After Combat Fatigue Irritability, Gene worked on a succession of assignments, but none were as intense as his first production. According to journalist John Maynard: “The motion pictures he makes for the Navy concern such subjects . . . [as] amputees and radar, and he is very proud and pleased at having a part in the work. His greatest thrill, he says, was a ‘well done’ from Secretary [of the Navy James] Forrestal over a contribution he made.”8 The titles he produced in 1945 include Submarine Warfare: Now It Can Be Told (Gene was narrator for this short), What’s the Matter with Steve? (a film about the difficulties faced by a soldier who, though he never sees combat, still deals with trauma), and The Names on a List (a production telling the story of a wounded GI).
Gene and the rest of America paused in the midst of their work to grieve over the shocking news of Franklin D. Roosevelt’s death on April 12, 1945. America’s future had seldom been fraught with as much uncertainty as it was in the weeks following the passing of the nation’s beloved president. Gene, a staunch Roosevelt supporter, continued to put forth his utmost effort into the service he had begun under Roosevelt’s leadership.
On April 26, 1945, a mere two weeks after Roosevelt’s death, Gene was promoted to lieutenant, junior grade. Some of his peers presumed that Gene became a lieutenant so quickly because of his celebrity status, but this was far from true. He had performed admirably in boot camp, earned a reserve officers training diploma in college and, most important, produced work for the Naval Photographic Unit that had proved “a significant contribution to the understanding and treatment” of servicemen.9 John Maynard noted: “The . . . ruckus over his abrupt elevation to one-and-a-half stripes hurt him some. He . . . doesn’t to this day blame other enlisted men who might have been disgruntled.”10
Gene did not wish to be regarded or treated as a celebrity, but whether he wanted it or not, he could not escape the attention his fame brought him. He was still incredulous that teenagers often approached him for his autograph. He felt that the sole reason he was popular with teens was that he was Frank Sinatra’s co-star. Not everyone recognized him as a star, however. One evening, he was refused admittance at an upscale restaurant “that regarded ordinary sailors with horror and distrust.” “He was ready to leave gracefully, but his friends would have none of it. They identified Kelly to the headwaiter, who got very friendly indeed,” a columnist for Motion Picture recorded. “Kelly thought that was funny too, but not so funny that he gave the headwaiter anything more than a dirty look for his trouble.”11
Gene’s celebrity in no way interfered with his productivity. In the spring of 1945, he received a commission to make a top-secret film showing the efficacy of the navy’s new fire-fighting equipment against Japan’s deadliest weapons, baka bombs (manned flying bombs). As props, Gene employed twenty-four gasoline-soaked aircrafts filled with lit explosives. His thirteen cameramen caught the swiftness with which the “experimental foam” extinguished the flames. Fleet Admiral Ernest J. King ordered thousands of tons of the new equipment on the strength of Gene’s film.12
On May 8, 1945, shortly after Gene completed his film on baka bombs, the Allies announced victory in Europe (V-E Day). The country’s new president, Harry Truman, reminded Americans that the peace was not yet won. He proclaimed: “We must work to finish the war. Our victory is only half over.”13 With the war in the Pacific an ever-present anxiety, Americans continued to find considerable comfort in the silver screen; approximately 1.7 million people poured into theaters every week. Shortly after V-E day, Anchors Aweigh premiered. The country’s unquenchable thirst for the consolations films offered aided the popularity of Anchors Aweigh—and Gene.
However, it seemed that audiences would have to wait quite a while before Gene returned to Hollywood films. To Gene’s delight, his next command turned out to be what he had been all but begging for since his induction: “Gene [got] his wish. He was to go to the Pacific battleground to join a fighting unit.”14 Betsy and Kerry packed up their home in Georgetown, planning to move back to Hollywood until Gene’s return. He flew to San Francisco, from where he would travel to Hawaii and on to Japan with eleven other men. A reporter for Photoplay recorded Gene’s reaction to finally being deployed: “For a year I’ve been bucking to go. I’m heading a combat photographic unit that’ll be taking pictures in actual combat—of demolition squads, bombs, guns, fighting. Then we’ll bring ’em back to be used for training films. But anyway, it’s action on the fronts!” The reporter ruefully noted: “However, everything happens to Kelly. The date of this speech was August 6, and the atomic bomb fell on [the same day]. This is one time the curtain went down before Kelly got on stage.”15 A week later, on August 15, 1945, Japan surrendered and the war was over. “Gene . . . was coming home,” Betsy recalled. “I burst into tears when I heard this—it was only then that I realized how frightened I had been.”16 The three days between the dropping of the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima and the second on Nagasaki were, for Gene, “a drunken nightmare.”17 The sudden declaration of peace left him feeling that he had not truly done his part for the war effort, but his superiors told him that he still had work to do.
Gene was sent to New York to complete two directorial projects before receiving his discharge. As soon as she discovered that Gene was not being shipped overseas, Betsy abandoned her plans to return to Hollywood, instead remaining on the East Coast. She joined her husband in New York, and they rented an expensive apartment overlooking Central Park South on 59th Street. They left Kerry with Betsy’s parents in New Jersey; father and daughter saw each other only once a week. In 1974, Gene called this one of his greatest regrets. He felt it was “selfish, unfatherly neglect. Betsy and I fancied ourselves as Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald and just wanted to have a good time. A child would have been in the way.”18
Gene and Betsy’s neglect in this period clashes with their initial insistence that they raise Kerry themselves. But Gene’s navy service paired with Betsy’s return to work (though temporary) reminded them of what their lives had been like before the domesticity they had established on the West Coast. The fact that they had reunited in New York returned them, in a sense, to the days of their courtship, including late-night suppers at Louie Bergen’s bar.
However, Gene was a different person than the struggling dancer/choreographer from Pittsburgh he had been when he first came to New York. Now, with his recent ascent to superstardom in Anchors Aweigh, he could live like a stereotypical film star if he so wished. He had earned Hollywood’s accolade: an Academy Award nomination for Best Actor (Anchors Aweigh). Based on the fan mail he received, MGM reckoned him among its top five male actors. Even more thrilling to Gene than an Oscar nomination, however, was Elia Kazan’s suggestion that Gene play the role of Biff in a stage production of Death of a Salesman. Gene had grown increasingly interested in drama since his work for the navy and yearned to accept the role. Betsy shared his enthusiasm, particularly because Kazan had been a member of New York’s Group Theatre. But the studio refused to release Gene from his contract for the six months required for the project. “Gene accepted their decision, albeit with difficulty because of the big plans being made for him in the Arthur Freed Unit . . . but I think he always remembered and regretted that missed challenge,” Betsy remembered.19 Death of a Salesman eventually premiered in February 1949 with Arthur Kennedy in the role of Biff.
In truth, Freed had no concrete plans for Gene. He had wanted the actor to play composer Jerome Kern in his new musical biopic, Till the Clouds Roll By (1946), but at the time of its production, Gene was not yet discharged from the navy. The press was filled with rumored projects. Among the most bizarre was Futurosy, a musical set in the year 2046. Talk of a sequel to Anchors Aweigh also made the news; it was to be titled All Ashore. Gene found promising roles harder to secure because his agent, Leland Hayward, had given up his work in Hollywood to become a producer on Broadway. Beginning in 1946, Gene was under the management of MCA (Music Corporation of America), which was the largest tale
nt agency in the world, having expanded into film, radio, and television from its inception as a music company. Such a mammoth corporation lacked the personal touch Gene had enjoyed with Hayward and, before him, Johnny Darrow.
Gene’s only immediate movie work was still for the US government. His first postwar production required him to make “an indoctrination film” with the Silent Service (submariners) about the raids American submarines had made on the Japanese coast. Gene experienced much anxiety at the thought of going underwater in such a confined space. His fear bore a remarkable resemblance to Seaman Lucas’s in Combat Fatigue Irritability. Yet, once below the water, he was pleasantly surprised to feel a sense of tranquility. The resulting film, produced in 1946, was “inspired” and a “valuable recruiting vehicle” for men considering the submarine service.20
In short order, the navy assigned Gene to another film. This one dealt with the brutality of kamikaze pilots in their bombing of the US aircraft carrier Benjamin Franklin. Gene and his crew stayed a week on the damaged ship, which was docked at Brooklyn Navy Yard. Gene spent hours interviewing survivors of the attack to ensure authenticity.
Gene again relocated to Washington after completing his work in New York. In the nation’s capital, he was engaged in far less stimulating work. He edited “seemingly endless footage of film,” some from the US Navy, some that had been captured from the Japanese. Occasionally he came across a “riveting battle,” but for the most part, the job was a dull one.21 He was then put in charge of the weekly short films for the navy, which showed commentary on successful methods of warfare and important footage illustrating their execution. The shorts did give Gene some creative opportunity. He narrated the films and penned the voice-overs himself, allowing him to revisit the inclination toward writing he had shown in high school and college.
While in Anacostia, Washington, Gene met an attractive, sturdily built WAVE with a girlish pageboy haircut named Lois McClelland who was working at the Naval Photographic Science Laboratory. “We [she and the other WAVEs] were thrilled when we heard that Gene Kelly was coming to join our outfit. . . . There were so many letters from his fans that he couldn’t fit into his office. . . . He tried to answer each one with something personal, cheery and upbeat,” Lois recalled. “I offered to help him and he hired me as a secretary to work for him off duty.”22 After a short time, Gene treated her as if she were a member of his own family. “What impressed me most was the fact that he was so human, so natural, so absolutely lacking in affectation. . . . Whatever I had in mind, he made me forget completely,” Lois reflected in 1950, adding that he was “really quite a guy.”23
Only once in the history of the Academy Awards up to this time had an actor won for a performance in a musical film: James Cagney in Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942). The year 1946 would not mark a second win for a song and dance man. On March 7, 1946, Gene lost the Oscar to Ray Milland, who took home the award for his haunting portrayal of an alcoholic in The Lost Weekend. Gene’s loss plus the disappointing receipts of his most recently released picture, Ziegfeld Follies, filled him with uncertainty as to how his career would proceed upon his discharge from the navy.
In spite of his dubious prospects, Gene told a reporter for Movie Show magazine: “I’ll be very glad to get back to the land of dreams and sun and orange juice and make-believe again.”24 At least one aspect of his future was certain: his place of residence at 725 North Rodeo Drive. In May 1946, shortly before Gene’s discharge, Betsy and Kerry returned to Los Angeles. Within two weeks, Betsy had found the home that was to be Gene’s for the rest of his life. Built twenty years earlier, it was considered old for Beverly Hills. With its white exterior accented by red shutters, it resembled a quaint Connecticut farmhouse. Avocado trees grew plentifully in the backyard. Betsy phoned Gene immediately after viewing it. When he heard the enthusiasm in her voice, he told her, “Go ahead.” She wrote out a check for $42,500. “I felt pretty important and grown up,” she said.25
Aiding Betsy in the move to her and Gene’s new home was Lois McClelland. Gene’s faithful secretary had left the naval service to work for him full-time. “Lois McClelland came into our lives and stayed forever. . . . She quickly became a friend to all three of us,” Betsy wrote in 2003.26 Lois’s description of her duties in the Kelly household reflected her indispensability. “Being secretary to Gene Kelly is really being a little bit of everything: bookkeeper, cook, chauffeur, governess, hostess, house-painter, dressmaker, shopper, nurse-maid. . . . [It is] impossible . . . to share one facet of their [the Kellys’] lives without getting into every other part of the act.”27 Lois ultimately stayed at the Kellys’ home for two and a half years before moving into her own apartment.
In summer 1946, Gene returned to civilian life after receiving his discharge papers. The moment he was released, he began to get himself back into condition. A writer for Movieland observed that he “promptly reported to the nearest gymnasium to work off the twenty pounds he had gained in service—what he lovingly refers to as ‘the Tony Galento [a heavyweight boxing champion] look.’”28 Gene was brimming with ideas for film projects. “I am very happy . . . that my contract with MGM reads ‘producer-director,’ as well as actor because, first to direct, and then to produce is what, when I begin to creak, I want to do,” Gene explained. “Happy for the time, however, to act and, most of all—to dance. Would like to do fantasy. Would like to do a child classic—Heidi, for example, with Margaret O’Brien. Would like to dance again with animated cartoons.”29
A large part of Gene’s challenge in his future career lay in the fact that Americans were split by an urge to return to the past—“go back to normal”—and a simultaneous desire to make way for new ideas and ways of life. Forceful films rose in popularity after the war. William Wyler’s The Best Years of Our Lives and Edward Dmytryk’s Till the End of Time, like Gene’s 1945 short film for the Navy, Combat Fatigue Irritability, addressed the travails of returning veterans. Hard-boiled film noirs, which had remained box office draws during the war, gained in popularity in 1946. The Postman Always Rings Twice and Gilda are just two examples of chart toppers. However, audiences still craved nostalgia above all. The year’s number one film, an idealized vision of the antebellum era, Walt Disney’s Song of the South, was, like Gene’s number with Jerry the Mouse, a musical blend of live action and animation. Freed’s Till the Clouds Roll By was a purely romanticized vision of a less troubled past and ranked as the eighth most popular film of the year.
Given that Gene’s “position in pictures is unique” in that he had “less, rather than more competition than when he went into the service,” his unemployment problem was a puzzle. His closest musical rivals, Fred Astaire and George Murphy, had both “virtually turned in [their] dancing shoes.”30 Dan Dailey Jr., one of Gene’s potential rivals, had also served in the war and did not begin making films again until 1947. Gene ruefully stated: “I thought MGM would be waiting for me with open arms, with a script, something real solid.”31 Biographer Clive Hirschhorn hypothesized that Gene’s temporary joblessness “may have had something to do with his image, which was inextricably linked to war pictures . . . and audiences by then had had enough. It may also have been connected with the return of the studio’s most popular male stars such as Clark Gable, Robert Montgomery . . . and James Stewart.”32 As Gene had once noted, the greatest threat to MGM musicals came not from other studios but from MGM’s own dramatic productions, which almost invariably outgrossed all other genres.
Not one to remain idle, Gene occupied himself with renovations for his and Betsy’s home. He put on a new roof, built furniture, and painted the walls. A reporter for Movieland commented that “Gene begged, borrowed and wheedled enough lumber to build some cabinets and shelves. . . . He’s a wizard with fixtures, plumbing and odd jobs.”33 While renovating, Gene suggested a swimming pool for the backyard. Betsy firmly said no. What could be more “Hollywood” than a pool? Gene sighed and compromised on a volleyball court instead. The house was as free of Holly
wood pretensions inside as it was out. Rather than hire a decorator, the Kellys chose all their own drapes and furniture. Many items came from yard sales or antiques shops, which helped create a comfortable, lived-in atmosphere. The living room walls were lined with shelves brimming with books Gene and Betsy spent their leisure time reading. Gene preferred tomes on history while Betsy read anthologies of Chekov, Ibsen, Odets, Tolstoy, and Sinclair.
Though Gene and Betsy wanted to be as self-sufficient as possible, they did hire a housekeeper, Bertha. Betsy described her as a “round, cheerful, energetic woman [who] loved Kerry.” Bertha and her husband, a postman, had a room and bath at the back of the house while Lois had a room, bath, and office on the first floor. “Our life became normal . . . that is, normal rich,” Betsy stated. Gene slept until noon when he was not working while Betsy brought four-year-old Kerry to nursery school. She also kept busy with work. In July 1946, Betsy made her film debut in the Rosalind Russell drama The Guilt of Janet Ames. In early 1947, she had a cameo as a hat-shop girl in George Cukor’s A Double Life starring Ronald Colman and Shelley Winters. Though the role required only two days’ work, Betsy was hooked; she had abandoned her ambitions for theater work. “By now I was dying to be in the movies,” she admitted.34
Gene was still a staunch supporter of Betsy’s efforts. He had become accustomed to being surrounded by dynamic, talented women—Lois, Betsy, and, as of late 1946, Jeanne Coyne. Twenty-three-year-old Jeanne, a former pupil from his Johnstown dance studio, arrived in Hollywood shortly after Gene’s discharge. Her talent had grown with the passing years. She had appeared as a dancer in two Broadway shows, Mexican Hayride (1944) and Are You with It? (1945). As well as dancing, she had a great talent for choreographing that meshed with Gene’s sensibilities. “When I arrived in the film capital I called Gene, trembling a little in my shoes, for he was a big star and I was someone who’d known him years ago,” Jeanne later wrote. “Well, you would have thought I was the President’s daughter the way Gene boomed, ‘I’m so glad you’re here. . . . It’s not good for a young girl to live by herself. Come and stay with us.’” The Kellys’ invitation, like the one they had given to Lois, extended indefinitely.35
He's Got Rhythm: The Life and Career of Gene Kelly (Screen Classics) Page 22