Well, God bless her. The thing about someone dying at the age of 100 is that you can get a bit down about it, sure, but very rare are the circumstances that’ll make you say, “Oh, well that’s just awful!” 100 being 100 and all. Maybe it’s just because I learned about the great Stuart’s death just as I was getting out of a screening of a (quite disarming) film by Manoel de Oliveira, who will turn 102 in December.
One spends a lot of time thinking about the kind of image one wants to run at this point. Something from The Old Dark House seems a bit obvious, especially considering I used words and images from that film to commemorate Ms. Stuart’s 100th birthday this past July 4. Something from Ford’s Prisoner of Shark Island might have been nice, but struck me as maybe a little too cinephile counter-intuitive, if you follow me. So I concluded that a shot from Gold Diggers of 1935 would probably be just the thing. And I weren’t wrong:
Looking and stepping through the scene, I noticed something that was both kind of gross but also, to me, incredibly endearing and somehow emblematic of why cinema is so…obsessive isn’t quite the word I’m looking for, but it’ll have to do for now. The scene above is yet another treacly romantic pas-de-deux between Stuart’s character, poor-little-rich-showgirl Alice Prentiss and poor-but-dreamy Dick Curtis, played of course by Dick Powell. He belongs to someone else, she’s promised to a millionaire played by Hugh Herbert, but they can’t keep their hands off each other, although they’re trying very hard. This dialogue ends with a clinch, and a kiss that they have to cut off quickly, and here they are, immediately post lip-lock:
That glittering line that’s connecting the two of them? It’s not any kind of structural object in the background or anything. It’s an actual line of spit. It pops in the frame right after this one. If you’ve got the DVd, go ahead and check it out; once noticed, it’s impossible to miss again. I’m looking at it and I’m thinking, wow, there’s a mix of Dick Powell and Gloria Stuart’s actual saliva up there on the screen; how weird. These unexpected, uncontrollable, sometimes rude intrusions of the real, or maybe it’s really The Real, into certain carefully circumscribed and crafted realms of fantasy form as much of cinema’s allure as the production numbers in such a film as this do. Don’t you think?
that line of spittle is glorious
This sounds like a new art project for John Waters.
I’m sure that wad of slobber is how she’d want to be remembered.
Boy, all of a sudden I just can’t win with Mr. Bowie. I should just kill myself or something. More likely “or something.” But you never know. Although if I DID kill myself, I wouldn’t want the guy to feel too guilty or anything. Or would I? Maybe I should get to bed, see what fresh wonders tomorrow will bring…
Actually, Glenn, I thought the wad of slobber was kind of funny. (Alternate post title – Say It, Don’t Spray It: Gloria Stuart 1910–2010.) But now that you’ve gone ahead and pushed the Gloria tribute thread all the way to its inevitable conclusion, i.e., speculation as to whether your afterlife-ensconced essence would or would not want one mildly sardonic commenter to feel guilty about your hypothetical suicide, my clarification feels a little belated, perhaps. I’m sorry if the sort-of-criticism was excessive, though.
Corollary: if you run into Ms. Stuart up there, will she or will she not have a sense of humor about the spittle thing?
She was lovely in the early Whale films, too, even when being menaced by butlers and adored by invisible men. Looked as if she were born to wear satin.
And a movie star to the end. When Fox was doing the “Titanic” junket, I was waiting around in the hospitality suite for James Cameron when I noticed there was room service and bottles of champagne everywhere.
“Ah,” a publicist said. “Well, yes. Miss Stuart had the room last…”
According to actors who worked with him, nothing could make Bo Widerberg happier than a visible saliva string in a movie kiss, something that wasn’t planned but just happened on the spot.
Stephen, I love that story. She was never someone I ardently adored or followed but I regret every tie to that era that is lost. I probably won’t write a tribute to her myself, so I am glad Glenn and others are giving her good ones.
Stuart’s second husband, Arthur Sheekman, co-wrote the screenplay for Some Came Running, a film familiar to some in these here parts.
As Robert Altman said, “The death of an old man is not a tragedy.” Same goes for women. We should all live so long and have such full lives.
R.I.P. another talented lady of cinema, who tragically didn’t come near Stuart’s longevity – Sally Menke, Tarantino’s regular and able editor.
Really Glen, I saw Gold Diggers of 35 about a month ago. A choice between saliva or the Lullaby of Broadway or dancing pianos sequences .…. yeah, sorry. I think I’m going with the musical numbers.
RIP Ms. Stuart.