Tag Lucille Ball

Remembering A Genius

At the end, he was a joke. A mockery of himself, drunkenly slurring through commercial pitches for stupid things like cheap wine and frozen peas. And yet he had been so talented, so brilliant that at the beginning people were ready to pronounce that the very stage and screen themselves would never see anything as magnificent as his work ever again.

I have a pair of links that tell stories about Orson Welles that might help to mitigate the pathetic persona that defines him now, both of which brim with the promise that he might have brought his formidable talents to the medium of television the same way he did to film, radio, and stage.

This one appeared at Gizmodo back in December ’09. In it, the author, Frank Beacham (himself a movie producer, playwright, and writer) recalls a series of encounters with Welles in the mid-1980s, not long before his death in 1985, as Welles became obsessed with producing a film using the then-new half-inch videotape technology developed by Sony — the BetaCam. Beacham talks about Welles pushing the very limits of the technology, presaging many of the advances that would come to video in just a few years. His sudden death ended the project, but gave Beacham the inspiration to complete another unfinished Welles project, a film about Welles’s Broadway musical “The Cradle Will Rock”, on which he was the executive producer.

Also from last December, a much longer and more scholarly piece from media writer Ben Walters posted on Columbia University’s Teacher’s College website that rewinds the clock all the way back to the early days of television itself and looks at his 1953 production of “The Fountain Of Youth”, his involvement with Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz and their production company, Desilu, and how the business of network television, even in the 1950s, had no place for someone as disruptively creative as Welles.

If you have the time to read Ben Walters’s piece (it’s much longer than most web writing normally is), it is a brilliant bit of biography, history, and media criticism rolled into one. It would be wonderful if the Internet would be more open to revisiting Welles as a genuine artist and let the cheap jokes slide, but that might be asking a bit much of the gnat’s-life attention span of the online world.

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Oh, Ethel!

Vivian Vance was Lucille Ball’s sidekick on television for the better part of twenty years, from the beginning of “I Love Lucy” in 1951 through the several variations of “The Lucy Show” of the 1960s. In fact, though her original character was named Ethel, in the 1960s versions they just gave up the pretense and called her Vivian. Though we tend to think of Lucille Ball singularly, the truth is that without Ethel/Viv, there would be no Lucy. Like any truly great second banana, Vivian added the appropriate mix of straight man and co-conspirator that enabled and embellished everything Lucy did.

SFGate blogger Bob Bragman, who usually posts about antiques and collecting, has posted about a collector friend of his who came into possession of many of Vivian Vance’s personal photographs and possessions years ago after the death of her husband (Vance died in 1979, her husband in 1986). Bragman’s post includes a few dishy details about Vivian Vance and her two husbands, as well as a murmur of a long-ago rumor about the relationship between Lucy and Vivian, but also pictures of many of the items his friend has. SF Gate also put together a huge slideshow of many of her photographs, including glamor shots of her as a young Hollywood starlet in the early 1930s, pictures of her with other notables of the 1950s and ’60s, and candid personal pictures. Bragman writes about the very ordinariness of the scrapbook, but some of the photos are really unique and deserve to find their way into an archive like the Museum of American History’s pop culture collection or some other repository of Hollywood history.

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Loocy, You Got Some ‘Splainin To Do!

Monday was not only Martin Luther King’s birthday, but as this post at the group blog “The Edge Of The American West” reminds us, it was the 56th anniversary of the “birth” of Little Ricky on “I Love Lucy”. 71% of the televisions in the United States that evening were tuned to that particular broadcast, which actually coincided with the real delivery date of Lucy and Desi’s son. The next day, Dwight Eisenhower was inaugurated as President and only drew an audience of 67.4%.

Though the link doesn’t mention it, a couple of months later, when Desi Arnaz Jr. appeared on the very first cover of TV Guide, President Eisenhower is quoted as saying “So that’s the little fellow who showed me up.”

Later that year, Lucy was caught up in the Red Scare being created by Senator Joseph McCarthy. She was summoned before the dreaded House Un-American Activities Committee, which had learned that America’s Favorite Redhead had been a member of the Communist Party. And, indeed, she had been. Lucy’s grandfather was the head of her household when she was growing up, and he was a dedicated Communist. He made everyone in the family join the party in the 1930s, though only he was active in it. Given the far more flimsy associations that were destroying the careers and lives of people in Hollywood, this was serious business, but pressure from CBS chairman William Paley and from the president of Phillip Morriss Tobacco, Lucy’s TV sponsor made the HUAC back down.

A couple of weeks ago, writer and Hollywood blogger Mark Evanier shared a link to this TV site which has some rare clips of “I Love Lucy” in color. If you scroll to the bottom, the last clip is some 16mm footage shot by someone who managed to sneak into the studio audience with a film camera and snagged a couple of minutes of an episode in production.

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