The appearance of Charles Affron's book, Lillian Gish: Her Legend, Her Life, in 2001 was just the latest in the long line of epistles, revivals and revisions that have attended the legacy of Miss Gish; certainly, she's one of the true legends in the history of the cinema, whether or not she abetted and embroidered that legend. When I first became aware of film history in the early 1960s, it was not uncommon to come across the designation of Miss Gish as one of the greatest, if not the greatest, of film actresses. Joe Franklin, in Classics of the Silent Screen, said she was one of the two greatest film actresses of all time (his other was Mae Marsh, the other leading lady for D.W. Griffith); Andrew Sarris once cited her as one of the four greatest actresses in film history (his other three were Greta Garbo, Katharine Hepburn, and Anna Magnani); for Edward Wagenknecht, in The Movies in the Age of Innocence, there was no doubt: Lillian Gish was the greatest actress ever to appear in film. Leonard Maltin's Movie Encyclopedia contains this comment: "She was, quite simply, one of the greatest talents to emerge from motion pictures, and certainly the finest of the silent-screen actresses." In 1969, Miss Gish published The Movies, Mr. Griffith, and Me, her autobiographical account of her career, which established her perspective on Griffith's artistry and her position in his work. The book solidified her reputation, and would enshrine that reputation for the next decade.

That was in the 1960s and the 1970s, when hagiography was still accepted as a critical function of film history. But the 1980s brought about deconstruction, revisionism, and reevaluation; even Lillian Gish was not immune to reconsideration. Nevertheless, every major revival of one of her important films, be it The Wind (1928; restored and reissued 1991) or Way Down East (1920; restored and reissued 1992) or Orphans of the Storm (1922; restored and reissued 1996), has reconfirmed her talent.

In the spring of 1980, The Museum of Modern Art mounted a major retrospective of the films of Lillian Gish. This retrospective was a huge undertaking for the Department of Film, because it involved all the divisions of the Department of Film; it wasn't just a film exhibition, but a show involving the film archives and the film study center. For the retrospective, Charles Silver, the director of the Film Study Center, was writing an essay for the monograph, which would be published by the museum. Eileen Bowser, curator of the Film Archives, was lending her expertise in ensuring that the prints for the exhibition would be the best possible. During the 1970s, FIAF (International Federation of Archives of Film) had been instrumental in locating prints of a number of films considered "lost," including a number of D.W. Griffith titles, and Eileen Bowser had been instrumental in ensuring that prints were deposited in the Film Archives of The Museum of Modern Art. One such film had been A Romance of Happy Valley, a charming D.W. Griffith comedy from 1919 which starred Miss Gish, which had been thought lost since the 1930s, when Iris Barry, the first curator of the Department of Film, had convinced Griffith to donate his films to the Film Library, thus starting the museum's collection of films. In consultation with Miss Gish, it was decided that the opening night film would be The Night of the Hunter, directed by Charles Laughton in 1955; Mary Lea Bandy, the director of the Department of Film, felt it would be preferable to start with a sound film, rather than a silent film: she was afraid that the audience for a gala opening night would not be accustomed to the specific qualities of the silent cinema.

At the time, Stephen Soba and I were working at the museum, in the Department of Film. For the period leading up to the opening, the Department of Film was bustling with activity. There was the guest list, there were details of catering and design, there were just hundreds of little items to be dealt with, and it seemed as if everyone in the Department of Film were involved. The evening would involve a screening of The Night of the Hunter, in the archival print from the museum's collection, introduced by Miss Gish; this would be followed by a dinner for guests in the Founder's Room on the sixth floor of the museum. In the months preceding the event, Steve and I had been helping to contact various colleagues of Miss Gish, asking for a statement for the monograph being supervised by Charles Silver. Because her career was still active (even in 1980), there were many people to contact, but the responses were strange: it seemed that people were intimidated by Miss Gish, and couldn't think of an appropriate statement to make. Eventually, Charles Silver was able to get tributes from several notable actresses, including Colleen Moore, Moira Shearer, Katherine Hepburn, Valentina Cortese, and Mary Astor.

(Steve and I had a running joke, because what Moore, Shearer, Hepburn, Cortese and Astor had in common was that none of them had ever worked with Lillian Gish. By 1980, her career included such films as Duel in the Sun and Portrait of Jennie, The Cobweb and The Night of the Hunter, The Unforgiven and The Comedians, and she had appeared in A Wedding for Robert Altman in 1977: the combined cast lists of those films were amazing, yet pinning down anyone to make a statement about Lillian Gish wasn't just elusive, it was impossible. In 1984, the American Film Institute honored Lillian Gish with its 12th Lifetime Achievement Award, an honor she certainly deserved. The tribute committee consisted of an array of award-winning actresses, including Sally Field, Jessica Lange, Lily Tomlin, Mary Steenburgen, Jane Fonda and Whoopi Goldberg; Steve and I looked over the list, and concluded, what did the actresses on the tribute committee, with the notable exception of Eva Marie Saint, have in common? None of them had ever worked with Lillian Gish.)

For the introduction to the evening, Richard Oldenberg, the director of the museum, was going to introduce Lillian Gish. Prior to that, Irene Worth, Eva Marie Saint, and Sir John Gielgud would provide testimonials. Eva Marie Saint and John Gielgud were working, and would not be able to make an appearance, but both sent wonderful statements. In this case, what Irene Worth, Eva Marie Saint and Sir John Gielgud had in common was that they had worked with Lillian Gish, and continued to have great affection for her. (Lillian Gish had been Gielgud's Ophelia in his Broadway production of Hamlet in 1936; Eva Marie Saint had been the costar in the original television production of A Trip to Bountiful in 1953, and had also been in the cast when the play was done on Broadway later that year; Irene Worth had costarred in the 1958 film Orders to Kill.) There was just such a frenzy of activity, it was very exciting.

Through it all, James Frasher, Miss Gish's personal manager, was constantly bustling around; at times, he seemed omnipotent, because he was omnipresent. He just seemed to be everywhere, seeing to every conceivable detail, conferring with the museum staff on the event. He was very good-humored, but very determined to make sure that whatever happened would be to the exacting specifications of Miss Gish. And he always let you know what would be appropriate, what would not be appropriate, and what would be correct.

It was about noon of the day of the event, and Steve Soba and I were sitting at our desks; we'd decided that we were just going to get sandwiches for lunch, because there was no way we were going to be able to take time to go out for lunch. We'd both wanted to make sure that we could leave the office by 5 o'clock, in order to go home and change and get back by 7. Maria Gonzalez, the receptionist, called from the lobby: there was a delivery from James Frasher for the film department, and would someone come down and sign for it? Maria also said that the delivery wasn't small. Adrienne Mancia and Larry Kardish, the curators of Film Exhibitions at the museum, really didn't want to get involved, so they sent us down to check. We were instructed to make sure that whatever Frasher wanted would be done.

When Steve and I got to the lobby, James Frasher had just arrived, waltzing through the revolving doors to find the delivery men, who had a long trunk on a hand truck. The delivery was to be made to the auditorium; Frasher had already talked to Mary Lea Bandy, so everything was fine. Steve and I then directed the delivery men and James Frasher to the freight elevator, and we all went down to the auditorium.

We were met there by the projectionists, who were waiting. It turned out that the trunk contained Miss Gish's own personal baby spotlight, complete with rose-colored gel. James Frasher explained that Miss Gish wanted to make sure that she looked her best, because she was so grateful to the museum for its work in preserving the great legacy of film. At that point, I think we were in shock; I know I was. Who ever heard of travelling with your own spotlight?

Once we had decided where to place the spotlight, it didn't take very long to set it up. Then there was a discussion of how the evening would work. Richard Oldenberg would introduce the evening, he would read the three statements (one from Princess Grace of Monaco, one from Eva Marie Saint, one from Sir John Gielgud), then he would introduce Irene Worth. She would make her statement, and then Richard Oldenberg would introduce Lillian Gish. Miss Gish, however, would not be waiting in the auditorium; rather, she and James Frasher would be waiting behind the exit door right behind the podium. The trick came in the moment just before the entrance of Miss Gish: the auditorium spotlight would go off and the individual spotlight would go on, and it had to be exact. Someone would have to work the individual spotlight from the auditorium floor.

Then there was a discussion of the auditorium lighting. This was controlled from the projection booth, but there might have been a delay from the time when the signal to turn off the light was given and the actual turning off (about ten seconds). Frasher asked if there was a way to turn off the auditorium spotlight inside the auditorium. There was: there was a lighting panel at the back of the auditorium. Steve was drafted to run Miss Gish's spotlight, I was drafted to turn off the auditorium spot from the back panel. The projectionists went back to the booth, and we went through a short rehearsal.

It all proceeded very smoothly, but it should be stated that, for all his seeming flightiness, James Frasher was a real show business professional. Lillian Gish knew exactly what kind of entrance she wanted to make, she knew exactly how she wanted to look, she knew exactly what was to be done and how to get it done. We were witnessing, at that point, eight decades of show business acumen in the service of Miss Gish's self-image, even if channeled through James Frasher.

While we had our little mini-rehearsal, I remember James Frasher telling us about some of Miss Gish's regimen to ensure her longevity and her beauty. He mentioned how Miss Gish insisted on having a slantboard when she was working, it was very good for posture. Miss Gish had never had any plastic surgery, when working, she insisted on getting at least nine hours of sleep every night, she didn't drink coffee, caffeine was bad for the skin, she was careful about dairy. (I wish I could remember all his comments, because, as I get older, i'm sure that Lillian Gish's beauty advice, again channeled through James Frasher, would come in handy.)

It's hard to remember all the details, I do know that Steve and I did leave by 5 and returned by 7; by 7:30, we were in the auditorium, while the audience started to gather. At five minutes after 8, the house lights dimmed and the house spotlight came up, Richard Oldenberg went to the podium, and the evening began. Right after the statements and the introductions, I switched off the house spotlight, Steve switched on Miss Gish's personal spotlight, she came out and looked absolutely radiant. The audience, even though filled with Miss Gish's friends and fans, went wild.

Travelling with your own rose-colored spotlight certainly ensures being seen in the best possible light.



When Lillian Gish died in 1993, she had lived for almost a full century. The rerelease of The Night of the Hunter in the fall of 2001 brought renewed critical attention, as have continued biographical and critical studies, such as the aforementioned book by Charles Affron. Many commentators seemed to be affronted by the fact that Lillian Gish was so attendant to her image, to her place in history, to her legacy, as if recent movie stars don't have armies of public relations flacks to facilitate their public personae. Lillian Gish didn't have publicists and public relations firms: she had herself, aided by her manager, James Frasher. Her stardom wasn't just a matter of publicity, it was a matter of artistry. She cared about how she looked, how she was perceived, how she was regarded, but she also cared about her legacy. And she was right to be concerned about her legacy, and right to be proud of her legacy: her performances in the series of films she did for D.W. Griffith (including The Birth of a Nation, Hearts of the World, A Romance of Happy Valley, True Heart Susie, Broken Blossoms, Way Down East, and Orphans of the Storm) as well as The Scarlet Letter (1926, directed by Victor Sjostrom), La Boheme (1927, directed by King Vidor), and The Wind (1928, directed by Sjostrom), represent the most remarkably sustained acting career in the silent period of the cinema. One fact that is sometimes unremarked is the variety of her work, from the tragic intensity of Broken Blossoms to the comedy of A Romance of Happy Valley to the rousing melodrama of Orphans of the Storm to the romanticism of La Boheme to the psychosexual ferocity of The Wind. She wasn't just a maiden: Sir John Gielgud stated that he was astounded by the insights she brought to her interpretation of Ophelia, especially the sexual dimensions she brought to the role.

There is a story about the music hall star Gracie Fields, when she was costarring in a movie (Paris Underground, 1946) with Constance Bennett. Bennett (who was also producing) was taking her time, checking the lighting, talking with the cameraman, and spending what seemed to be an inordinate amount of time with make-up and hair. When Fields expressed her astonishment, Bennett exclaimed, "If you think I'm bad, you should see Claudette Colbert. Mind you, that's why she is Claudette Colbert." I happened to attend one of the last press conferences given by Claudette Colbert in 1990; as the press sat, waiting, the track lighting in the hall suddenly was turned off, and when some of the lights were turned back on, they had been adjusted and dimmed. Some of the reporters were puzzled by what was happening, but I realized that Colbert was planning her entrance: she wanted to make sure that the lighting was right. When the lighting was right, she did, indeed, make her entrance: not by coming in the front of the hall, but by coming from the back, so that she had to stride through the length of the hall. And she came from the right side, so that the audience could see only her left profile. When she reached the front, just before she stepped up to the raised platform where the moderator was waiting for her, she stopped, raised her skirt, and displayed her still-shapely left leg, as she had done in It Happened One Night fifty-six years before. What an entrance! The audience, even the most jaded of show business reporters, went wild.

These women knew how to make an entrance: that's why they're stars. But they were also serious about their work, providing performances which remain impressive to this day: that's why they'll be remembered. No one was more conscious of being remembered than Lillian Gish. By the 1950s, lecturing had become a major part of her career, as she proselytized for young audiences to remember the heritage of American cinema. She was tirelessly available to interviews and tributes, always there to expound on the importance of the American contribution to the art of film. Explicitly, she extolled the genius of D.W. Griffith; implicitly, she extolled the acumen of her acting career.

"I wanted to make a film of The Scarlet Letter... I was asked which director I would like, and I chose Victor Sjostrom, who had arrived at MGM some years earlier from Sweden. I felt that the Swedes were closer to the feelings of New England Puritans than modern Americans." With historic simplicity, Lillian Gish described the background to this 1926 film. She leaves it to us to explain her legendary taste and judgement - and her acting genius. Her Hester Prynne is one of the most beautifully sustained performances in screen history - mercurial, delicate, passionate. There isn't an actress today, and perhaps there never was another, who can move like Lillian Gish: it's as if no bones, no physical barriers, stood between her intuitive understanding of the role and her expression of it." [Pauline Kael on The Scarlet Letter]

"Possibly Griffith's highest achievement here as director of actors is the ballet he created with Lillian Gish's body. If there were no titles of any kind, one could "read" her body: the butterfly dance around her little parlor as she awaits her supposed husband; the crushed figure who trudges the road after her baby's death; the recovery of some self as she works at the Bartletts - a medium between the joy at the beginning and the desolation of the abyss. She tells us, simply by the way she moves around the Bartlett place, that she will never again be as happy as she once was but at least she is once more breathing." [Stanley Kauffmann on Way Down East]

When Jeanne Moreau chose to direct a documentary, her choice for a subject was Lillian Gish (1983). When Charles Laughton decided to begin and end his film The Night of the Hunter with Lillian Gish, he was making a decision to invoke the history of the cinema. (Stylistically, of course, the Expressionistic lighting and the hieroglyphic compositions are a direct reference to the silent cinema.) Whatever else Lillian Gish was, she was a direct link to the beginning of film history; her lively interest in educating audiences about the silent cinema helped to make those films and that era less remote. Now, as the moving image is undergoing its second major revolution, shifting from celluloid to digital, that era is more removed than ever. Yet Lillian Gish had attended the birth of what used to be called "The Seventh Art," and she remains one of its greatest artists.