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1964 publicity poster promoting WHERE LOVE HAS GONE
Introduction
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It’s remarkably easy to overlook WHERE LOVE HAS GONE, particularly when sized up against the formidable filmographies of Bette Davis and Susan Hayward. The film was critically panned upon its 1964 release and fared poorly at the box office. It is impossible to take it seriously on account of the unintentional campiness that typified its style. It fails to hold up in just about every category: it is too campy to earn the highly coveted prestige awarded to lavish melodramas, but not campy enough to obtain the legendary ubiquity of infamy. Its failure to present itself as extreme in any one arena unwittingly tagged it as mundane, allowing it to fall through the cracks — but it is hardly anything but that. A critical examination of this picture reveals a telling amount of history, camaraderie, and insight into Hollywood and the transient cinematic period of the 1960s. I hope that this paper will help others to glean the same fascination and appreciation for this picture that I feel.
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Davis vs Hayward
Perhaps the most notable aspect of this film is the fact that all or any of its accidental genius is practically veiled by way of exaggerated performance. Hayward and Davis, both forceful and emphatic in style, more or less mirror their real life personas. Watching the two of them interact is undeniably beguiling, an endless series of escalations that distracts from the meat of the story. How can one glean any semblance of gravitas when the greater spectacle at hand is the ego-clashing of two venerable Oscar winning actresses, whose off screen enmity was just as rife as presented on screen?
It was not the first time the two appeared in a production together. Sixteen years earlier, Hayward, then an ingenue, had a bit part in THE SISTERS, a 1938 melodrama where Davis received top billing. It is likely that Davis was completely unaware of Hayward’s existence, given the latter’s minimal role. In a little less than a decade, the dynamic would invert itself: by the end of the 40s, Davis was on the down and out, and Hayward was soaring. The 1950s would ultimately mark Hayward’s zenith and Davis’ nadir. WHERE LOVE HAS GONE, however, was the first instance in which the two greats had the opportunity to truly work alongside one-another. By 1964, Susan was still successfully playing contemporary leading roles. Davis, by comparison, hadn’t been offered the luxury since the mid 1940s, despite only being nine years older than Hayward.
Publicity photograph taken of Bette Davis to promote THE SISTERS (1938)
Bette Davis may have fooled the world with her vocal embracement of unconventional roles, masking insecurity behind indefatigable opportunism. But the truth was that the aging Davis — whether aware of it or not — was very much internally struggling to cope with her morality. The fame she’d enjoyed two decades earlier was a mere fragment of what it had been at its apex. Her career was briefly revitalized thanks to the success of ALL ABOUT EVE in 1950, paralleling Joan Crawford’s triumphant resurgence in MILDRED PIERCE just five years prior. But the roaring success of EVE was in no way a harbinger for what was in store for Davis: whereas Crawford flourished for half a decade following her accomplishment, Davis’ encore lasted little over a year. Everything about EVE proved to be little more than a fortuitous coincidence for Davis — she’d landed the role by sheer happenstance, and despite the Oscar nomination, saw little return in her favor. In the end, EVE amounted to only a flicker, and not the flame needed to ignite the ashes of a stale career.
After a tumultuous decade marked by personal and professional failings, Davis managed to re-establish herself in Hollywood, though the extreme persistence which once benefitted her now only served to mar her image. Vocally advocating for the then controversial role of Mildred in OF HUMAN BONDAGE as a twenty-six-year old may have helped to but her on the map, but nearly thirty years later Davis’ attempt to break the mold through unconventionality would be the very thing that would ultimately sentence her to an endless stream of hagsploitation roles, rounding out the third and final act of her career.
Hayward and Davis held one another in mutual regard until the release of STOLEN HOURS, a modernized retelling of DARK VICTORY with Hayward starring in the Davis role. The timing could not have been more unfortunate, and Davis’ icy reception remained very much still an open wound by the time work started on WHERE LOVE HAS GONE the next year. Davis was less than complimentary when prompted for her opinion. It’s true that the film as a whole fails to hold a candle to Goulding’s top tier production, but Hayward gives an even and capable performance. It’s likely that Davis’ retorts were fueled by envy more than anything else. After all, DARK VICTORY was lauded as one of her finest performances. There were a number of personal connotations that intensified her connection to the film — most notably the fact that the film was borne of a Broadway failure originally helmed by Tallulah Bankhead. The property was initially envisioned for Kay Francis, but inevitably was offered to Davis when Francis fell out of favor with the studio. Winning her second consecutive Oscar nomination after JEZEBEL, Davis believed that Judith, now immortalized by celluloid, would forever be conflated with her name.
Left: Davis as Judith Traherne in DARK VICTORY (1938); Right: Hayward as Laura Pember in STOLEN HOURS (1963)
True, the ill-fated heroine of 1963’s STOLEN HOURS may not share Judith’s namesake, but she’s all too obviously cut from the same cloth. Susan’s Laura is the 1960s answer to her precocious predecessor, a flighty socialite with a penchant for partying and booze. Unlike DARK VICTORY, which establishes a rhythmic pacing that lends it a sense of realism, STOLEN HOURS wastes no time in its frenzied plot exposition. Almost immediately we learn Laura has a terminal brain illness, whereas DARK VICTORY employs a strategic reveal. Though shot in vibrant technicolor on the coast of England, STOLEN HOURS fails to dazzle the way DARK VICTORY did and comes across as flat and lacking. Objectively, there’s no competition in regards to which is the better made picture — a fact that speaks to Davis’ chronic inferiority complex. Even though Hayward is successful in her performance, that alone is not enough to hold the movie together. Davis is the clear victor, but yet still felt sufficiently threatened enough to offer unprovoked commentary. Had she truly been self confident enough in her talents and performances, she would never have felt the need to rouse commotion in the first place.
This was the beginning of the end of the amiable rapport between the two actresses. Susan was rightfully put off by Bette’s pugnacious remarks. Davis remained painfully tonedeaf to the entire situation, completely oblivious to the impact of her words. In fact, in her autobiography she recalls her enthusiasm toward WHERE LOVE HAS GONE, once again waxing admiration for Hayward. The experience proved to be less than rewarding, and Davis completed the movie with newfound disdain for her co-star. Director Edward Dyntryk recounts a particular anecdote which, safe to say, is a good representation of the strained rapport that was omnipresent on set.
“When I directed Where Love Has Gone (1964) I had to cope with the hatred between Bette and Susan Hayward who was a toughie in her own right. Bette not only had to take second billing but she was playing Susie’s mother and was only a decade older than Susie. Bette would storm onto the set shouting “Don’t worry boys, I’ve rewritten a few lines!” Whereupon Susie would storm off the set, slam her dressing room shut and refuse to leave until all her lines were properly restored. After I shot the last scene Bette turned to me and said “Am I finished, Mr. Director?” I assured her that was so and she took off her white wig and tossed it at Susie and it bounced off her forehead. “You disgusting old bitch!” shouted Susie as Bette exited Stage Left.”
In a strange, roundabout way, it makes total sense that Susan would be the one to reprise Davis’ role out of the second generation of starlets that rose to prominence at the end of the 1930s. And like Davis, she was quick to stand out amongst her contemporaries: while Lana Turner may have been the darling of lavish MGM publicity, she and fellow player Ava Gardner only ever secured one Oscar nomination. Susan, on the other hand, would secure five, culminating in a win for 1955’s I WANT TO LIVE! Though not a New Englander, Susan possessed the same brassy and robust attitude that propelled Davis to stardom. She was effusive and emphatic in her acting, and while undeniably glamorous, also fought to take on roles that didn’t always align with her star image. If Davis reigned as the bitch of the silver screen, Susan matched her evenly in her mastery over portraying tormented alcoholics.
Hayward photographed at the 1959 Oscars, proudly displaying the award she won for Best Actress in I WANT TO LIVE! (1958)
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Media, Genre, & Exposition
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Hollywood has always leapt at the opportunity to capitalize on its infamy — there’s a sort of voyeuristic delight in exploiting the unfavorable aspects of the industry. The exponential rise of celebrity culture brought about by the studio system boom established the frontier of worldwide stardom. Its all consuming appeal would grow so apparent that films, once purposeful deviations from reality, would betray this precedent in favor of establishing a sollipstic universe that acted as a mirror for its growth. The earliest film about Hollywood made in Hollywood dates back to 1932’s WHAT PRICE HOLLYWOOD?, a Constance Bennett pre-code whose story lay the groundwork for the immensely profitable A STAR IS BORN (1937), a story itself that has seen three additional adaptations in the years since, each one updated to best epitomize the culture of the contemporary period in which it was made.
Story arcs that one were vague and ambiguous enough to preserve anonymity rapidly evolved into lurid retellings of Hollywood scandal and legend. The escapism which had once defined the purpose of cinema during the Great Depression was no longer needed after the War. America was booming in post war prosperity. Young women reunited with their lovers were settling down to start families, prompting a return to conservative idealism. The utopia bounded by white-picket fences and the proliferation of Levittowns had surpassed the need for escapism by becoming the fantasy. Instead, Americans wanted entertainment — and what better source of entertainment than Hollywood itself?
Though biopics have existed for as long as the medium itself has, they took on a much flashier appearance after the War’s end. The appeal that once rested in the desire to commemorate and honor the legacies of the important instead reared its head in chauvinistic, defamatory intrigue. In a way, it mirrored the lure that so hotly plagued the societal norms of the decade. The illustrious aura conjured by the traditional spirit of the 50s encouraged paranoia-fueled curiosity ,birthing idioms like “Keeping up with the Joneses’” to baptize behavioral trends. Image became the end all and be all, putting egos on the constant defensive to protect their image. Unfortunately, one of the most surefire strategies to ensure this is by weaponizing discretional information — blackmail, put simply — in order to bulwark one’s own reputation.
Likely a product of the times and the surfacing insecurities of the post war years, the conception and tone of the biopic foresaw a huge overhaul. Originally, the biopic was conceived as a means to pay homage to important historical figures by way of the hero’s journey. Take QUEEN CHRISTINA, for example, which lends its primary focus to the Swedish monarch’s accomplishments and fierce independence. Whereas cinema (particularly in the pre-code era) was not shy about unsavory portrayals of false heroines, historical figureheads remained largely impervious to scandal. To present any character flaw — true or not — was more or less seen as sacrilege deliberately construed to tarnish a legendary reputation. Many, if not all of the biopics produced during the 1930s presented only favorable and triumphant depictions of monarchs, doctors, scientists and other heroes. The enforcement of the code only supported these endeavors. With Breen and Hayes looking to squander immorality, subjects of biopics were essentially guaranteed a flattering depiction — whether it was truthful mattered little, so long as the material was clean and sanitized.
Garbo as she appeared in QUEEN CHRISTINA (1933)
As time bore on, these attitudes changed. The 1940s marked a stark departure from the frivolous pictures of the 1930s, in America and around the world. A collective shift toward realism emerged as a direct result of inescapable pessimism, death, and destruction. World War II forever swayed the course of cinema, invoking gritty and moody themes. The inevitable result was a product of worldwide exhaustion and disillusionment, reflected heavily in the noir genre that would ultimately dominate the decade. It was escapism, yes, but it functioned on the principle of relative dread: the more incorrigible the antagonist and their situation, the more palatable the drudgery of the world seemed by comparison. The precedent was only further solidified with the emergence of neorealism in Italian cinema. The world was in tatters, trying to make sense of the horrific aftermath of what had ultimately concluded with nuclear warfare. Even America, basking in the afterglow of economic boom, was riddled by schism beneath its cheery countenance. Cinema, once a means of mindless escapism, was now being used as a lens through which one could try to process and make sense of ponderous grief.
Anna Magnani in a pivotal scene from ROMA, CITTA APERTA (1945), considered to be one of the first of the Italian Neorealism films that emerged in the devastating aftermath of World War II.
This change, though increasingly evident in cinematic exploits, remained invisible to the mainstream media. The collision wouldn’t occur until the dawn of the 1960s — the industry, in the meantime, was interested in money and output. Technicolor was becoming increasingly affordable and accessible, ushering in a bevy of lavish musical productions. Television was in its infancy, and although was first regarded as a questionable conduit, would quickly become a ubiquitous sensation by the end of the 1950s. It was the future incarnate, limitless in possibilities and as potent in power as the first home radio consoles had been thirty years earlier. With the continual waning of the studio system, celebrity image became more accessible — and by proxy, malleable. Younger stars enjoyed considerable freedom in the ways they expressed themselves. It began in physical presentation, and quickly proliferated to the clutches of the media. The behemoth powers once concentrated in the alliance of media personalities like Hedda Hopper and studioheads were rapidly diminishing, and each new generation of starlets embraced a more radical approach when it came to marketing themselves. Cinema was, is, and will always remain a perfect chameleon with which no human can ever compete: its lack of a conscience allows it to continually grow and evolve to reflect the current vogue. Humans do not enjoy the open ended luxury of time and thoughtlessness afforded to cinema. Like all living creatures, no matter how far they run, they must meet an inevitable end preceded by gradual decline. The future eventually eludes us. It seems to be fleeing faster and faster, but in truth it is an illusion: we are the ones who go slower and slower until we eventually stop altogether.
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The Stompanato Connection
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It was in this limbo between overt studio control and the pandemic of exploitative tabloid journalism when Hollywood endured one of its most infamous scandals. In 1958, Lana Turner made national headlines when her daughter, Cheryl, stabbed and subsequently murdered her mobster boyfriend Johnny Stompanato. The public response stands as a testament to the unusual molting state that cocooned the media machine. Such a scandal likely would have been doctored and swept under the rug even ten years prior on account of studio intervention — but changing values that favored the independent artist were steadily stripping such moguls of their impressive control. At the same time, however, the media had yet to fully capitulate to seedy sensationalism. There was still a sense of order, integrity and respect that accompanied journalism — in a decade, there’d only be scant traces. By the time the Watergate scandal came to a close, the prestige entirely ceased to exist.
Left: Joey Heatherton and Susan Hayward as Dani and Valerie Miller; Right: Lana Turner pictured with daughter Cheryl Crane, 1958
Lana, nearing 40, had long outgrown her days as an ingenue and had long since established herself as an independent actress whose loyalties extended beyond the confines of MGM. At the same time, the conservatism of the era lent itself to her favor when all Hell broke loose. The media was markedly sympathetic toward Turner. She even eluded blame for her poor parenting when the vitriol and focus was redirected toward her daughter. The event was framed as a tragedy with Lana as the sole victim, and because of this she granted immunity, allowing her to retreat from the public eye to convalesce without judgment. What could have easily signaled the end of an illustrious career turned out to be nothing more than a minor hiccup, trivialized even more by the 1959 release of IMITATION OF LIFE, which is unanimously regarded as her magnum opus.
Turner and Hayward photographed in 1942
Though it was an event of great consequence, time always emerges victorious. It marched onward, as that is all it knows and will ever know to do and abandoned the past and ephemeral present to court the impalpable possibilities that waited ahead. Like everything else subjected to its reign, Lana’s scandal cooled to imperceptible levels. While the event would forever be entwined with her likeness, its relative importance had dwindled such to allow her own ambitions to once again take precedence and regain control of her life’s narrative. But Hollywood was undergoing hitherto unfathomable changes, very much unstable and transitive as the ideals of the old industry clashed violently against the new. Star power was slowly assuming a new meaning — no longer was it something that lay in the hands of the studios, but rather the actors themselves. Though the code would not fall until 1967, the fixtures of New Hollywood were in place as early as the end of the 1950s. No longer were movies tailored to play to the strengths of a specific star — rather, it was the movie that took precedence. Cinema had reached the inevitable self-actualization that would allow for artistic merit and delegation. What had once been something strictly pragmatic in fashion was now beginning to be widely utilized as a way to convey and communicate intelligent ideas. At the same time, the continual growth of the media — now so omnipresent as to become a de jure facet of everyday living — became increasingly desperate.
Consumption was constant, which stimulated the incessant need for new and novel content. People tired of the redundancy that was so emblematic of early cinema. It was only inevitable that the worlds of reality and fiction would collide. The 40s had more or less foreshadowed what was to become the present baseline of entertainment. What was more fascinating — and accessible — than the recounting of real life phenomena? It made the far-fetched seem possible, heightened one’s own awareness to the fragility of mankind. Scenarios were rendered plausible, recreations of events past that were once regarded as beyond the realms of human reach. Of course, the visceral reactions such content evoked naturally led to a propensity to embellish, but rarely did any exaggeration seem impossible once the viewer registered the fact that the event itself had tangibly occurred.
This shift would eventually change the course of the once noble biopic. No longer was the hero interesting on account of their ideals, but rather their flaws — the things which made them human. This naturally allowed for greater exploration and dissection with equal pros and cons. The once restrictive tenets that hampered historical accuracy were now loosened. Unfortunately, the privilege would be abused and exploited in ways that would prove counterproductive to its plight, paving the way for spurious and defamatory films that would unjustly capitalize on unsubstantiated allegations.
Life vs Art: Candid photograph of Lana Turner taken at her court hearing in 1958 juxtaposed with its corresponding equivalent in WHERE LOVE HAS GONE.
WHERE LOVE HAS GONE reflects the instability of this interim period in the way it experiments with genre. Based on the eponymous novel by Harold Robbins, TIME magazine aptly summarized its plot: “… story bears unmistakable but less than libelous resemblances to the real life tragedy of 1958, in which Lana Turner’s teenage daughter, Cheryl, killed her mother’s lover.” To call it a true biopic, however, would also be misleading– as the characters presented on screen are not overtly intended to represent Turner and her family, despite the deliberate allusions. It’s sweeping, romantic eponymous opening theme recalls the melodramatic glory of Sirk — touching and tender, it’s prematurely nostalgic for a time in cinema that would soon be out of reach. But to carelessly label it ‘just another melodrama’ would be dismissive, reductive and superficial: as the story unfolds, it challenges and breaks genre constraints amorphously. This is most notably accomplished through the eclectic soundtrack, which features everything from Hitchcockian staccato to casual jazz. Intricate camerawork employed at heightened points of drama evoke a horror feel. Egregious dissolves usher in poorly-executed flashbacks, where even Edith Head’s glamorous designs can’t convincingly evoke the fashion of the 1940s. The lack of consistency and certainty, though detrimental, also lends a distinctive fascination to the film.
WHERE LOVE HAS GONE flirts with controversy, but ultimately circumvents any defamatory repercussions due to its clever design. Lana’s likeness was renamed Valerie, and her profession was changed from an actress to a sculptress. This loophole allowed for the film to recreate the events that transpired on that fateful evening in 1958, give or take a few minor embellishments. Its conception and subsequent production was intrepid in the way that it challenged the moral code of the past, courting sensationalism. It would ignite a trend that would persist indelibly through the next few decades, beginning with the highly dramatized HARLOW, which was released in 1965. Verity no longer took precedence, and instead was often carelessly disregarded or tossed aside in favor of hyperbole. Even with its growing art culture, cinema was a business above all else, and fabrication had long ago proven to maximize profit.
Edmund Dmytryk pulled all the dramatic stops in WHERE LOVE HAS GONE. It’s jam-packed from start to finish with eye-popping largesse. Even Davis, playing the grandmother, touts an extravagantly diverse wardrobe. The set is an amalgam of mid-century interior design, perfectly suited to the flamboyance of the film and its female leads. Despite a glaring lack of cohesiveness, WHERE LOVE HAS GONE is surprisingly well thought out, evident in its execution. The film manages to entertain while also employing subtle motifs to provide additional commentary and insight in regards to the entirety of the real life scandal it attempted to recreate. Whether these nuances were contrived by the director, the screenwriters, or a coterie of crewmembers is irrelevant, as is their intentionality: there is no point in lending time or attention to something that ultimately cannot ever possibly be resolved. Instead, this piece chooses to capitalize on subjectivity by prompting the reader to think and consider given the material at hand.
A glimpse at some of the sumptuous set decor featured in the film.
WHERE LOVE HAS GONE impressively to attend to myriad plot threads, all the while retaining an even and strong primary arc in the foreground. It is here in these tangential side plots that the film’s aesthetic flair is truly showcased: the fictional security awarded by the changing of names and minor details provides a safe enclosure in which the artist possesses free reign to alter and modify certain aspects to their heart’s content. It’s a truly ingenious way of allowing for flexible interpretation. The Lana likeness in Valerie is only made all the more piquant given the casting of Susan Hayward. As mentioned briefly beforehand, Susan belonged to the same crop of starlets that rose to prominence in the 1940s, alongside Lana Turner and Ava Gardner. Susan shared similar beginnings to her contemporaries, but by the middle of the decade displayed distinctive potential that set her leaps and bounds ahead. Her first Oscar nomination came in 1948 for her performance in SMASH UP: THE STORY OF A WOMAN. The subsequent four followed in the 1950s, at the height of her popularity. Valerie’s profession alone contains a startling amount of dimension, though it’s hard to ascertain through casual viewership — harder still given the intrinsic impulse to fixate on the histrionics of her character. The subtleties of her personality are the traits that speak the loudest in the end, lending power to all things understated or omitted entirely. At first glance, a sculptress seems like a strange, dissonant substitute for acting. The visual similarities are scant, and consequently aren’t translated effectively on the screen. However, both trades are borne of the art world, and both are conduits through which the emotionally tormented artist can channel expression and catharsis, allowing for relief through transformative escapism. Both Valerie and Lana turn to art in times of duress, though their manifestations are naturally quite different. Sculpting presents far more tangibility than acting, given that its final product is something that can be felt, held, touched and examined at any given moment. While the advent of cinema granted relative plausibility to acting in its ability to preserve and record, the art itself — and its origin — hold a magical, fleeting quality.
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Omniscience
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Like any métier, both sculpting and acting are fair game in the sense that anybody can participate regardless of talent. The catch, of course, being that plausible financial success is minimal, even eluding the gifted at times. Fame is and has always been a gamble, often defying logic in the individuals which it hoists to prominence. Talent is only one of many qualities that appeal to star power, and rarely is it enough on its own to secure repute on its lonesome. Those who ultimately succeed usually boast a particular combination of traits that are not mutually exclusive — a few good examples include charisma, aesthetic appeal, talent, and personality. Of course, this is all contingent on the media machine — which allegedly reflects the wants and desires of the public. But how authentic are such desires in actuality when they are disseminated continually and unconsciously? The media has always and will always control the agenda, and its influence has only grown stronger the more it permeates our society. It is impossible to make oneself aware of all the messages being sent out because of sensory overload, making any attempts to fight it futile.
Dissecting this even further, sculpting in its essence is the creation of something from nothing — effectively equating the artist to God. Valerie, subjected to her mother’s torment and unyielding dominance, is truly only able to exercise such freedom and levity in her work. This outlet serves to fortify her passion for her craft, which in effect becomes the very thing for which she lives. Her entire identity hinges on her profession, which makes it all the more painful to see her private sanctuary — the one thing seemingly untouched by her mother’s presence — collapse into itself when the truth inevitably compromises its integrity.
That being said, the existence of an omniscient, God-like phenomenon pertains to WHERE LOVE HAS GONE and is essential to the core understanding of the mother-daughter relationship it examines. However, the staging of the dynamic affords a new level of tangibility: the power vested in the media machine symbolically assumes the form of Valerie’s mother, who is only ever formally introduced as Mrs. Gerald Hayden. Seemingly harmless in appearance despite her somewhat abrasive demeanor, she’s the paragon of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Her punitive influence slowly begins to reveal itself in suspenseful build up, culminating when Mother and Daughter confront one another.
Valerie (Hayward) sculpts as her mother (Davis) patronizes.
Mrs. Hayden has a surprising amount of depth for someone who is known to us only on account of her widow’s surname. In fact, the majority of the fictional offshoots directly or indirectly involve her character in some way. Likely some inspiration was drawn from Davis herself, as the role caters to her signature strengths — a no-nonsense tyrannical matriarch with an insatiable need for control. She deftly doles out largesse as a means of leverage, tacitly indebting the recipient in her favor. She also is careful to integrate herself in the equation by means of whatever association necessary. The most obvious example is an ornate, carefully commissioned portrait strategically framed in the central parlor of the house she gifts to the newly married Valerie and Luke. “You owe everything to me,” she intimates in a permanently fixed smirk with placement that is impossible to ignore. One can only imagine how horrible Valerie feels: everything in her life, including her marriage, has been carefully pre-orchestrated by her mother. She has no merits of her own to speak for. The portrait not only represents her bondage, but also serves as a reminder that her mother is constantly watching. Valerie can never soundly let her guard down knowing well that her every move is under constant scrutiny.
Mrs. Hayden stands proudly next to her portrait — the icing on the cake that was her gift of the apartment to newlyweds Valerie and Luke!
An already fraught relationship achieves cataclysmic ruin when Valerie learns her accolades were awarded only on account of her mother’s bribery — and these machinations are just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Mrs. Hayden has engendered an astounding amount of corruption through her wealth. Valerie, who struggles to meet her mother’s perfectionistic standards, is confronted with the cruel and cold truth of her nature. The scene itself plays poorly and is hampered by overacting from both parties, but the moment itself is critical. Here is a woman who has struggled in her achievements due to an insupressible urge to make her mother proud. To her, the awards won serve as physical evidence not only of her success as an artist, but as a daughter. That accomplished sense of pride is then immediately ripped from her clutches. Her identity is compromised, undermined by the newfound revelation that she is still, in fact, a failure and was unable to succeed as a daughter and an artist. Suddenly, her entire life’s work and meaning is thrown into a violent sense of instability. Valerie hysterically resorts to depersonalization, accusatory telling her mother that “You are not a mother, but a woman.” Even the superfluous enactment of the scene cannot totally hamper the heavy, frigid silence that hangs limply afterward.
These nuances bring Turner’s essence — and thus, her talent — into question, even given the heightened ambiguity that accompanies the decidedly more fictional quality of such discursive embellishments. It is important to note that Lana’s own relationship with her mother in no way paralleled the one presented by Hayward and Davis. Unlike the venerated matriarch portrayed by Davis, Mildred Turner did not come from a prestigious or privileged background. Perhaps the only overlap of these two markedly different women is the notable absence of a father figure. Turner’s father, John, was murdered when she was a girl. In WHERE LOVE HAS GONE, Davis makes reference to her widowhood several times and fondly recalls her husband in the past tense. It is true that many elements of the movie were fictionalized, but it is equally true that fiction always possesses some semblance of truth — otherwise, how else could it have originated? Assuming this logic, the premise becomes even more interesting and potentially telling of how the aftermath of the Stompanato fiasco altered the way in which Turner was perceived by Hollywood. It can easily be debunked that Mildred did not possess the financial means to ensure her daughter’s stardom, but even still the fabrication reads cryptically.
One has to wonder why director Edward Dmytryk allotted considerable time and development to explicitly detail Valerie’s lack of talent in her field (though shots that showcase her work show perfect competency, the dialogue and actions of the characters tell another story). With Mildred removed from the equation, it’s still easy to infer the deliberate criticism that emerges in contesting Valerie’s craftsmanship. The deliberate and repeated inclusion of this aspect suggests that once again the story benefitted from moralistic loopholes: in this case, the fictional addition of a critical mother assumed the stance held by the studios. It’s a genius way to suggest that they weren’t convinced of her talent — and even if she hadn’t exactly bought her way to fame, it’s still plenty telling in its mission to communicate that the feat was in no way on account of her abilities. Hayward’s casting only further reinforces this, reinforcing her own strengths as an accomplished actress in order to further intensify the stark divide between herself and Turner.
Lana Turner and John Gavin in IMITATION OF LIFE (1959)
This same logic can be applied to the film’s ending as well: in a sharp contrast to what occurred in actuality, the movie concludes with Valerie’s suicide. It’s a strange and abrupt departure from the scene before it, in which everything is seemingly settled with the custody and fate of her daughter resting in Luke’s hands — the only competent one of the trio (consisting of himself, Susie and Bette) vying for guardianship. A likely possibility for this impromptu change in direction concerns the dwindling yet still notable influence of the Code. Despite the fact that Valerie was found to be innocent, the movie relentlessly berates her morals and poor parenting skills at every opportunity that presents itself. The death of the Stompanato character is all but irrelevant in the grand scheme of things: instead, the real heinous crime lies in Valerie’s poor parenting abilities. Like any woman who wronged under the Code, she must meet her end in order to repent for the harm she brought her family. Even still, one wonders if such an ending was representative of something greater entirely, an abstract metaphor. Perhaps the studios were admonishing Lana, refusing to offer her the same carte blanche sympathy that the media extended to her. Going further, it’s possible that the suicide was meant to symbolize the fate of her career.
Aside from the aforementioned departures, WHERE LOVE HAS GONE remains immaculately steadfast in its adherence to the Stompanato story. The opposite of subtlety was employed with the portrayal of the moody adolescent Dani Miller who rebels after years of neglect. The casting of Joey Heatherton seals the deal, as she was a near dead ringer for Cheryl Crane — tall, lithe and brunette. Luke Miller, Valerie’s husband, faced similar treatment in regards to his characterization: that is to say that with the exception of his career, he is otherwise indistinguishable from Turner’s real life husband (and Cheryl’s father) Steven Crane. The only other difference is a matter of continuity: in the film, Luke is presumed to be Valerie’s first and only husband, and it is her affair with the Stompanato character that catalyzes the demise of their union. In reality, Lana Turner had married and divorced Stephen Crane — twice — fourteen years before the events of the murder. She had already married and divorced both Bob Topping and Lex Barker by the time she became acquainted with Stompanato, and was unmarried at the time of the incident. Still, even with these departures, the film is unmistakably a dramatization of Turner’s personal life.
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Conclusion
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WHERE LOVE IS GONE is not a good movie. It suffers from copious amounts of flashy decor that fails in its objective to distract from its overwhelmingly overt uncertainty in regards to theme and genre. It is, however, undeniably distinctive and well drafted. One cannot help but to notice the careful attention given to fleshing out fragmented relationships through the use of things both abstract and accessible. It lingers in the mind not only on account of its technicolored vibrance, but the way it explores the visceral intersection of humanity and celebrity in a way that was unprecedented upon its debut. It is truly a product of its era, riddled with identity confusion — much like an adolescent child clinging to vestiges of days past while uncertainly probing the future. While its greatest selling and drawing point was obviously rooted in its deliberate soapy examination of the Stompanato scandal, it offers insight beyond those parameters on the changing cinematic currents that defined the early 1960s. Additionally, it’s a fascinating dissection of two of America’s greatest actresses that throws a spotlight on pivotal career moments that might otherwise be disregarded or overlooked. The film possesses an irrefutable draw that enchants and entertains from start to finish — and that alone is more than enough to warrant a watch.
The primary cast of WHERE LOVE HAS GONE. From left to right: Mike Connors, Joey Heatherton, Susan Hayward, Bette Davis
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