Glitz, Glamour and Gossip

The fan magazine is one of the clearest indicators of cinema's shifting demographic in its first 120 years. The earliest publications were aimed at increasingly emancipated females enticed by romance and glamour. But today's prozines are targeted squarely at geeky young males obsessed with special effects and genres.

Anthony Slide assesses the social and cultural significance of these often dismissed publications in this compelling chronicle, which is not only impeccably researched, but is also written with an enthusiasm and elegance that evokes the best writing of titles that brought glamour, taste and celebrity to readers often trapped in a grimmer reality.

Trade journals like Moving Picture World first appeared in the mid-1900s, offering a mix of business news, technical information and reviews. This formula was emulated by such enduring titles as American Cinematographer (1921) and The Hollywood Reporter (1934), which became the film colony's first daily, in competition with the self-proclaimed show business bible, Variety (1905). But the 1910 revelation that Florence Lawrence was the IMP Girl ended the anonymity of screen performers and the onset of star mania meant that Motion Picture Story (1911) and its ilk had to print more than just illustrated scenarios.

Readers now wanted to know about the personalities, opinions and lifestyles of their idols and Hollywood producers quickly recognised the importance of magazines like Photoplay (1911) to the success of the nascent studio system. Refusing to spread gossip or pry into private lives, pioneering editor James R. Quirk sold the Dream Factory image to two million movie-goers a month. Consequently, he secured the guaranteed access to the stars that enabled his successors to commission columnists of the calibre of Hedda Hopper, Louella Parsons, Walter Winchell, Sidney Skolsky and Adela Rogers St John. Moreover, he established a template that was copied by similar publications worldwide.

The slow decline of post-war Hollywood saw celebrity rags like Confidential (1952) exploit the growing inability of the studio publicity machines to control the news agenda and suppress scandal. Moreover, with mainstream circulations dropping, scholarly journals began to attract devoted followings. Indeed, Sight and Sound (1932), Film Quarterly (1945), Cahiers du Cinéma (1951), Positif (1952), Film Comment (1961) and Movie (1962) initiated the theoretical debates that led to the critical shift from stars to directors that sustained the new wave of glossies and fanzines fuelling the younger generation's enthusiasm for blockbusters and videos.

In contrast to serious, but accessible titles like Studio (1987) in France, Movieline (1985) in the States and Empire (1989) in Britain, the first fanzines were mimeographed or photocopied pamphlets that sold through subscription or at genre conventions and cult movie stores. Influenced by Famous Monsters of Filmland (1958) and Castle of Frankenstein (1959), they both reflected and reinforced the growing male fixation with the exploitation genres and, because they were less reliant on studio goodwill, contributors had much greater freedom of expression. Many went on to write for prozines like Starlog and Fangoria, while desktop publishing allowed the likes of Gore Creatures and Garden Ghouls Gazette to reinvent themselves as the more influential Midnight Marquee and Cinefantastique.

Despite the rise of fandom (which has spawned numerous indie and Z-grade directors), most titles were short-lived. Yet, Shock Xpress, Necronomicon and Flesh and Blood were anthologised in book form, while Psychotronic and Video Watchdog found new homes online, alongside websites like Ain't It Cool News, Green Cine Daily and Senses of Cinema, which have helped exacerbate a print media crisis that has cost many respected newspaper critics their posts and forced several movie magazines to close.

Slide's knowledge of Golden Age Hollywood is matched by his fascination with the unsung writers who kept the fanzines going. Thus, while he alludes to guest contributors like Theodore Dreiser, Eleanor Roosevelt, e. e. cummings and H.L. Mencken, he pays particular attention to scribes like Ruth Waterbury, Rona Barrett and Adele Whitely Fletcher, who organised the competition that changed hopeful Lucille Le Sueur's name to Joan Crawford.

However, what is most intriguing here is the shift in the mission statement of the fan magazine. As the film-makers of the early 1910s were keen to avoid publicity for their leading players in case they had to increase their salaries, the first titles operated pretty much as advertorials for forthcoming pictures by previewing the storyline. By the 1920s, however, the studios were actively collaborating with editors like Quirk to ensure that scandals were avoided and that abortions, gay flings, underage liaisons and fatal motoring accidents were either avoided or repackaged with a positive spin.

In many ways, it's a shame that the likes of Confidential were able to exploit the decline of studio control, as their muck-raking contributed to the scuffing of the star escutcheon and the aura passed to rock`n'rollers in the mid-1950s and never really returned to the pin-ups of the silver screen.

The Breakfast at Tiffany's Companion

This year marks the 50th anniversary of Blake Edwards's adaptation of Truman Capote's novella, Breakfast at Tiffany's. Thanks to a little black Givenchy dress and a long cigarette holder, the film confirmed Audrey Hepburn as a style icon and she was forever associated with both the movie and its theme tune, Johnny Mercer and Henry Mancini's haunting `Moon River'.

Yet, as Sarah Gristwood recalls in this engaging, if slightly gossipy companion, the shoot didn't always run smoothly. Indeed, the problems started during pre-production.

Having already endured the considerable watering down of his original storyline in order to satisfy the guardians of the Production Code, Capote was further disappointed by Hepburn's casting over Marilyn Monroe, as she had been part of his inspiration for Holly Golightly, along with Walter Matthau's future wife, Carole Grace. At 31, Hepburn was much older than the source's 19 year-old and had only just given birth to her first son. But it's now impossible to think of anyone else in the role - although few would have complained if Steve McQueen had been able to break his contract on the TV series Wanted: Dead or Alive to play Paul `Fred' Varjak, as George Peppard's Method style occasionally clashes with Hepburn's more casual approach to acting.

Gristwood also delves into Hepburn's relationships with Patricia Neal and husband Mel Ferrer, who was always seen as a deleterious influence on her career. She also recalls Hepburn's nerves at working in front of huge watching crowds during the eight-day location shoot in Manhattan. There is even a paragraph or two devoted to Putney and Orangey, the principal felines used to play Cat.

But this is very much a coffee-table book and the superb illustrations dominate the text. In fairness, an attempt is made to assess the controversy caused by Mickey Rooney's `yellowface' performance as Holly's Japanese neighbour, Mr Yunioshi. But this is never allowed to tarnish the bittersweet romance's iconic image. Consequently, while film historians may feel a little frustrated at the number of themes that Gristwood leaves undeveloped, this still makes a relishable souvenir for fans of both the picture and its enchanting star.