Many years ago, I took an acting class. Missing was any delusion that I’d be the future Brad Pitt. I just wanted to improve my writing by bringing more reality to my characters, not just how they thought, but stood, spoke, moved through the world. I still recall what our acting impresario said: “You cannot — NOT — watch a cat.”
What IS it about cats that make them so compelling? They’re mysterious. Always ready to pounce — or act goofy. They’re exciting, profoundly beautiful. Cats have the “IT” Factor. On humans, “IT” is a sliding scale. We all cross paths with the beautiful. Sometimes, we do catch a glimpse of the stunningly gorgeous or charismatic. But a Marilyn Monroe? There’s far prettier women, more talented actresses, certainly women less insane. Yet, Marilyn is a once-in-a-lifetime goddess. On the guy side, there’s James Dean. Isn’t that funny? The two dated and considered marriage.
Dean exploded onto American culture 70-plus years ago and he’s still with us today. He ate his last meal here, in the Santa Clarita Valley, back on Sept. 30, 1955. A few hours later, en route to a car race, Dean died instantly in a traffic collision outside the San Joaquin Valley farming community of Cholame. The New York Post and Los Angeles Times recently penned features about the insane, cult-like adoration that still exists for the young actor. He was just 24 when he died and made only three movies, including the classic, “Rebel Without a Cause.” “East of Eden” and “Giant” earned him Best Actor Oscar nominations and both were issued posthumously. Since his death, tens of thousands still visit his home town of Fairmount, Indiana, every year for the James Dean Festival. His likeness has sold millions in merchandise, from posters to coffee mugs. Same with Marilyn.
Marilyn Monroe may be the undisputed queen of “IT.” Andy Warhol’s painting of her today is worth about $200 million, but you can buy a T-shirt for a smidge less. Dean. Monroe. Elvis Presley. Others.
James Dean, by all accounts, was a wretched, twisted and sick human being whose screen presence personified rebellion and teenage angst. Sort of what the country’s going through today.
Dean stopped at the old Tip’s restaurant at today’s corner of The Old Road and Magic Mountain Parkway in 1955. I chatted with Audrey McInnis years ago, the waitress who served the movie star milk and apple pie. In an earlier piece, The Signal interviewed Carmen Cummings, the then-retired manager of Saugus’ famous eatery. Vividly, Cummings remembered Dean vividly. And why wouldn’t she?
Besides being one of the world’s most famous people, James Dean had — “IT.”
This rare affliction, striking and/or blessing the rare few, balances on a long, sliding scale. I went to Cal State University at Northridge way back in the 1960s. There was a coed named Libby. In helpless awe, the male students simply called Libby — “HER …” and make sure to include the devout and breathless ellipse at the end.
On a scale of 1 to 10, “HER …” was a 1,347. It wasn’t that Libby was beautiful. She was. But that black-haired coed with the Snow White skin possessed an effortless, goddess-like aura. She walked with a quiet confidence, as if jungle drums lightly pounded in the background and you could hear waves softly crashing along the ocean’s shore.
I’d see Libby in the college halls and wondered what it must be like to be beyond That Gorgeous. Men. Women. Even our two-dimensional Matador mascot. EVERYONE not just stared, but gawked at Libby. Once, coming down the stairs, I was behind “HER …” All in that stairwell were enraptured. One poor student in front of me, while mouth open, staring at “HER …,” tripped and dropped his books right at her feet. Libby didn’t stop. Didn’t look. She just stepped on his papers and continued her disinterested ascent.
When I edited this paper’s entertainment section, Escape, one day, a photographer dropped a photo on my desk as stand-alone art. It was of an attractive young woman at a Castaic motorcycle rally. Her name was Carmen.
Just — Carmen.
The photo sat on my desk, in the center of the newsroom. Journalists, being the nosy people they are (or at least, used to be) would stop by to opine. They say females are the gentler species and that’s a big, fat lie. The women reporters would inspect the picture. Not knowing this poor, shapely girl with the come-hither smile, they’d make up instant, unflattering and hostile biographies. Words like, “slut,” “homewrecker,” and “probably a moron” were offered and those were the kinder remarks. The guys? They acted like the wolf in the old Warner Bros. cartoon, and, not making this up, started howling, fanning themselves or falling to their knees and bowing in worship.
I thought Carmen was attractive, but, she didn’t send me to HeeBeeJeeBee Valhalla. But, there was a buzz to this photo. It had “IT.” I put Carmen on the cover of our weekly magazine. The Signal received more passionate, opinionated calls and letters than we collected on the Vietnam War.
And “IT” is surely something, isn’t — “IT?” A century ago, in a world of rugged, testosterone-oozing movie stars, the man who flawlessly played “Captain Blood” and “Robin Hood,” Errol Flynn, had that quality.
You can name hundreds of actors and actresses, living or dead, impossibly handsome or gorgeous, sexy and pulse-quickening. James Dean? Ate pie here in Santa Clarita, 70 years ago, died a couple hours later. He’s more recognizable today than most presidents.
Seventy years from now? It’ll be 2095.
Will James and Marilyn still be selling millions of movie posters and mouse pads?
And my campus heartthrob — Libby?
“HER …?”
Libby’s sneaking up on 80 now. In 2095, she’ll be 155 …
John Boston, with more than 100 writing awards, is Earth’s most prolific humorist and satirist. Look for “Naked Came the Novelist” his long-awaited sequel to “Naked Came the Sasquatch,” coming this month where books are sold online.
