TIME: Almanac 1995

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Text File | 1995-02-23 | 5.9 KB | 136 lines

<text id=93HT0699> <title> 1985: Show Business </title> <history> TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1985 Highlights </history> <article> <source>Time Magazine</source> <hdr> January 6, 1986 SHOW BUSINESS MOST OF '85 </hdr> <body> Rin-Tin-Tin Doesn't Talk A treasure chest of Hollywood lore in Inside Warner Bros. At the bottom of every Warner Bros. memo sheet was a routine injunction that said, "Verbal messages cause misunderstanding and delays (please put them in writing)." And put them in writing they did, the most star-studded list of memo writers in movie history: the Warner brothers themselves; producers, directors and writers; and a roster of stars that included Bette Davis, Humphrey Bogart, Errol Flynn and George Raft. The best of those tens of thousands of messages have now been collected by Film Historian Rudy Behlmer, whose Inside Warner Bros. (1935-1951) (Viking; $19.95) is, to any fan of film, an open sesame into Aladdin's Cave. The first memo, which actually dates from 1929, before the avalanche begins, brusquely dismisses Rin-Tin-Tin. The introduction of talking pictures, argues one Warner executive, has turned their canine star into just another unemployed hound, "very obviously, of course, because dogs don't talk." To the regret of Jack Warner, who ran the studios (Brother Harry was president and Albert was treasurer), his other stars could talk and often did. When Davis objects to being cast in something called Hollywood Hotel (1937), her withering look can be seen between her lines to him: "I have worked very hard to become known as a dramatic actress," she wrote. "For you to want me to become a slap-stick comedy actress...I cannot understand." The part was recast. Sometimes the stars should have remained as silent as Rin-Tin-Tin. Raft, reminding Jack that he had been promised nothing but big pictures, demanded release from a thriller set in San Francisco: "I strongly feel that The Maltese Falcon, which you want me to do, is not an important picture." That role was also recast, and The Maltese Falcon made a big star of Humphrey Bogart. Nearly 30 pages are devoted to one of Bogart's most famous pictures, Everybody Comes to Rick's--or Casablanca, as it was soon retitled. Although Ronald Reagan, of all people, was suggested for the part in one studio press release, Bogie was the obvious choice. "This guy Rick is two-parts Hemingway, one-part Scott Fitzgerald, and a dash of cafe Christ," said one screenwriter. Various actresses, including Hedy Lamarr, Michele Morgan and Ann Sheridan, were proposed for the role that Ingrid Bergman played so indelibly well. What may surprise readers in these days of superstar supersalaries is the piddling sums paid the cast. Bogie got the most, $36,667, while Sydney Greenstreet took home only $7,500. Dooley Wilson, who has made several generations cry to the words of As Time Goes By, received a measly $3,500. The picture's success led to consideration of a sequel in which Bergman, after the death of her husband, returns and tries to regain Rick's affections from his new mistress. Nothing, of course, came of the idea. There was only one Casablanca. One of the strongest characters in the book is Jack Warner himself. A brilliant egomaniac, he became angry when top producers received all the credit for Warner pictures, and he had a habit of suspending uncooperative stars. Finally, during World War II, Brother Harry had to step in. "You must bear in mind," he wrote, "that everyone is preaching liberty and freedom and the actors are getting to believe it. When the war is over and all the actors and help have come back, you can at that time suspend anyone you want." -- By Gerald Clarke MOST OF '85 THE LONGEST-RUNNING SHOW (AGAIN). The British monarchy, which proved with the Charles & Di Global Vaudeville Team ("Have crown, will travel") that audiences still love a class act and that Britannia still rules the waves--the airwaves, that is. THE MOST MATERIAL GIRL. Madonna, who proved with nude spreads in Playboy and Penthouse that audiences still love a classless act. Her bridegroom Sean Penn seemed determined to show the same thing, beating up photographers in Nashville and Manhattan. THE MOST INVISIBLE STAR. Michael Jackson, who, after causing the biggest hoopla since the Beatles, virtually disappeared for most of the year, white glove, dark glasses and all. THE BIGGEST MUSCLE. The mighty biceps of Sylvester Stallone, whose Rambo and Rocky IV won the combined box-office title, pulling in more than $225 million domestically. THE LONELIEST PRAIRIE. The one inhabited by movie cowboys, who failed to round up big audiences with Silverado, Pale Rider and Rustlers' Rhapsody. The old-time western may have found a home on Boot Hill. THE SNAPPIEST FEET. Those belonging to the 15 dancers of Tango Argentino, easily Broadway's most unusual hit. THE YOUNGEST FEET. Those belonging to Don Ameche, 77, whose break-dancing scene was one of the highlights of the movie Cocoon, and who proved that even Father Time cannot stop a really high-stepper. THE MOST TIRED FEET. Those on view in the dreadful movie version of A Chorus Line, which ought to send a whole new generation to Broadway, where the original still touches hearts and minds after more than ten years. THE BEST REASON TO AVOID BREAKFAST. The beaming face of Mary Lou Retton, who jumped from Olympic gymnast to Wheaties pitchgirl faster than her agent could yell, "Come and get it!" THE ODDEST COUPLE. Joan Rivers and her chief target, Elizabeth Taylor ("She has more chins than a Chinese phone book"), who kissed, made up and were co-hosts of a benefit for a group that supports battered children. </body> </article> </text>