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Forenote: I first approached this piece with the intent to further explore the fascinating conflation of career and character specific to Bette Davis, with Katharine Hepburn serving to highlight, contrast, and offer perspective. I would not have been able to complete this piece without the help of my dear friend and esteemed Katharine Hepburn researcher Beth Palucka. She is an incredible wealth of knowledge and on her own has done a tremendous amount of hard, thorough work to preserve and uphold her legacy. I am so very honored to have been able to consult her in order to fortify the cohesiveness of this writeup. I highly recommend that you follow her pursuits on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, all of which are maintained with utmost care and updated regularly. I hope you enjoy the read! —
At the dawn of the 20th century, New England boasted a booming populace. The industrial revolution continued to propel the propagation of the textile economy. Factories sprung up like weeds along the fertile rivers of the modest hills and valleys, fortifying economic growth. Two little girls — both headstrong, educated, and far too big for their britches — would soon debut in this picturesque environment. Born within a year and one hundred miles of one another, nobody could have ever predicted what their futures held in store for them. By the mid 1930s, both women were not only celebrated actresses, but Oscar winners as well — a prestigious feat, as many of their equally popular contemporaries failed to garner even a mere nomination. Both were obdurate and set in their own ways, known primarily for their staunch Yankee values. They also shared a fondness for the stage, originating their careers in the theatre before transitioning to film. Hepburn would enjoy a renaissance in the theatre in the 1950s, whereas Davis would not achieve nearly the same success in her efforts. Both women accumulated an impressive amount of Oscar nominations, and Katharine still holds the record for most wins with four, and Davis with two.
Ruth Elizabeth Davis (left) was born in Lowell, MA on April 5th, 1908; Katharine Houghton Hepburn (right) was born in Hartford, CT on May 12th, 1907
Though they are ranked as the top two actresses of all time by the AFI (Hepburn taking the trophy for first, with Bette in second), the two legends never had the opportunity to work together. They held each other in mutual high regard — a novel feat by way of the notoriously critical Davis — though Bette was decidedly more effusive in her praise than was Hepburn. Commenting on her beauty, Davis remarked: ‘I always wanted to have Katharine Hepburn’s gorgeous face … I would look at her and say “why can’t you look like that divine woman?’” When Michael Parkinson interviewed her in 1975, he listed her amongst Garbo and Hepburn as the greatest actresses of the era. Davis joked about the order in which the stars were listed (with Garbo and Hepburn preceding her, respectively) in good fun. “I’d be happier if I got first billing,” she cracked, but continued on to say “If I am included with those two fabulous women, I am delighted.”
Hepburn and Davis in the 1930s, sporting the same coat — Davis is pictured with one of the two Oscars she won during the decade; no picture exists of Hepburn with any of her Oscars, since she habitually evaded them. Photos credit to Beth Palucka.
Perhaps the most striking divide between the two was just how differently they approached their fame. Davis thrived in the limelight and jumped at any opportunity that would help to cast her in the public eye. She was conspicuously open when it came to topics of conversation and enjoyed speaking her mind. She possessed few reservations and spoke bluntly, taking a sort of a chauvinistic delight in shocking the audiences with off-the-cuff revelations about her sex life and other deeply personal subjects. She co-authored three separate biographical pieces (two of them her autobiographies, THIS ‘N’ THAT (1985) and THE LONELY LIFE (1961), the other being a compendium of her film career titled MOTHER GODDAM (1973) compiled by Whitney Stone.)
Hepburn, by contrast, was fabled for her avoidance and apprehension as a result of debilitating shyness. Later in life, she was able to somewhat embrace the public by giving her first lengthy interview on the Dick Cavett show in 1973. She would also write her own autobiography, entitled ME (1991), a project which she initially undertook years earlier alongside popular ghostwriter Sanford Dody, who, coincidentally, had partnered with Davis back in 1961. She privately remarked to him that “Bette was a different story,” and that though she found his work “first rate” and “splendid,” she was “not Bette, and could never open those doors, not with anyone”
Hepburn and Cavett exchange pleasantries during her widely publicized interview, 1973
How is it then, that these two stars — like-minded in temperament, yet so radically different in style and approach — ended up stagnating in very much the same fashion? Hepburn and Davis boasted two of the longest consistent screen careers (Davis would work up until her death at 81 in 1989; Hepburn retired in 1994, at 87). Stars such as Lillian Gish may have been in the industry for longer overall, but never enjoyed the same continual success (and not to mention Academy praise) that Hepburn and Davis achieved. Their similitude was unique in the fact that it so-often contradicted itself, even in the eventual outcomes of their careers. Like-minded they might have been, but ultimately it was their radically opposite dispositions that wove complex nuances bearing unmistakable markings of their temperament. The easiest difference to discern, which will be the predominant focus of this piece, rests in their relationship with the media. Both women befell the same fate — victims of their own caricaturization — but the results were strikingly distinct. Traits that were once typical (though not emblematic) of a Davis/Hepburn performance evolved into exaggerated and outlandish gestures that would dominate their latter works and interpretations, even given the range of roles at hand. Was it a conscious or subconscious occurrence — further yet, can or will we ever really know? What is true and palpable is that at some certain point in time, the planes of reality and fiction converged. As a result, the inherent boundaries that dictated just where the actor ends and the performance begins subsequently became distorted. The Bette Davis persona eclipsed her function for versatility, seeping into each consecutive performance given with increasing prominence. The same is true of Hepburn, but in a different way that is uniquely representative of her own style. The conscious subtlety exercised by both women in their earlier careers that allowed for a much greater range of performance all but evaporated, leaving the unadulterated essence of both women without any variable to dilute or moderate their potency.
Thus, there appear few differences between the characters of the eponymous antagonist from THE NANNY and the sadistic mother from THE ANNIVERSARY, despite the radically incongruous themes and traits that distinctively shape each one. Instead, both are most recognizable from their shared characteristics — a loud, boisterous cackle representative of wavering mental stability; bugging eyes that threaten to leap from their sockets; a decidedly stylized gait heavy on the feet; shrill inflections of speech that project an unrestrained, authentic Yankee accent. These traits are not indicative of the characters she played, but of Davis herself.
Left: Davis in THE NANNY (1965); Right: Davis in THE ANNIVERSARY (1968)
One can’t say for certain just when the Davis personality triumphed over the character, but critics were taking note as early as 1961, when she was starring in NIGHT OF THE IGUANA as Maxine Faulk (Ava Gardner would go on to portray her in the 1967 film adaptation). Walter Kerr of the NEW YORK TIMES noted that she displayed coarse and blowsy-effrontery … [in] her flat-footed walk,” a foible inarguably unique to Davis.
Of course, personality is inherent to every actor’s signature style, particularly those borne of the studio era. One could easily argue that the heroines embodied by Joan Crawford share a similar set of traits that are undeniably and irrefutably hers — the singular tear trailing down a luminescent cheek, the furrowing of thick brows set against a clenched jaw, or even the inevitable presence of trembling fingers on the temples to signify duress — but these behaviors lend themselves more to ambiguity than they do to specific incarnations. That is to say, that while present, they aren’t distinctive enough to detract from the present interpretation.
Joan Crawford displaying one of her signature gestures of duress in POSSESSED (1947)
The answer may rest in the principle of moderation. When proportions are contorted, the result always proves detrimental. Davis and Crawford contrast and exemplify this impeccably. There is undeniably a necessary individualism to navigating a successful acting career. Without it, one would never be able to stand out and conjure appeal. However, too much influence of the self ultimately results in self-sabotage, hindering the plight of the actor in ironic descent. The balance and harmony necessary for optimal output is compromised, and instead, the actor becomes the performer, blurring the thresholds that provide necessary distinction. Just as an actor entirely bereft of personality is disastrous, an actor dominated by one detracts from the quality of their craft.
Is it inevitable that the numerous iterations of a dynamic human being and the predisposed roles assigned to them eventually overlap? That such characterizations dictate an inescapable finality that ultimately leads to imprisonment rather than emancipation? Is there a point where acting — rooted in shedding one’s identity in order to inhabit another — loses its performance and in turn assumes the role of God by sentencing artists to a certain fate? Or can one surmount this with enough self-awareness and actualization, retaining the disparity that preserves their individual spirit? It very well may have been all but irrelevant at this stage in her career — after all, she had paid her dues when it came to fame, working arduously to reach unprecedented levels of recognition that few other actresses were able to scale. From the beginning she had been determined to stand out, to eschew glamour, and thus, concomitantly created a celebrity persona rooted in unapologetic authenticity. With her reputation secure, what did Davis have to lose — or gain? An established audience ensured income and opportunities, even though she crested her zenith long ago. With this came the arrival of new, younger audiences, bulwarked by sundry motivations to pursue her films. A large constituent of this group was the burgeoning LGBTQ community, particularly men, who found empowerment in Davis’ often outlandish performances. Her zest and joie de vivre exemplified their hope and ideals, gave them an outlet which allowed for them to feel understood. All the while, cinema itself was continuing to grow, self-reflect, and evolve at an exponential pace. There was a rising intellectualism behind the new wave of films that dominated the early 1960s. The studio system was collapsing, and power, once pooled in the hands of top executives, now lay in the philosophical and existential pursuits of visionaries. Young auteurs began to surface, individuals who grew in turn with the medium, both consciously and unconsciously digesting and absorbing the elements that spoke to them. It was no longer a business strictly for profit or entertainment, but a sophisticated conduit that could encapsulate and challenge the human experience. Davis and Hepburn were not at the forefront of this movement, but far from it. They were relics of another era, anathematized further on account of gender politics. For Davis, the answer was in the burgeoning field of exploitation — Hepburn, on the contrary, lightened her cinematic workload and opted for a return to the stage. Thus, because the bulk of Davis’ repertoire is composed of film performances (her few unsuccessful ventures on the stage proved ephemeral) she has a greater body of documented work available for analysis. She continued to assiduously crank out feature after feature, whereas Hepburn became more selective with her pursuits.
Both women were no strangers to typecasting — Hepburn had been routinely playing spinsters science 1951’s THE AFRICAN QUEEN (a vehicle originally purchased for Davis in the late 1930s), and Davis long epitomized the bitch before shedding that in favor of the psychosis-addled hag. While elements indicative of their own personas occasionally filtered through these performances, it was scant enough not to compromise the integrity of the role at hand. True, Hepburn avoided the grotesque and self-effacing repercussions of the hagsploitation genre, but even this omission failed to help her any more than Davis when it came to withdrawing into herself.
Left: Hepburn’s originating spinstress role in THE AFRICAN QUEEN (1951); Right: Bette Davis epitomizing the bitch in 1949’s BEYOND THE FOREST
Their lives would once again indirectly cross paths by way of one specific dramatic property. THE CORN IS GREEN was first put to film in 1945, with a then youthful Davis voluntarily aging herself in order to play the middle-aged Miss Moffat. In 1973, Davis attempted to revive the production on stage, enthused she was now of correct age for the part. Unfortunately, the project disintegrated early on, marking the definitive end of Davis’ stage career. Six years later, Hepburn (under direction of old collaborator Cukor) would star in a made for television rendition. When asked what she thought of her predecessor’s performance, she provided no comment.
Left to right: a poster advertising ill-fated musical adaption of THE CORN IS GREEN entitled MISS MOFFAT; Katharine Hepburn as she appeared in the 1979 TV film; Bette Davis as she appeared in the 1945 film
Despite her circumspect approach to later cinematic endeavors, Kate Hepburn would ultimately suffer from the same ailment. Thanks to this prudence, however, the shift is less perceptible: Hepburn only starred in four feature films throughout the 1960s vs Davis’ seven, two of which brought her consecutive Oscar wins. Impressive in and of itself, it still did not fully guise the formula that was beginning to take visible shape.
One such thing that did aid her, however, was her preeminent aversion to publicity and the media in general (an increasingly difficult stance that’s all but futile in today’s celebrity sphere). With minimal supplemental fixtures to establish her star image, Hepburn was able to at times capitalize on her enigma. If nobody really knew who the real Kate Hepbrun was (aside from the widely shared notion that she was intensely private), it was more difficult to derive personal semblance from her performances — whereas Davis, on the other hand, was a self-professed ham and thrived on the attention bestowed upon her by the media (for better or for worse).
Still, her efforts may have been in vain — for her reputation as a recluse gave a certain fictitious truth to the spinstress image she’d come to embody. After Spencer Tracy died in 1967, Hepburn remained alone, aloof, and removed from the ebbs and flow of the media circuit. Her self-preservation arguably proved more harmful than beneficial, since it only lent further credence to the widespread and undisputed belief that she was, in fact, a real life spinstress left to her own devices. She did later remark, however, that “I’m a personality as well as an actress. Show me an actress who isn’t a personality, and you’ll show me a woman who isn’t a star,” indicating that despite her reservations, she was confident in her individuality — or rather how she spoke for herself through her silence and refusal to play games with the media for clout.
Left: Hepburn as Ethel in ON GOLDEN POND (1981); Right: Hepburn pictured outside her famed Fenwick home in Old Saybrook, CT
The best encapsulation of the Hepburn persona — accurate or not — is her role in ON GOLDEN POND. Though married and bolstered by the support of family (Hank Fonda is her husband, in his last role; real life daughter Jane played their daughter), Ethel (Hepburn) is decidedly idiosyncratic. Withdrawn from society and happiest at her New England lakeside refuge, she has a zesty appetite for living. To her, experience is of the utmost importance, whether it takes the form of a kayak outing or a convivial conversation exploring shared interests. She could care less about the superficialities that increasingly entwine with the modern ideals of living. She finds satisfaction in simplicity, eschewing materialism in favor of appreciating the bounty of the earth and its collective lifeforce. So similar are the spirits of Ethel and Kate that a candid photo of a smiling Hepburn posed next to a “KEEP OUT” sign could easily be mistaken for an outtake from GOLDEN POND.
What can be soundly stated is that the spinstress persona was ultimately worlds more generous to Hepburn, her reputation and the trajectory of her career when juxtaposed against the histrionics that constituted Davis.’ The only project-specific accolade Davis would go on to receive after BABY JANE was an Emmy for STRANGERS, a 1979 made for television movie that explores a taut mother – daughter relationship (with Gena Rowlands). Her loss to Bancroft for Best Actress at the 1963 Oscars would be the last nod that Davis would receive from the Academy. She was, however, the first actress to be recognized by AFI for their Lifetime Achievement Award in 1977.
Davis accepting the AFI Lifetime Achievement Award in 1977
Hepburn’s métier, instead, careened in just the opposite direction. She was nominated for Oscars in 1968 and 1969, swooping up two consecutive wins for her performances in GUESS WHO’S COMING TO DINNER? and THE LION IN WINTER. It was a watershed moment in what had been a hitherto turbulent career. After a seemingly fortuitous start in motion pictures with a win for MORNING GLORY, Hepburn struggled to stay afloat while Davis flourished, and the unforeseen change of tide brought her scorecard to three wins and eleven nominations. She’d go on to finish her career with four, and a grand total of twelve nominations with her win for ON GOLDEN POND. Davis, by contrast, accrued ten total (eleven if one counts her unofficial write-in for OF HUMAN BONDAGE). It is a commendable feat, but the disparity of the nominations offer a perspicuous glimpse into her career: of the twelve, only four of them were offered in the 1930s and 1940s. Davis, by comparison, scored the majority of hers in that very same epoch, and still holds a joint record with Greer Garson for most consecutive nominations in a row (Five for Best Actress, from 1939 -1944). The rest were decidedly more sporadic — only EVE, THE STAR, and BABY JANE would garner any notice from the Academy.
Left: Hepburn in THE LION IN WINTER (1968); Right: Hepburn in GUESS WHO’S COMING TO DINNER?
Empirically, this is a far more flattering convergence of persona and person — and thus, by proxy, synecdoche — than the one Davis came to inhabit. To retreat idly toward the end of one’s life seems normal, peaceful even, if not a little eccentric — whereas by contrast the overwrought, neurotic extension of Davis evokes a maudlin mixture of fright and pity. One represents an individual well-read in self awareness, allowing for conscious control. The other instead projects a haunting image of a woman mired by denial, willfully blind to the ravages of time and intransigent in her pursuits out of pure arrogance.
One of the last photos ever taken of Bette Davis in September of 1989, days before her death. She was making a guest appearance at the SSan Sebastián International Film Festival in Spain, against the wishes of her doctor.
In 1972, Davis reflected on her career by commenting, “I’ll never make the mistake of saying I’m retired. You do that and you’re finished. You just have to make sure you play older and older parts. Hell, I could do a million of those character roles. But I’m stubborn about playing the lead. I’d like to go out with my name above the title” (Bubbeo). While it is true that Davis did retain top billing up until the very last film of her career (the ill-fated WICKED STEPMOTHER), that security was never in danger of being jeopardized by reason of her star stature. Perhaps it was Davis’ own way of justifying her behavior and work ethic, creating a false truth to serve as a palpable, motivation ridden reason to continue in her career despite the waning possibilities. If anything at all, it is a riveting assessment of her humanity: even those who are most revered, seemingly immortal in their upper echelon of unattainability, are forced to reckon with life, death, and purpose.
The anomalous, overarching correlations between both women lie deeply ingrained in their being — so much so, in fact, that this strange duality dictated the finality of their legacies. Their careers stand as longitudinal studies that distinguish how tiny, individualized quirks — seemingly irrelevant when examined as a cross-section — lead to longstanding desultory consequences in terms of outcome. Their personas both ultimately supplanted diversity in their later roles, but with opposing results: a testament to their singularity. In spite of intentionality, both women superseded the restraints of their craft and instead wielded their characters as conduits for their authenticity. It is ironic, particularly in the case of Hepburn, that someone so private would reveal so much just through the physicality of being. The Achilles’ heel that emerges is a fascinating scope through which one can observe the free and unconscious phenomenon of vulnerability. The existence of voids and fragility can be inferred by thorough examination of dominant strengths. Take Davis, for example: an unrelenting desire for attention, which soared proportionate to the decline of her career, reveals a woman who is dissatisfied with her existence. She refuted this in an 1983 interview, quipping, “my goal was never the marvelous, good fortune of the public … my goal was to do the best I could, and I just adored the work.” There is truth in her words, naturally. Davis’ reputation was largely a product of her querulous conduct at Warner’s. She was vocal in refusing projects she viewed as beneath her caliber, resulting in multiple suspensions and a legendary court hearing. She did assiduously pursue unconventional leads, motivated by the challenge to outdo herself. However, it would be careless to ignore the diligence to which she lent her fanbase, particularly after she could no longer realistically vie for such positions.
I cannot speak for Bette Davis, nor would I ever try to — but it is certainly beguiling to speculate, particularly when the majority of her life is preserved in an expansive body of work that is readily available at the touch of a finger. She stands out amongst her contemporaries in her unyielding quest for publicity, even up until her final days (whereas Crawford, who was arguably just as fond of the fanfare, infamously forsook her public image after a disastrous spell of candids from a 1974 appearance were published. The only photos that would ever emerge of her after the fact were a series of portraits taken in 1976 by John Engstead). Davis, who emphatically rejected glamour, would eventually surrender to her insecurities: though she jested openly with her audience about her aged features during her personal tours in the 1970s, she’d go on to have a facelift only a few years later. Does this serve as indication that Davis was, in fact, aware of the conjoined fate that awaited her mortality and career?
Davis in THE WATCHER IN THE WOODS (1980), her first feature film made following her facelift.
Earlier in life, Davis often referred to the two personalities that inhabited her being: Bette Davis, the actress, and Ruth Elizabeth, the housewife. It begs contemplation; did one ever fully consume the other? Was there a point where Ruth Elizabeth, disillusioned by failed marriages and familial strife, eventually capitulated in defeat? If the Bette Davis persona was robust enough to overtake the very nature of her craft, then a definite possibility exists that it did the very same to the unsubstantiated, domestic woman that at one point played a considerable role in her life. Perhaps it was this upset that ultimately engendered the unraveling of her career: without the restraint and hesitancy imposed by Ruth Elizabeth, Bette Davis exercised free reign. What cannot be denied in the end is the unrivaled fortitude of a woman that captivated the hearts and minds of millions. Two Yankee natives who weaponized their human obstinacy in order to achieve two wildly different — yet equally important — ideals of success, both of which have been invaluable to cinema, culture, and a plethora of other arenas. Bette Davis remains an estimable figure of cinema whose stature will only continue to grow — as does Katharine Hepburn, matched in spirit and influence with regards to her own talents and accomplishments. Their legacies will withstand and transcend the finites of time.
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Specific works referenced include:
THE WOMEN OF WARNER BROTHERS, Daniel Bubbeo
GIVING UP THE GHOST: A WRITER’S LIFE AMONG THE STARS, Sanford Dody
Interviews were obtained through YouTube and transcribed by me.
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