Shelley - The Glorious Bad Period

The true pillars of the art community have not only great individual works but entire periods in which collective works take on an even higher meaning. Picasso had the blue and cubist periods. Miles had the modal period. Dylan had his electric period. Less revered, but to me, equally important is Shelley Winters "bad period" which ran roughly from the mid-1960s after Alfie and ending in the mid-1970s with Next Stop Greenwich Village.

Not that differently than today, when Shelley passed her mid-40s, she faced the choice of continuing in prestige films and playing increasingly smaller parts or continue to play lead roles in flicks of less and less calibre. Shelley generally chose the latter option during this time period, and I would argue that we're all the better for it. At the time, and generally to the same extent to this day, she was pitied for taking on a number of these roles, but I have slowly been building my library from this era, and the cumulative impact, especially with a bit of distance of years, is staggering. Leading roles in big movies for women are meant for hot babes under 35. Leading roles for women over 35 in smaller budget movies are meant to be played as crazy, homicidal bitches. That speaks volumes about how our society views women and aging.

First, one can't help but admire Shelley's "Oh-what-the-hell-spirit", but at times she is extremely profound and moving. She seems to be saying, "You want me to play a mean, nutso broad. I'll do it, but I'll do it my way and make her human. Oh, and excuse me while I chew the scenery in the process." Sadly, her role in The Poseidon Adventure is often held up as the pinnacle or saving grace of that period, even garnering her an Oscar nomination. To me it's the nadir of that time and a cloyingly maudlin performance in which Shelley was robbed of the usual oomph and frequent nastiness she dared to exhibit during that time. Instead, I'd point to my favorites now proudly a part of my DVD library: Bloody Momma, Cleopatra Jones, Wild in the Streets and Blume in Love. Today I was finally able to acquire the absolute pinnacle of that period - the two-sider Whoever Slew Auntie Roo and What's the Matter with Helen? (Makes you wish she did an entire Who-What-Where-When-Why series.) It's the second film that is the absolutely best of the bunch. It's relatively hard to find and by no means a B-movie or second Banana role for Shelley. Created by much of the talent behind Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? and the much more inferior Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte, it far exceeds my fond memories that go back to the last time I saw it on TV around 1970 or 1971.

It not only plumbs the dark shadows of southern California explored in The Day of the Locust, Chinatown and Baby Jane but also the even darker madness of the Great Plains evidenced in In Cold Blood and other tomes daring to expose the seamier sides of the supposed Heartland. It was these corn-fed folks, after all that came to pick the fruit, irrigate the valleys and bring a little dirt under the fingernails grit to Tinseltown and those orange groves that ultimately gave way to strip malls and Disneyland.

Helen is actually an often compelling film, glimpsing into the underbelly of 1930s Southern California and the people from the supposedly wholesome Midwest who turned it into a global magnet for people wanting to reinvent themselves. Besides amazing work by the leads, it includes Dennis Weaver looking surprisingly sexy and Agnes Morehead playing a radio evangelist. There's also a little girl belting out seductively "Oh, you nasty man!" It's not nearly as campy as I remembered it being. Auntie Roo's an entirely different story. Shelley brings pathos even when asked to give us screaming hysteria, and it's possibly Debbie Reynolds greatest role. Oh, and there are a lot of rabbits involved in the climax.

As Labor Day heralds the return of autumn, an end to summer silliness and hunkering down to the real work, I will likely shift from my tawdrier balmy days entertainment as I settle into expanding my ever burgeoning Criterion Collection library. But I strongly suspect I'll be pulling Helen out now and again to amaze and impress my hoity toity friends.

CODA: Back in the late 1990s, a friend of mine had an apartment on the far eastern edge of Beverly Hills near the border with West Hollywood. I would frequently house sit for him and walk his overweight Scottie, Colby. He had it on good authority that Shelley owned a duplex a few doors down and claimed he actually saw her once herding a green Jaguar down the street at break neck speed. To my pleasure, the dog's favorite place to pee was right across the street from the duplex. I always lingered a moment or two longer than needed until Colby pulled on the leash. One morning, just as she was beginning to whine for me to follow, I saw the hand of an older woman pull the drapes of one of the darkened room. The shadowy figure then moved to do the same to the two other windows and disappeared. By now, the dog was close to yelping, but I waited a few seconds more, saw nothing and relented to continue our walk. Though disappointed, this possibly close encounter was still a bit of a thrill. In my dream world, the window would have opened to reveal a tough broad chewing a cigar, holding a machine gun and belting out, "You wanna piece of this, pal? Then bring it on! Bring it on, baby!"