Let’s start with a contradiction. On one hand, an admission: Including the phrase “queer cinema” and “Elia Kazan” in the same sentence is a stretch. And on the other, an assertion: Any director who, in the space of a decade, put Marlon Brando, James Dean, Montgomery Clift, and Warren Beatty before his camera, two of them in roles that were among the most sexually iconic of their careers, may have contributed more to the (homo)eroticization of the American male movie star than even he realized.
It’s tempting to label this underexplored thread within Kazan’s work the Cinema of Inadvertency. The director was, after all, heterosexual and by most accounts a man of robust carnal appetites—the index of Richard Schickel’s excellent 2005 biography includes separate entries for “philandering” and “womanizing.”1 He was also (with some notable exceptions) more interested in using film to explore the lives and characters of men than of women. In any number of his movies, from A Streetcar Named Desire (1951) and Viva Zapata! (1952) to career-twilight works like The Arrangement (1969) and The Last Tycoon (1976), the protagonists are complex, charismatic men—some brutish, some closed off, some self-loathing, but always assumed to be worthy of deciphering, and treated in a way that quickens your appetite for a more intimate glimpse of them.
To make you look at his men the way he wanted you to look at them, Kazan, on occasion, turned his camera into a woman. He sometimes used it as a kind of perspectival stand-in for a female protagonist, attuning it to her viewpoint, her appetite, even her passion. To gaze on Marlon Brando in full rut in A Streetcar Named Desire, or on Warren Beatty, the beau ideal of a full-lipped, sensitive high-school jock in Splendor in the Grass (1961), is to experience them not only through the eyes of Vivien Leigh and Natalie Wood, but through their frank lust. And in those Production Code days when homosexuality was an untouchable subject and gay moviegoers had to seek solace in subtext, any movie that presented a man’s sexuality through the lens of desire for him (rather than desire from him) could invite gay moviegoers into a parallel ghost narrative in which they could identify with the desire, and even with the desirer.
Stanley Kowalski (Marlon Brando) tells his sister-in-law Blanche DuBois (Vivien Leigh) about the significance of the Napoleonic Code in a publicity still from A Streetcar Named Desire. Brando’s aggressive physicality both attracts and frightens the frail and fluttery Blanche. Photo courtesy of the Wesleyan Cinema Archives.
But suggesting that all this was nothing more than an accidental byproduct of Kazan’s taste for powerful and magnetic male characters under-credits the director, who, after all, worked closely on A Streetcar Named Desire and Splendor in the Grass with two gay writers, and who chose, time and again, to return to a portrayal of male sexual attractiveness as something so powerful—a perfume and a poison—that it could drive you mad, as, in a way, it does Blanche DuBois in Streetcar and Deanie Loomis in Splendor. Desire for men in these movies is a kind of sickness, a weakness or fever that, whatever else it may be, is certainly not what the prevailing psychoanalytic orthodoxy would then have called normative. Like homosexuality as defined sixty years ago, it’s a deviation that needs to be cured. Even a much saner, more centered woman than Blanche or Deanie can succumb. In A Face in the Crowd (1957), the seen-it-all Marcia Jeffries (Patricia Neal, never anybody’s fool) falls so hard for the sweaty, sexy bastard Lonesome Rhodes (Andy Griffith), despite his belief that “a guitar beats a girl every time,” that her own temperature rises; she starts to glisten the day they meet. (In a concurrent plotline, Lonesome also seduces, professionally speaking, a man, an uncharismatic beta male played by Walter Matthau.) Only when it’s almost too late does Marcia manage to pull herself out of a death-spiral of attraction. Just as it does at the end of Splendor in the Grass, the fever of desire finally breaks; Marcia, all but shattered by her craving for Lonesome, comes to her senses. In the film’s final shot, Neal and Matthu’s characters, both recovered from their follies, gaze up one last time at the man for whom they had both swooned. And if anyone truly doubts that something about male erotic allure was deeply rooted in Kazan’s psyche and made manifest in his work, consider this: In his hands, even Andy Griffith became a reasonably credible sex object.
Before examining Kazan’s men, some background on his attitudes about homosexuality—and himself—is in order. Schickel writes that Kazan, a “swarthy, runty, big-nosed outsider” who was acutely conscious of his status as the son of immigrants, “always identified with gays as people, like himself, who were ‘different,’ outside the American mainstream.”2 It’s a point Kazan himself made in his admiring description of Tennessee Williams as “the complete outsider. . . . The centers of civilization that he found agreeable were . . . those populated by his own kind: artists, romantics, freaks of one kind or another, castoffs, those rejected by respectable society. . . . We both felt vulnerable to the depredations of an unsympathetic world.”3 In his autobiography, Kazan wrote bluntly that he “never warmed to the so-called masculine virtues. . . . I’ve lived apart from the male world and its concerns. . . . Men have to be constantly proving something that is not worth proving—their muscles, their fearlessness, their affluence, the strength of their erections.” In the same passage, he noted that “many of the men I’ve liked best have had strong ‘feminine’ characteristics.” As well as Williams and Splendor in the Grass screenwriter William Inge, he included Marlon Brando on that list.4
But Kazan’s identification with homosexuals wasn’t merely analogous, a professed kinship of outsiders; it may have been more personal, since Kazan himself knew what it was like to be excluded from the sexual mainstream. Looking in the mirror, he was tormented by that unbeautiful mug of his; in fact, he begins his autobiography by talking about how much he has always disliked his face. And perhaps his body as well—throughout his childhood, Kazan was fascinated and frustrated by a massively endowed first cousin in his father’s employ (his dad would actually show this nephew’s huge appendage off to select customers). Kazan, who himself felt that he was “an embarrassment” to his father, thought that this immense member—which he never saw himself—made his cousin a rival for his father’s affection and admiration.5 Small wonder that he emerged from that bizarre point of reference as a pimply and awkward teenager who felt almost congenitally inadequate. Kazan recalled his lonely, sexually frustrated high school and college life as “eight years of unspeakable torture.” He felt rejected by both men and women—and both spurnings truly hurt. During those years of sexual draught, he wouldn’t fantasize about having sex with women himself, but about what the men he wanted to be were doing with the women he wanted to be with. At Williams College, when he was shunned by a group of Waspy fraternity brothers, “it hurt for four dark, cold years, and in the blackest part of my heart,” he wrote sixty years later. “I still haven’t forgiven the men who rejected me.”6
One does not need to argue that Kazan was homosexual (even latently) to acknowledge, then, that his own coming of age did not describe a prototypical heterosexual arc. Those words reflect the lasting sense of injury of someone who, from a tender age, educated himself to observe male sexuality from a distance—a wounded boy who looked with envy at men who seemed comfortable in their own bodies. Kazan was a kid who learned from early adolescence to read and decode the elements of male sexual appeal, a pattern of behavior that any gay man who spent a portion of his youth in the closet will recognize instantly.
Kazan, of course, survived those tough years and proceeded into adulthood as a straight man. But his sexually agonized adolescence appears to have given him great sympathy for gay men, even if, to achieve that sympathy, he needed to define homosexuality as a state of extreme vulnerability and, perhaps, of emotional arrestedness. (It should be pointed out that at midcentury, Kazan was hardly alone in misunderstanding homosexuality in those terms, and was more benevolent about it than many of his contemporaries.) With the exception of the renegade Tennessee Williams, the homosexuals to whom Kazan was sympathetic were, in his view, not men, but lost boys, a definition to which he held fast in both drama and life. It’s telling how many of the characters in plays Kazan helped usher into existence fulfill that prototype—not just the nervous teenager in Robert Anderson’s 1953 Tea and Sympathy, whose tragedy, Kazan wrote, “would be the imposition of a sexual choice upon him by the hearty, uncomprehending, male world, before he is ready,” but also the morbidly sensitive, almost certainly gay Tom Wingfield in The Glass Menagerie, and the very young, vulnerable, suicidal husband of Blanche DuBois, never seen but referred to in A Streetcar Named Desire.
Kazan carried the same definition into his personal relationships. He understood his Wild River (1960) star Montgomery Clift not as the gay man he was but, curiously, as “a sexual borderline case . . . an insecure boy. . . . Monty’s sexuality was that of a child waiting for his mother to put her arms around him.”7 William Inge, well into his forties when Kazan worked with him, is given the same peculiar characterization as “childlike,” a “psychically damaged . . . boy.”8 And of his East of Eden (1955) star James Dean, whose homo- or bisexuality now seems beyond dispute, Kazan wrote, “His imagination was limited; it was like a child’s . . . he had to be coddled and hugged or threatened with abandonment.”9
The director’s complicated professional relationship to this subject began early in his career. Although his film version of A Streetcar Named Desire arrived in 1951, Kazan had been intimately involved with the play since early 1947, when Tennessee Williams had written him an admiring note and asked him to read an early draft.10 By the time the movie opened, Kazan had put his imprint on hundreds of lines, and it remains evident even in the severely compromised screenplay that, under Production Code strictures, whitewashed Stanley’s rape of Blanche and omitted any references to the homosexuality of Blanche’s late husband.
Talking about A Streetcar Named Desire purely as a film text of Kazan is inappropriate, since the drama and character psychodynamics are primarily Williams’s work. But Stanley Kowalski was, by the time of filming, a kind of joint creation of Williams, Kazan, and Marlon Brando, and the different ways writer and director described the character are revealing. In the stage directions for his play, Williams introduces Stanley as an exuberant and even generous life force: “Since earliest manhood the center of his life has been pleasure with women, the giving and taking of it, not with weak indulgence, dependently, but with the power and pride of a richly feathered male bird among hens.”11 But Kazan’s description of Stanley, taken from his 1947 notebooks, is considerably darker: “He’s completely self-absorbed . . . supremely indifferent to everything except his own pleasure and comfort . . . he’s desperately trying to drug his senses, overwhelming them with a constant round of sensation so that he will feel nothing else.” (Remarkably, given the casting, Kazan added, “He’s going to get very fat later.”)12
It’s Kazan’s vision, not Williams’s, that seems to prevail in Brando’s filmed performance. Sexy but impatient and animalistic, his Stanley, furious when his poker night with the boys is interrupted and warning the smitten Mitch away from Blanche, could well fit the description Kazan later wrote of Ace Stamper, the domineering brute of a father in Splendor in the Grass, a character he felt was “a base and unawares homosexual. He is only happy in the company of men. . . . He doesn’t like it when he sees a man in love” with a woman.13
There’s no reason to think that Kazan, Williams, or Brando thought Stanley was a repressed homosexual (especially since Brando’s later, completely dissimilar performance in Reflections in a Golden Eye (1967) offers ample and florid evidence of what he thought a repressed homosexual looked like). But Kazan’s camera, throughout A Streetcar Named Desire, sees Stanley through Blanche’s eyes, and Blanche—Williams’s surrogate—is, in some ways, the playwright’s disguised and self-loathing version of a gay man. She’s given to ornate self-dramatization, she has already married a gay man once, she observes with wry revulsion her own appetite for unformed boys (“I’ve got to be good—and keep my hands off children,” she says in one of the play’s only camp lines) as well as her attraction to near-anonymous sexual encounters; finally, in the last stage of her journey toward oblivion, she is thirsty for dangerous rough trade, even if that rough trade happens to be her sister’s husband. Kazan doesn’t queer Stanley; with considerable help from Williams, he queers Blanche—and makes us look at Stanley through her “abnormal” attraction to him.
Kazan made most of his movies at a time when overt homosexual content and perspective was not an option, so it may be said that his use of a woman with a sick passion for a man, and his camera’s endorsement of that febrile need, were akin to what he must have imagined self-punishing homosexuals feel like. A decade after A Streetcar Named Desire, he returned to some of the same themes in Splendor in the Grass, a film over which, with Inge writing under his supervision, he exerted even more authorial control. Made at Warner Bros. soon after the studio’s high-gloss teen-lust melodrama A Summer Place (1959), Splendor in the Grass was (very successfully) pitched to the same young audience as a story of two beautiful young people madly in love with each other, reminiscent of Peyton Place (1957). But what unfolds on screen is something else entirely—a story of the deranging power of unladylike hunger for a beautiful man. The first time we see Deanie (Natalie Wood), she’s in a car, kissing Bud Stamper (Warren Beatty), and looks almost faint from the need to take him in. Kazan then follows her home, where she wonders, “Is it so terrible to have those feelings about a boy?”
Deanie Loomis (Natalie Wood) swoons for Bud Stamper (Warren Beatty) in a publicity still from Splendor in the Grass. Deanie’s overwhelming sexual desire for Bud takes an unusually masochistic turn. Photo courtesy of the Wesleyan Cinema Archives.
The answer—yes—animates the entire dramatic action of the film, as we are pulled into an obsession that eventually lands Deanie in a mental institution by a camera that endorses her viewpoint, lingering worshipfully on Bud, even following him into the school shower to capture him, self-entranced, in a private moment. Bud’s sexuality is not transactional; a beautiful boy-man, a star athlete, and something of a cipher, he is objectified perhaps more than any male character had ever been in a Hollywood romance. It’s quite possible that Kazan’s aching memories of watching (and wanting to be like) the handsome boys with whom he went to school were in play here. Beatty’s lithe, graceful Bud could have been a lad out of the director’s youth; the film is set in 1928, when Kazan himself was about Bud’s age.
Beatty later said that during the making of the movie, he thought Kazan “didn’t like good-looking guys,” and Kazan’s feelings about the character seem powerfully conflicted; Bud is a decent boy, but also the insensitive, even cruel cause of Deanie’s disintegration.14 With her passion as its motor, Splendor in the Grass plays as an almost hysterical case study of self-destructive sexual need for an only transiently obtainable straight boy. And a queer reading of the film, especially in the context of its middle-aged gay screenwriter’s hopeless crush on Beatty, is hardly a challenge, since Kazan commits fully to Inge’s clear belief that Bud must be completely desired by the viewer for the film to make sense. In the movie’s most shocking scene, Bud, for one moment, realizes the power he has over Deanie (whose ambiguously gendered name cannot be an accident), and he starts to become aroused by his own cruelty. “You’re nuts about me, aren’t you?” he says to her as he leans against a wall, closing his eyes in a semimasturbatory fugue as the voracious Deanie slides down to crotch level. “At my feet, slave. Tell me you love me, tell me you can’t live without me.”
“I would go down on my knees to worship you . . . I would. I would,” she says in reply. “Where’s your pride?” he asks her later, appalled as she keeps pursuing him. “I haven’t any pride,” she says. These torrid, masochistic-orgasmic exchanges—in a studio movie from 1961!—are many things, but nobody would call them heteronormative. In fact, they hew remarkably close to a voguish sixties dramatic notion of homosexual relationships as twisted power struggles.
Kazan presents Bud Stamper as a more sensitive Stanley Kowalski in training, a young man learning to use and abuse his sexual charisma (tellingly, Inge leaves him settled down in working-class squalor with a Stella of his own). But both characters are pretty clearly heterosexual; a queer reading of either film depends entirely on how much one is willing to accept the “inappropriate” sexual hunger of a woman as a stand-in for the “inappropriate” sexual hunger of a gay man. However, in two other Kazan movies from the period, the homosexual subtext is integrated into the hero himself. Both Wild River and East of Eden deploy, as protagonists, the “feminine” men—Montgomery Clift and James Dean—Kazan professed to prefer in life, and in both films, the neurotic sexual uncertainty with which they infuse their characters materially changes the plot and dramatic impact.
In Wild River, the effeteness of the hero is, in part, built into the text. Chuck Glover, sent by the Tennessee Valley Authority into the sticks to convince an old woman to abandon her home on a river island that’s about to be flooded, is a city boy among country men; he represents progress and enlightenment but also the kind of unmasculine, urbanized refinement of someone who’s gotten too far away from the land, from physical work, and from his own body. As played by Clift (who made the movie a couple of years after the accident that paralyzed part of his face, and spent much of the production fighting his impulse to drink), this tremulous, timorous quality is so extreme that Chuck’s blossoming relationship with a beautiful young widow named Carol (Lee Remick) becomes, in some ways, the story of a woman trying to attract a man who seems to have almost no sexual appetite; Chuck’s hold on masculinity is so tenuous that he can’t even bring himself to make a move.
Kazan himself seems to have been of two minds about Clift’s near-queer interpretation of Wild River’s hero. In his autobiography, he recalls extraordinary frustration that Clift was utterly unable to make himself believable in a seduction scene with the luminous Remick. “She seemed dominant,” he wrote, “and Monty seemed sexually uncertain. In one scene, Monty, at the instant of arousal, slumped to the floor. I cursed him under my breath as a limp lover.” Kazan was then forced to reconceive the scene with Remick as the aggressor; she “was taking him, not vice versa.”15
But although the director refers to this alteration as an “accident of [Clift]’s personality,” there’s some evidence that he conceived Chuck as sexually problematic from the beginning. “I wanted their scenes to show ambivalence,” he told Clift’s biographer, Patricia Bosworth; “attraction, repulsion, fear, love.”16 And in an interview with Michel Ciment, Kazan said that in Wild River, “I tried to make everything as close as I could . . . to myself. . . . This role was no problem, because I said, well, this is the way I was then. I was shy, uncertain with girls . . . I took him from myself, because I knew what my own weaknesses were, which are not the same weaknesses I have now.”17
The conception of Chuck as an uncertain boy who’s very shaky about taking his first steps toward a sexual relationship with a woman might have worked less complicatedly on screen if Kazan had cast a twenty-five-year-old (the age he originally intended Chuck to be). But Clift was pushing forty by the time the film was shot; his creased, injured face had taken on the blank, stricken stare that characterized his later work, and in some of his scenes with Remick, he comes off as a closeted gay man trying to convince himself that he can make it work with her. As in Splendor in the Grass, the most intensely romantic scenes are shot through with masochism. “You can’t get enough of me right now, can you? Tell me! Tell me!” begs Carol, aching for any sign that it might be true. Chuck doesn’t offer much of a reply. Later, in their climactic encounter, she says to him, “I love you! I love you! I love you! Don’t say anything. Don’t say a thing. I’m afraid of what you might say.”
“I don’t know what to say,” he replies, defeated.
“Oh, God,” she says, equally defeated. “That says it all. I heard you. I asked you and you said no. I heard you.”
Chuck and Carol eventually end up together, but only after a group of “real” men beat the daylights out of him and literally throw her into the mud for loving him. He demonstrates his complete inability to defend himself or her, revealing his “feminine” quality in an especially shaming way, and when he sees that she is willing to accept him anyway, he flies her off to the city—his world—as the movie ends. It looks unlikely to become a typical marriage, but since Carol already has two children, Chuck may be more useful for companionship than for sex, and she may offer him the outward contours, if not the reality, of a “normal” life.
Any queer reading of Wild River rests, at least in part, on the idiosyncratic asexuality of Clift’s performance, and on the peculiarity of casting him in a role for which Kazan really wanted Brando. But in truth, the film—and its approach to its hero—is in many ways a close echo of a movie Kazan directed five years earlier, East of Eden. In that film, in the casting and performance of James Dean, in the substantial reshaping of John Steinbeck’s source material, in the staging, and even in the camera angles, Kazan created one the most sexually diffident male protagonists of the decade, and put him at the center of a near-gay near-epic.
In adapting East of Eden, Kazan and screenwriter Paul Osborn jettisoned the first two-thirds of the novel. What remains is a quasi-biblical parable reset in California farm country (Dean is Cal, the Cain character; Richard Davalos is his brother Aron). The presence of Julie Harris as Aron’s girlfriend Abra is meant to set up an archetypal midfifties Hollywood love triangle: the good (but bland) brother, the bad (but hot) brother, and the girl they both want. But that’s not how East of Eden plays out. In his first film, Dean is not particularly dangerous or dark—nor is he nearly as interested in Abra as Abra is in him. Instead, he’s the emblem of a Kazanian feminine boy-man. In every possible way, the director cues us to perceive Dean as diminutive, vulnerable, and frail. He’s first shown sitting on a curb, looking up with a half-surly, half-anxious squint as if bracing for an injury. Throughout the film, Kazan shoots him to appear as small as possible—in almost every grouping, he’s placed low in the frame, and made to look shorter than the people with whom he’s standing, even the women. When he kneels before his mother (Jo Van Fleet), he’s tiny; when he’s with Julie Harris, he hunches over in a protective crouch. He can barely even stand on his own two feet—Kazan has him lean on objects for support whenever one is handy.
Abra (Julie Harris) tries to encourage Cal Trask (James Dean) in a production still from East of Eden. Her eyes are on him, but is he interested? Photo courtesy of the Wesleyan Cinema Archives.
Dean is feminized from East of Eden’s first moments, when a whore addresses him derisively as “pretty boy.” He starts the movie by saying about a woman “You tell her I hate her,” and then quickly scolds himself for his ineptitude, serving as a perfect avatar for the teenaged Kazan: “I should have gone right on in there! I should have gone right on in there and talked to her.” When we next see Cal, he’s hiding alone in the bushes, watching his brother with Abra, following them, trying to understand what a “normal” relationship between a boy and a girl looks like. Later, Abra and Aron cuddle in an icehouse, while Cal hides in a corner, spying on them. While they make out, he rhythmically bangs the long, hard shaft of a grappling hook, an unhappy solo act.
Moviegoers of the time would naturally have believed that Cal is pining for Abra, but Kazan thwarts that notion more than once—it’s Aron, not Abra, on whom Cal is focusing the intensity of his feelings, even as Abra acts on her conflicted desires. “Girls follow you around, don’t they?” she says, hopefully, trapping Cal in an open field. Cal couldn’t look less interested. Several scenes later, she repeats the line verbatim, almost as a suggestion to him. Again, he has virtually no response.” Are you interested in hearing about me?” she asks after going on and on about her life. Clearly, he’s not. “Why are you telling me all this?” he says. She ruffles his hair—like Lee Remick’s Carol, she realizes that she’s going to have to be the aggressor—and he looks almost alarmed.
That may be because his interests lie elsewhere. In a major sequence in the film in which Cal’s ambisexuality makes as much of a leap from subtext to text as any movie of the 1950s could permit, he wanders into a crowded gymnasium in search of Gustav Albrecht (Harold Gordon), a man from whom he needs something. The gym is full of “real” men—they’re burly, they’re bigger than Cal, and they’re all exercising—and he is immediately kicked out. “These boys are trying to get in shape, so beat it,” he’s warned. Not to be stopped, he sneaks in again; he wants to play with the big boys. He grabs a rope suspended from the ceiling, swings on it, and giddily, accidentally, flies into the arms of the much larger Albrecht. From there, he follows Albrecht into the locker room and talks to him as the older man strips and showers. Cal keeps peering over a ledge as Albrecht scrubs himself (and as he does more than once in the movie, Kazan makes Dean appear more boyish by putting an object in his way that he’s not quite tall enough to see over). When Albrecht emerges from the shower nude, toweling himself, Cal can’t stay away; he comes up behind him, giving him so little room that Albrecht has to say to him, “Don’t get so near me! I don’t want to get all hot again.”
With encounters like that, the forbidden love that is officially meant to animate East of Eden—Abra’s and Cal’s—feels beside the point, and Kazan ultimately makes sure we know it is. Cal’s journey toward manhood is blocked by a tortured relationship with his Bible-thumping father and an anguished one with his straight-arrow brother. In the movie’s closing shot, Abra politely departs, leaving Cal to sort out those feelings without the distraction of romance. Shortly before that denouement, Aron says to Cal, “Don’t touch her! You’re mean and vicious and wild.” It’s a description that’s almost completely at odds with the performance we’ve been watching. Dean’s Cal is never a persuasive sexual threat to his brother, and throughout the film has seemed more anguished than vicious. If Brando’s Stanley Kowalski and Beatty’s Bud Stamper are the masculine (albeit deeply compromised) ideals, men who are viewed lustfully through a lens that can feel, at different moments, female, homosexual, or inadequately heterosexual, then Clift’s Chuck and Dean’s Cal are the other side of that equation. They are Kazan’s failed men—his “boys”—and their feelings of masculine insufficiency, their sexual indifference, and their deep sensitivity takes them as close to a sympathetic midcentury conception of homosexual protagonists as any American director of the time cared or dared to go. Today, it’s easy to sneer at the dated and patronizing notion of homosexuality as an inadequacy, a failure of maleness, a blight—or a way station on the road to heteronormativity. It’s cringe-making, to be sure. But the generosity of spirit and complicated empathy Kazan brings to these portrayals needs no such excuses made for it: It’s modern, and, viewed within the context of 1950s studio moviemaking, it is unique.
1. Richard Schickel, Elia Kazan: A Biography (New York: HarperCollins, 2005), 499.
2. Ibid., 3, 292.
3. Elia Kazan, Elia Kazan: A Life (New York: Knopf, 1988), 494–5.
4. Ibid., 27–28.
5. Ibid., 30.
6. Ibid., 41–42.
7. Ibid., 574, 597.
8. Ibid., 573–74.
9. Elia Kazan, Kazan on Directing (New York: Knopf, 2009), 186.
10. Schickel, Kazan, 164.
11. Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Named Desire, reprinted in Tennessee Williams: Plays 1937–1955 (New York: Library of America, 2000), 481.
12. Kazan, Kazan on Directing, 56–57.
13. Ibid., 212.
14. Warren Beatty quoted in Schickel, Kazan, 376.
15. Kazan, Kazan, 599.
16. Patricia Bosworth, Montgomery Clift (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1978), 344.
17. Michel Ciment, Kazan on Kazan (London: Secker and Warburg, 1973), 132.