Beyond Cool: The Acting Career of Bobby Darin

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	During the filming in Italy, Bobby Darin set out to woo an initially cool Sandra Dee, but eventually won her over, first with charm, and later a glimpse at his vulnerability. He sang to her, sent her 18 yellow roses every day, and basically wore down her resistance until the two were genuinely in love. Meanwhile, the film, directed by Robert Mulligan, (To Kill A Mockingbird [1962], Love With The Proper Stranger (1963]) progressed. One sequence, requiring Dee to walk down a staircase and angrily slap Darin in the face, brought the film to a screeching halt. Try as she might, take after take, she could not bring herself to slap the man she loved. Mulligan finally gave up for the day and decided to start fresh in the morning. The next day, with everyone poised to expect a repeat of the day before, Sandra Dee walked down the stairs, said her lines, hauled off, and cracked Darin in the face like a true professional, slamming him against the wall.
Following the successful release of the film, Darin and Dee’s whirlwind romance culminated in a surprising wedding in New Jersey at friend Don Kirshner’s house. If the bride expected a leisurely romantic honeymoon, she was in for a rude awakening. Darin went right back on the job, working harder than ever. He was so determined to make it in films he set up his own independent film company, Sandar Productions, in 1961 to develop properties for his own starring vehicles. Three screenplays were purchased that never went beyond script development. Darin’s determination came to fruition with his first dramatic role in John Cassavetes’ Too Late Blues (1962). Recognized as the seminal influence of independent American filmmakers, actor/director Cassavetes followed his critically successful Shadows (1959) with what would be his first and one of his few forays into major studio filmmaking with Too Late Blues. He had wanted to break with using unknowns and preferred the film to star his wife Gena Rowlands and actor Montgomery Clift. Unfortunately, Clift was unable to get insured, and Darin came into the picture when Cassavetes’ collaborator Burton Lane (father of Diane Lane) suggested Darin, who had studied briefly with Lane. Stella Stevens was touted by friend Martin Rackin for the female lead. The story concerned John "Ghost" Wakefield (Darin), a talented musician in conflict over his own idealism and self doubt, as well his feelings for a pretty young singer named Jess Polanski (Stevens). The character’s struggle to choose between jazz and the popular music that will bring him financial gain was akin to Cassavetes’ own indecision between Hollywood and independent filmmaking, making it one of his most personal and underrated films. "The jazz musician doesn't deal with the structured life—he just wants that night, like a kid," Cassavetes said in 1984. Although speaking of jazz musicians, it is easy to hear Cassavetes discussing himself in explaining the jazz lifestyle conflict. It is a conflict with which Darin was also very familiar.
Bobby Darin and Stella Stevens in "Too Late Blues" (1962)
Cassavetes’ initial reluctance over using Darin changed dramatically as filming progressed. "I think at first Bobby was really concerned that he, as the sure-fire performer, would dominate Bobby, the creative actor. But it hasn’t happened," he said at the time. "If he can come up with something constructive to add to a scene, he does it modestly. With every day he’s gaining confidence." The filming also contained moments of levity. Stella Stevens recalled one rather passionate kissing scene that resulted in Darin giving his co-star "The gentleman’s salute" (see Outré #21). She later added, "I can’t think of Bobby Darin without thinking of him with a huge erection. That is an honor, you know? To me, and to him." When the film was finally released (cut down from four hours to a little over two) it met with largely negative reviews, but a few critics cited the director’s valiant attempt at a message, along with Darin’s daring performance. Like much of Cassavetes’ work, the film is ripe for rediscovery, especially in view of Darin’s performance as Ghost, played not as a somber, brooding musician, but a life-loving yet ultimately flawed artist at odds with the realistic world around him. As San Francisco Weekly critic Greg Rickman wrote in 2000, "Darin's ‘Ghost’...is a rare exploration in a Hollywood film of male inadequacy, and as such deserves reappraisal, as does all of Cassavetes' work." To symbolize Darin’s own conflict between the artistic and the commercial, his next film was a metaphorical underline of that ongoing battle. State Fair (1962) was a remake directed by actor Jose Ferrer of Rodgers & Hammerstein’s 1945 musical film, which itself was a remake of the 1933 film starring Will Rogers. Boasting an impressive cast of Pat Boone, Ann-Margret, Pamela Tiffin, Tom Ewell and a talked-out-of-retirement Alice Faye, the film added nothing to the previous versions, including all the same songs heard in 1945. Darin played an overly ambitious TV reporter who puts the make on naive farm girl Tiffin, only to have the tables turned on him when he finds himself falling in love with her. The purely commercial venture (the soundtrack was a bestseller) added little to his acting resume, of which Darin said at the time, "I want to do drama, light comedy, the whole range. And some day I want an Academy Award."
Darin's next film may not have been Oscar worthy, but it was a taut little WWII thriller that gained Bobby Darin much needed knowledge in dealing with all kinds of film genres. While such contemporaries as Paul Anka and Fabian lent their talents to The Longest Day (1962), Darin signed on to make the much smaller budgeted and commercially risky Hell Is For Heroes (1962). Helmed by noted director Don Siegel (Invasion of the Body Snatchers [1956]), it boasted one of the most unlikely ensemble casts in movie history. Darin was second billed under Steve McQueen, and co-starred with Fess Parker, Harry Guardino, Bob Newhart, James Coburn, Mike Kellin, and Nick Adams. Based on a true story, the low-budget film concerned a small squad of GIs during the closing days of the war who must make the enemy believe they are much greater in number. "His uniform was clean, he had just shaved, and there was a shrewdness, an alertness in his dark eyes," is how Private Corby is described in the original novel, and played as such by Darin. Corby is a small-time hustler concerned with making as much money as possible on the black market while trying to stay alive in the chaos of modern warfare. The film’s climatic battle scene was filmed on a tight schedule in the hills above L.A., choreographed to be perfectly timed amid dangerous explosions. Siegel had instructed his actors to continue in spite of the chaos around them, and if true danger was imminent, to hold up their arms over their head to halt filming. All went well until Darin stumbled and helplessly held his arms out, ending production for the day. The frighteningly real battle scene was restaged the next day and, according to Siegel’s autobiography, "Bobby fell down again, but Fess Parker grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and rushed him out of sight. Nobody got hurt and the action looked sensational."
The only other real problem during the difficult film concerned co-star Steve McQueen. Playing a psychopathic loner incapable of getting along with others, McQueen’s characterization spilled over into real life as he challenged the authority of studio executives and Siegel himself during the filming. When visiting columnist James Bacon was overheard stating that McQueen was his own worst enemy, Darin quipped, "Not while I’m around." Although Hell Is For Heroes hardly rivaled the box-office receipts of The Longest Day, it certainly pointed out Bobby Darin’s desire to learn and experience more about the art of film. "I realize that an actor’s first job is to entertain," he said at the time. "But if a property that has a message is going to be presented on the screen, then it should say what I believe." His next film tested that philosophy more than even he would have imagined. Pressure Point (1962) was based on the book The Fifty-Minute Hour by Dr. Robert Lindner and told the true story of a prison psychiatrist’s attempts to treat a young American Nazi arrested for sedition and suffering from the psychological wounds of an abusive childhood. Producer Stanley Kramer had planned to direct, but was tied up preparing It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World (1963), requiring him to turn the film over to director Hubert Cornfield. In the original story, the doctor was Jewish, adding to the dramatic conflict. Cornfield co-wrote the screenplay and made the doctor a black man, which Kramer heartily endorsed. Cast as the doctor, Sidney Poitier wrote in his autobiography, "...Obviously a picture about a black psychiatrist treating white patients was not the kind of sure-fire package that would send audiences rushing into theaters across the country. But Kramer had other gods to serve and he was faithful to them."
	When it came to casting the much more complex role of the patient, Kramer and Cornfield were stymied. Both Paul Newman and a young Warren Beatty turned down the difficult role, but Bobby Darin let it be known in no uncertain terms how much he wanted the part. "Darin wanted to do that part so much," Cornfield recalled, "Stanley and I felt that anyone that passionate about something, it could only be a positive thing." Kramer met with Darin several times before agreeing to cast him, eventually stating years later, "I look at his performance and I think to myself, ‘Yeah, I sure didn’t make any mistakes there,’ and however the film may have failed or succeeded, his contribution was major."
What Darin contributed to the controversial film was more than just an impressive performance. A short lifetime spent hustling to get where he needed to be quickly, coupled with the constant reminder of a premature death as a result of childhood illness and trauma, were brought to bear in making a wholly dislikable character surprisingly sympathetic. The film contained many memorable moments, thanks to director Cornfield and camera operator Conrad Hall, but the dominant presence towering over the proceedings was easily that of Bobby Darin. One particular scene required his character to pound a file cabinet in angry recognition of his childhood demons. It is easy to imagine Darin summoning the painful demons of his own childhood, filled with agonizing pain and despair, in order to make the scene that much more harrowing. Darin’s commitment to the role was total. A climatic scene in the film required his character to practically hyperventilate when Poitier forces him to confront his past. Cornfield instructed Darin that the soundstage would be prepped to go if he quickly ran around the studio, came back huffing and puffing, and ducked into the scene with the cameras and lights ready to go. Darin sheepishly told the director his heart condition prevented him from doing what he asked. With very little prodding, Cornfield got Darin to do it, and play the scene as required. Years later, Cornfield commented, "I didn’t know [at the time] how grave it was because Bobby ultimately died from this heart murmur. He could’ve come right in under the boom and died right there on camera."
Bobby Darin in "Pressure Point" (1962)
The film did well at the box office, but when it aired on television two years later—in conjunction with the passing of The Civil Rights Act of 1964—it proved to be a ratings smash. Sadly, he was not Oscar-nominated, but for his amazing performance, Darin was awarded the Golden Globe for Most Promising Newcomer. He proved to be so definitive in the role that such a performance would not be risked again in Hollywood until Edward Norton in American History X (1998). Co-incidentally, Norton was another actor considered for the role of Bobby Darin in his life story. The plethora of Darin's film appearances for 1962—five in all—was rounded out with the release of If a Man Answers. Bobby Darin co-starred again with his wife Sandra Dee in this innocuous romantic comedy, but this time both stars toplined instead of supporting the leads. Rich socialite Dee marries professional New York photographer Darin, then attempts to bring an end to his swinging bachelor ways by training him via a dog obedience manual—a typical romp in the style of the early ‘60s Rock Hudson/Doris Day comedies, so wonderfully parodied in Down With Love (2003).
	The couple made the film in hopes of repairing their damaged relationship, since Darin’s overwhelming schedule had wreaked havoc on their marriage. They even had matching dressing rooms suites made that connected in the middle. Producer Ross Hunter, Dee’s mentor throughout her career, came up with the project as a favor to the young couple. "He [Darin] couldn’t believe that he wasn’t as big a movie star as Sandy, which was ridiculous in a way because he was such a great big enormous chart singer," recalled Hunter. "He wanted to make movies so badly, so I put them in a picture together called If a Man Answers and it became a big hit." In spite of the film’s success, the project did not have the hoped for effect on their relationship. When they were done shooting for the day, Dee followed her husband around to recording sessions and nightclub appearances, with an ever-increasing dependence on alcohol and pills to get her through the night.
It is undeniable that they loved each other, and their son Dodd, born in 1961, was the light of their lives. However, as was common for many men of his generation, Darin could not stop hustling to make it to the top of his profession. Combine that drive with the knowledge of a shortened life span, and Darin’s ambitiousness intensified tenfold to the detriment of his personal life. In spite of his personal problems, Bobby Darin was finally coming into his own as a film actor. In an extremely short time he had amassed impressive credits and began to mold a specific screen persona. If that persona is comparable to anyone's, it would probably be that of Frank Sinatra, with whom Darin was often compared musically as well. In his best performances, Sinatra had practically trademarked the cocky little street hustler striving against the odds in such films as From Here To Eternity (1953), Man With the Golden Arm (1955), and Pal Joey (1957), any of which it is easy to imagine starring Bobby Darin. Acknowledging that comparison, Darin once said, "The single biggest fallacy that had been built up is that I think the sun rises and sets on Frank Sinatra. I can tell you something. It rises and sets on my wife and family." In truth, Bobby Darin’s screen persona was similar to Sinatra’s, but he bravely took it one step further. In his light comedies he was a charming, smiling, hustling con man on the make. In many of his dramas those qualities also existed, but they were merely necessary armor to protect his damaged inner self from the trauma he suffered and was forced by circumstance to confront. Both personas gave hints to the real man, but the dramatic Darin was infinitely closer to the truth. That truth was brought to the surface again in his next film, which many feel was his greatest screen performance.
	Captain Newman M.D. (1963) was based on the best-selling novel by Leo Rosten, and told the episodic story of a WWII-era army psychiatrist and his efforts to treat his war traumatized patients while battling the narrow-minded brass who feel his patients are just malingering. The film version was equally episodic, and proved to be the precursor of Robert Altman’s M*A*S*H (1970) by delicately balancing the elements of dark comedy and the horrors of war. The film starred Gregory Peck as Newman, fresh from his Oscar-winning role in To Kill A Mockingbird, and featured strong support from Tony Curtis, Eddie Albert, Angie Dickinson, and a young Robert Duvall.
Directed by veteran David Miller (Lonely Are The Brave [1962]), the standout performance in the film was undoubtedly Bobby Darin’s. It was as if he was born to play Jim Tompkins as Rosten described him in the novel: "Corporal Tompkins was stretched out on his bed, fully and neatly dressed, puffing on a long, thin cigar. He could not have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two, but he had an old man’s face. His guitar was on the chair next to his bed... He sat up. He was short—just over five feet five—wiry and compact. He eyed me carefully... He walked with a swagger, a bantam cock’s bravado."
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