home
***
CD-ROM
|
disk
|
FTP
|
other
***
search
/
TIME: Almanac of the 20th Century
/
TIME, Almanac of the 20th Century.ISO
/
1990
/
93
/
jan_mar
/
0201420.000
< prev
next >
Wrap
Text File
|
1994-02-27
|
6KB
|
123 lines
<text>
<title>
(Feb. 01, 1993) Film's Fairest Lady:Audrey Hepburn
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1993
Feb. 01, 1993 Clinton's First Blunder
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
CINEMA, Page 63
Film's Fairest Lady
AUDREY HEPBURN
1929-1993
</hdr>
<body>
<p>By JAY COCKS
</p>
<p> Of all the wonderful closings in movies, one in
particular comes to mind now. A journalist has just given up,
for love, the biggest story of his life. He has also surrendered
the love of his life, all for the sake of a young woman. A most
unlikely situation, a dramatic confectioner's creation. Reality
has no place in this fantasy. Until the ending. And until now.
</p>
<p> The journalist has just left the young woman to her job,
which is being a princess. They will not see each other again.
The camera stays with him as he walks through the sepulchral
rooms of some vast Roman palazzo, and his face shows everything:
the loss, the melancholy, the love, the sweetness of feelings
found fleetingly, then lost irretrievably.
</p>
<p> This scene, the end of William Wyler's Roman Holiday, is
memorable for reasons that can never be taught in film school.
Wyler had a fierce sense of emotional focus, and he had here a
consummate movie star, Gregory Peck. But this great scene would
have been nonsense if Peck did not have something wonderful and
irreplaceable to miss. He had Audrey Hepburn.
</p>
<p> It was her first major film role, the one that introduced
her to the world and made her a star. It also defined her--as
starmaking parts will--in film and in life. When she died last
week of cancer, at 63, it was as if we had to surrender the
marvelous princess of all our better dreams.
</p>
<p> Born in Belgium in 1929, she spent her adolescence in
World War II Holland. She lost family to the Nazis, often went
desperately hungry, and occasionally carried messages for the
Resistance in her shoes. The war was a horror, but it left no
discernible scars. Perhaps that was a little part of her magic:
after slaughter and in the midst of chilling political
uncertainty, the world found a grace in her that it yearned for.
She seemed serene, but she was quick to laughter. She was
ethereal--she gave a credible performance as Rima, the bird
creature in Green Mansions--but she could be sensual and
knowing, whether in the mock innocence of her Holly Golightly
in Breakfast at Tiffany's, or, later, in the painful cunning of
the beleaguered wife in Two for the Road. Surely she must have
been thoroughly sick of hearing all about her gamin quality, her
elfin smile, her graciousness and class, even though we have the
strong impression that she was too gracious and too classy to
say so.
</p>
<p> She had, as an actress, a tremendous tensile strength that
helped anchor the unforced ebullience of her personality. When
a film required it, she could really dig in her heels. Billy
Wilder's Sabrina, which quickly followed Roman Holiday, showed
her torn between the smooth bachelor blandishments of William
Holden and the tempered, literally businesslike attentions of
Humphrey Bogart. Hepburn made the right choice--the heart's
choice--as she would continue to do in all her best-remembered
movies. Past the sorcery of her sensuality, with its inviolate
innocence, and past her great beauty, Hepburn wooed and won her
audience because she always played a character whose heart, if
occasionally misplaced, could in the end be trusted and even
envied.
</p>
<p> She played the star as she had played the princess, as if
by natural right. But that was another part of the game, and
one she played with great generosity. She spoke often of her
indebtedness to other actors, and the directors who brought out
and shaped what was best and most vulnerable and most beguiling
in her: Wyler, of course, who began everything; Wilder, with
whom she made her most sportive romantic comedies; King Vidor,
for whom she played an exquisite Natasha in War and Peace; John
Huston, in whose The Unforgiven she portrayed a frontier girl
of mixed blood and uncertain allegiances; Stanley Donen, who
fine-tuned her sprightliness in Funny Face and enhanced her
eldritch sophistication in Charade beside Cary Grant; George
Cukor, for whom she played an effervescent Eliza Doolittle in
My Fair Lady; and Richard Lester, who gave her the most
memorable role of her later years opposite Sean Connery in Robin
and Marian.
</p>
<p> Although she had been, for a time in her early years, a
dancer, it was still difficult to believe, watching Hepburn,
that anyone could embody such grace. This was not just a matter
of movement, although she was purest quicksilver. It was more
a quality of spirit, a kind of emotional fluency and serenity.
The press, responding to this, was always kind, and stayed
pretty much out of her private life. She was married and
divorced twice (her first husband was Mel Ferrer, who acted
opposite her in War and Peace and directed her in Green
Mansions). In recent years she lived in Switzerland and threw
her energies into arduous and prolonged charity work for UNICEF;
she traveled, most lately, to Somalia and appeared on television
making early pleas for an end to the devastation.
</p>
<p> Her last film appearance was in the Steven Spielberg
romantic fantasy Always. She played an angel, and she was
radiant, doing, as well as she ever had, what she always did:
working with a great director, bringing to her part an unforced
sovereignty of spirit, fulfilling, with no apparent effort
whatsoever, our need to believe in the finest parts of what may
only be a dream. It was Gregory Peck's dream in Roman Holiday,
and now we all know his loss.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>