Marlon Brando, 19242004
The last of the great triad of male Method actors who had vaulted from the Actors Studio into postwar Hollywood, Marlon Brando personified the kind of slum-handsome rebel whom American audiences were ready to embrace in an age of prosperous conformity. Dead last week at age 80, Brando outlived Montgomery Clift and James Dean, by four and five decades respectively; and while his acting achievements were acknowledged during last weeks tributes, the eulogies unfailingly faulted him for turning his back on his own career. Brandos life his unfulfilled artistic promise as an actor and director, his prodigious appetites, family tragedies and reports of financial ruin reminded us how often American fame ends in ignominy. Many commentators had come to bury Brando, not to praise him.
The obituaries he-shoulda-stayed-a-contender tone also comfortably assured us that, high or low, everyone shares a common destiny governed by the laws of decay and diminishing returns: We grow old, we get fat, and we lose our money. But Brando was different in that he lost something the rest of us dont have an enormous talent that was, in its uncompromising purity, admired by millions. His ability as Stanley Kowalski, or Terry Malloy, or The Wild Ones Johnny Strabler to articulate the hope and anger of an inarticulate generation made him bigger than any Hollywood star, bigger even than life. What mere actor would attempt as his directorial debut the eccentric oedipal Western One-Eyed Jacks, or gamble with a politically charged grenade of a film like Gillo Pontecorvos Burn!, or in the case of The Godfather refuse an Academy Award?
Before Brando, there had been charming leading men, rugged heroes and even brooding ones, but from the first moment America looked into his fathomless eyes, we recognized someone who wouldnt couldnt lie to us. Its not too much to say that Brandos performances stood as one of the few meaningful forms of defiance against an era of gray-flannel mendacity. Karl Malden often recalled how, during Brandos first, supporting role on Broadway, the young actor stole a scene, to wild applause, by silently sitting at a table. Such old-school stars as Tallulah Bankhead would soon learn to their intense displeasure how devastatingly Brandos mute presence could upstage them. It wasnt so much that he enjoyed pulling attention away from divas but, rather, that he was a prodigy when it came to mastering the difficult art of listening onstage. He had that instinct, actress Anne Jackson has recalled of his stage presence, for finding what was real in a situation and allowing himself to be vulnerable.
More viscerally, Martin Landau would remember smelling Brandos sweat during a performance of A Streetcar Named Desire a perfume that violently clashed with the gentlemanly cologne that had always hung over Broadway. Brandos sensual alchemy of anger, candor and vulnerability, first glimpsed on the screen in his portrayal of a crippled war vet in The Men, was more than acting verisimilitude; it was artistic truth. And yet Brando was never himself convinced of his actors identity, an identity that implied self-exploration and continual questioning. That perhaps explains his relatively brief stage career (roughly half a dozen plays during the 1940s) and his migration to film, where the rehearsal demands for internal examination were minimal.
Over time, Brandos view of both theater and Hollywood grew increasingly contemptuous, and in one Larry King interview, he called acting older than whoring admitting, perhaps, the need to maintain a certain lifestyle and provide for a large family that lay behind many of his later careers highly lucrative cameos. In Brandos artistic sloth, we see both a glimmer of an American tendency to shirk responsibility and an impulse to rebel against a corporation named Hollywood. Even the medical cause of Brandos passing, lung failure, had a symbolic ring. He simply could no longer breathe the atmosphere of the new century or of his own legend.
Get the Weekly Newsletter
Our weekly feature stories, movie reviews, calendar picks and more - minus the newsprint and sent directly to your inbox.
- Everybody Loves L.A: Tourism Is Through the Roof
- Why Is the LAPD Ticketing Pedestrians? Councilman Wants Answers
- Valor Is a Miniature Horse Who Rides Elevators and Soothes Troubled Minds