The stars (1962)

of its demands on psychological stamina. In addition, there is the problem of survival. Anxiety is the feeling of powerlessness in circumstances beyond the control of the individual. No one is less powerful than a film star in the face of sudden public indifference to his art or his charms. He must live under the constant threat that the audience may turn away from him. It takes a more than usually powerful ego to live successfully with that threat, especially in an industry which, according to Hortense Powdermaker, is at great pains, for reason of deep envy, to demean the star. They are, she says, "looked down upon as a kind of sub-human species. No one respects them. . . . They are often described as children who don't know what is good for them, immature, irresponsible, completely self-centered, egotistical, exhibitionistic, nitwits, and utterly stupid." She adds, rather dryly, "Part of this description is reminiscent of white attitudes in the Deep South toward Negroes." No wonder that in recent years stars have been tumbling over one another in their eagerness to set up their own production companies. There are sound tax and business reasons for this, of course, but there is another — improved status. The fight for human dignity takes some strange turns. Since it is currently fashionable to do so, let us take a middle-of-the-road position. Some stars are indeed "immature" (et cetera), and some are not; but all are cursed with having to contend with our strange ambivalence toward them and their work. Miss Powdermaker observes that "in primitive society there is a deep biological tie between the people and their mythical heroes, since these are also their ancestors. They are important to all members of the clan or tribe, young and old, and the myths and folk tales about them serve as sanctions for behavior and customs." This is the beginning of wisdom about stars and their value to us as individuals. But it is hard wisdom to accept. People who don't like movies, or who take an attitude of either cultural or moral superiority toward them, accept the idea gleefully enough. I). W . Griffith (right), dapper though out of work, visits Cecil B. DeMille on the set of King of Kings in 1936. But the average person is unconsciously resentful of this knowledge. Its implication is that he has need of false gods, gods which will bring him gifts of pleasure that he is incapable of securing for himself through his own imagination. This may account for his love-hate relationship with his stars. Something within him responds mightily to their presence; he can't help that. But something, possibly our culture, tells .him that this should not be so. He is angry with what he thinks of as his own weakness, transfers this anger to his favorites, but holds it in check until they make some kind of misstep, either on screen or in their personal lives. Then his scornful anger knows no bounds, and no punishment is too great for the transgressors. He may emulate their behavior, their style, for a time, but he is always waiting for the moment when he can smite down his gods. This was particularly true in the days of the silent screen. At that time, the stars were much more abstractions than they were real people. They personified, each in his different way, ideas or ideals, just as Greek gods were personifications of the great virtues. If one of them fell from grace, as several did during the wave of Hollywood scandals early in the twenties, it was not just a personal tragedy, it was a calling into question of an entire concept of behavior, a large chunk of the moral code by which the nation lived. This remained true as long as the screen was silent. A godhead is supposed to be inscrutable; it is not expected that he speak directly to us. It is enough that his image be present so that we may conveniently worship it. In those days it was expected that the stars would lead lives as different as possible from those of ordinary mortals. And, although they might be mobbed on occasion when they ventured out in public, and although they were expected to contribute their mite, whenever possible, to the rumor mills, they were also expected to keep their distance. The public wanted them to be different, and they were. The publicity of the age was different in quality from that which we have grown used to. Its very hokiness raised it, on occasion, to rare levels of amusement, and the public was seldom subjected to the drool about stars' family life, religious beliefs, theories of child rearing and the other homey, we're-just-like-you nonsense that is de rigueur today. Indeed, stars went to considerable lengths to conceal wives and children, fearing that these represented fan-shattering descents into the ordinary. The movie star was brought down to earth by the combined impact of social and technological change. Sound came to the movies only months before the depression came to America. The former revolutionized the industry, of course, just as the latter precipitated a radical revision of social 13