HOLD ONTO YOUR HAT

Films have a long shelf life. They aren’t fads, like bellbottoms or selfie sticks. They are, in the context of our lifetimes at least, permanent. When a film comes out, the splash it makes (or doesn’t) is one thing. Its legacy is another. The Wizard of Oz (1939) was a flop when it was released, and now it’s a national treasure. So was and is It’s a Wonderful Life (1946). With classic cinema, we have the benefit of hindsight. But we can’t know what 21st century films will become classics a century from now.

What gives cultural and artistic works staying power is a curious thing. Sometimes, it’s the story that later generations find exceptional and resonant. At others, it’s the cultural moment it captures – zeitgeist in a bottle. And many times – it’s an iconic performance. In Hollywood’s golden age, women enjoyed far less access, mobility and pay than their male counterparts – so as we look back, 80-90 years later, and recognize the power that some of those performances still have today, we ask – how’d they do it?

Powerful leading ladies have been making screens sing since the dawn of cinema. There are many archetypes in mainstream movies – the heroine, the villainess, the tireless matriarch, the damsel in distress – and, that ticket selling, fantasy inducing type – the bombshell.

Ninety years back we travel to whence this tried and true type emerged in the movies. The term has been used since the 1860s, but it’s Jean Harlow (or “Harlow, Jean” for Madonna fans) who is considered by most to be the first blonde bombshell in pictures, debuting that style of knockout leading lady first in Platinum Blonde (1931), and then, more on the nose, in Blonde Bombshell (1933). (The “Blonde” was added later, after audiences initially thought it was a war picture.) Harlow is often better known for The Public Enemy (1931) (the first one, without the cocaine) and is considered by the AFI as one of the finest actresses of all time — an important reminder that “bombshells” are much more than just pretty faces.

If Harlow struck the match, Rita Hayworth lit the torch and passed it on. Since then, there have been nearly a century of bombshells. Marilyn Monroe. Ann-Margret. Pam Grier. Angela Bassett. Sharon Stone. Monica Belluci. Gong Li. Dozens of others.

As this summer’s Oppenheimer (2023) taught us, a bomb is awe inspiring in its ability to devastate (and also that a hat and pipe are just as good as a mask and a cape). Elements ignite to create an explosion and obliterate what’s in their mist. With female bombshells – the power is social, political and of course, sexual. A power we perceive as greater than others. And typically, power over men.

News at 11:00: we men secretly like to feel powerless. Our inner child rejoices at feelings we haven’t had since those formative years. And, especially in the early to mid twentieth century, it was an instant delight to see women wrest power from men. This power exchange is at the heart of bombshells on screen.

And these performances aren’t all about power. They also feature a confident persona, smarts, wit, and being at ease with all of those. It’s the ability to carry a scene’s full weight. To steal it. Heck, to steal the movie.

In 1946’s Gilda, Hayworth’s seminal role, and a near perfect example of 1940s bombshell culture, we see a simple plot, a recycled set, and only a few primary players. One woman, two men. The movie starts with Johnny Fallon teaming up with Ballon Mundson to run a casino nightclub, as a front for Mundson’s racketeering. Mundson leaves for a weekend and comes back with a wife. And that’s when the movie really starts.

Glenn Ford as Johnny is fine. Flat, if you ask me, but perhaps intentionally so; a canvas must be blank for great work to be painted upon it. George Macready is stilted. One note.

But Rita Hayworth’s first frame is as memorable as any in Hollywood, all these years later. Her performance has become the only thing the film is known for, and with good reason. She outperforms her male co-stars ten to one. Which is why Humphrey Bogart passed on the picture – “no one would notice anyone else with her on screen,” he said.

Gilda’s first scene, with both Johnny and Mundson, is among the best in the film. Her delivery of her first line – whipping her hair back in her dressing room and saying, “Me? Decent?” – delivered without an ounce of sincerity – sets the tone for the rest of the story. There’s a game being played in this scene, which we won’t spoil here, but actors are playing characters who are acting. Gilda finds herself in a delicate situation, and instead of taking caution – she chooses to have fun. When she says, “Hang onto your hat, Mr. Farrell” – she’s speaking to all of us in the audience. In this very first scene, the cultural concept of men and women of the time (that men enjoy women as possessions) is turned right on its head. The men are the play things. And the woman is just getting started. (Her line about “hired help” will sting, but takes another few scenes to swell.)

In another actress’ hands, or at another moment in history, this construct could be misread as conniving or deceitful. But she is a woman of her time, in wartime Buenos Aires, doing what she needs to do to survive. She’s using all of her resources, including her talent as a performer, body, her wits and her social positioning – not to mention the perceptions of the men around her. Why shouldn’t she have a little fun along the way?

When Gilda came out in 1946, Esquire magazine created an image of her taped to the atomic bomb. This enraged Hayworth, who wanted to hold a press conference denouncing the magazine’s move. Columbia head (and famous tyrant) Harry Cohn prevented it, fearing that might seem anti-American. And that’s how it worked, in the era when studios controlled actors. Hayworth later said she used to have to punch a time clock at Columbia, everyday, and felt “owned.” Her performance has more staying power than any element of the film, and yet the power over her own time, and reputation – was something else she didn’t own.

Cut to one year later, in 1947, and Hayworth had a $250,000 contract and would get 50% of the profits of her films. The tables turned (or, rather, were turned by hard work and powerful performance).

And yet – today, around 80 years later – all of that money is gone. Harry Cohn is remembered as a tyrant and a predator. Glenn Ford is remembered as a solid, golden age actor who in over 100 films represented an American, everyman sensibility. Rudolph Maté, whose gorgeous lighting and cinematography is the match that lights the fuse to the bomb – did incredible work. But is likely known only to industry veterans and film historians.

But it is this woman in this performance in this film that still possesses the same radiance, wit, beauty and resilience, because she was using everything in her power at a time when it was very limited, elevating her above her circumstances. What we’re seeing in Gilda started long before 1946… from her start on Broadway, to her transition to film – she was building that confidence, self possession, wit and beauty, rehearsing and honing it. All that time, Hollywood and Cohn thought they were forming her, when really, she was molding them.

The woman who had to punch a clock when she went to work and didn’t get paid a dime when she didn’t – is the film. And she’s as brilliant as Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge (2001). As poised as Monica Bellucci in Spectre (2015). As dexterous with dialogue as Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction (1994).

And as captivating as Charlize Theron in Atomic Blonde (2017). Though there is very little taken away from Charlize’s character Lorraine Broughton (unless you count losing a shoe temporarily, as if Cinderella were a Marine) – and she too is using her body, her wits, her social and professional positioning, the shifting perception of the men around her – but in a much different, and more violent way. Her physical and fight training regimen for the film became lore – and in 2087, I’m curious what people will be talking about. Will it be her sexual power? Her body count? The ribs she bruised, or teeth she broke during filming? The six minute one-take fight scene? Her additional role as producer and long term commitment to the project, which has become a mainstay of women in Hollywood, one of the biggest differences since the 1940s?

Both films are master classes in lighting (Maté wrapping Gilda in lush noir flourishes, and action cinematographer Jonathan Sela bathing Atomic Blonde in neon magentas, rich indigos and once in a while, daylight), earwormy needle drops (caberet croons, 1980s bangers) and male co-stars who are game to play a brick in a wall the women tear down. But you could strip all that away and the power of the central performance would carry both films into history and imagination.

Both Gilda and Lorraine are bombshells, hands down. Both are knockouts. Smart. Wry with humour. Seemingly trapped but ultimately trapping. Both possess strong sexuality, and both restrain it. There is no sex scene in Gilda, and only a brief one in Atomic Blonde, which is not sensationalized nor lingered over (and who can blame her for magnetizing to Sofia Boutella’s French operative - why should any beautiful woman have to light her own cigarettes, after all?)

Their physicalities do diverge, a sign of the times and the wider breadth of choices women have today when considering portrayals of their womanhood. Hayworth remains squarely within traditional femininity, while Theron shows us how far a bombshell can depart from it (see her first scene, stretching her bruised arms and shoulders in an ice bath, turning on a mirror light to reveal her battered face) – this is a woman who is comfortable playing a Monster (2003), after all.

Both are at the height of their powers, and their legacy will stick around long after the profits from the film are spent and the performers pass on. But hold onto your hat, because the performances, and the achievement of the actresses in the worlds they inhabited, will stick around.