Picture Boris Karloff, the man forever etched in cinematic memory as Frankenstein’s lumbering creation, playing… an effeminate dress designer. It happened, folks, in a 1947 picture called “Lured” (or “Personal Column,” depending on where you saw it). It’s a prime example of that strange, sometimes fascinating, sometimes baffling Hollywood impulse: the star stepping wildly outside the box audiences built for them.
This isn’t just about actors wanting to stretch; it’s about the gamble they take when shedding a comfortable, bankable persona. We’re talking about established screen identities being tossed aside for roles that seem, on paper, like casting director mishaps. Humphrey Bogart, the definition of tough-guy cool, found himself playing some kind of vampire in 1939’s “The Return of Dr. X,” a “B” movie assignment he reportedly endured purely out of studio obligation.
Why do they do it? Sometimes it’s a bid for respect, an attempt to break free from restrictive typecasting, like Dirk Bogarde shifting from lightweight matinee fare to tackle the role of a homosexual barrister in 1961’s “Victim,” a significant move for its time. Other times, it’s just… a choice. James Mason, a romantic lead in his prime, donned heavy makeup to appear as an old Yorkshireman in “A Place of One’s Own” back in 1945. And sometimes it pays off beautifully: James Stewart, Mr. American Everyman, was quite effective under clown paint in Cecil B. DeMille’s 1952 circus epic, “The Greatest Show on Earth.”
Of course, not every leap lands gracefully. Katharine Hepburn’s turn as a Chinese woman in 1937’s “Dragon Seed” didn’t exactly thrill her fanbase, nor did Frank Sinatra’s appearance as a Mexican bandit in “The Kissing Bandit” (1948). These felt less like bold experiments and more like miscalculations. Yet, contrast that with Bette Davis seizing the villainous role of Regina Giddens in “The Little Foxes” (1941) and earning heaps of praise. The risk can yield substantial rewards.
The history of cinema is dotted with these oddities: Errol Flynn, the swashbuckler, as a nerdy scholar in “Cry Wolf” (1947); Richard Burton and Rex Harrison as a bickering couple of hairdressers in “Staircase” (1969); even Steve McQueen attempting Henrik Ibsen in “An Enemy of the People” (1977). Perhaps the real mark of enduring screen legends, the Oliviers, Guinnesses, and Laughtons of the world, wasn’t just finding a niche, but constantly defying expectations. It’s certainly more interesting than seeing the same performance stamped out again and again.
