don’t forget brother Bob). In other matters—such as the number of pictures where Harvey is credited as producer or executive producer (so that he could be there, on stage, for a best picture award)—the number is precise (at well over one hundred by now, and growing). Still, if that seems like an impossible contradiction of philosophy, rest assured: there is something not just ancient, but nearly primordial, about Harvey Weinstein. After more than a hundred years of change and development, he is the living, bursting, sometimes perspiring proof that pictures is a business for those who love to act like moguls, khans, and tsars. Harvey is a throwback—if you could pick him up. But he is now and the future, too, and I don’t rule out, sometime soon, the chance of a year in which he executive-produced every picture made.

What does an executive producer do? Whatever he wants to do, because Harvey is a self-made man and in love with his own work. He is also the man who has done more than anyone else to erase the potentially dangerous (or liberating) schism that was beginning to appear between mainstream American pictures and independents. How did he do that? By arguing deep into so many nights with every indie artist he could find to let them know that they deserved the limos, the best tables, the Gwyneths, the Oscars, the ads, the participation, the glory, and the Weinsteins. So they would be shouted at now and then, bullied, threatened with physical violence or overwhelming embrace. Live a little! How do you guys expect to be artists without you’ve lived a little?