An extraordinarily ordinary life

Who is the greatest male film star of all time? Marlon Brando, Cary Grant, Hum- phrey Bogart, Clark Gable and Al Pacino are all contenders and each in his time has topped at least one poll. But my vote would go to James Stewart (or the more familiar ‘Jimmy’, as his biographer, Marc Eliot insists on calling him). Compared with other actors whose careers lasted over 30 years, Stewart starred in the largest number of films that were actually good, and, by good, I mean memorable. When Robert Mitchum, who was himself a considerable star, died the some month as Stewart, in 1997, it was hard to recall more than six films he’d been in, whereas one could name a dozen of Stewart’s without difficulty.

More so than any of his contemporaries, James Stewart in the right role was capable of elevating a film to a higher plane. His presence could make a good film a great one. Wouldn’t Mr Smith Goes to Washington have been naively simplistic without Stewart’s intelligent portrayal of an honest senator? Wouldn’t It’s a Wonderful Life have been too mawkish with any other actor in the leading role? In Rear Window who else could have made a compulsive voyeur an acceptable hero? In Vertigo would we have had sympathy for someone with an insane necrophiliac obsession for a dead woman had it not been James Stewart? And wouldn’t the three-hour-long courtroom drama of Anatomy of a Murder have palled if it wasn’t for the infectious enthusiasm of the defending attorney?

Besides his distinctive mid-western drawl, Stewart’s greatest characteristic was his likeability. Real life characters, such as Monty Stratton, the baseball player, and Glenn Miller and Charles Lindbergh, must have been flattered by his impersonations of them. Even when playing vengeful cowboys or bounty hunters in westerns directed by Anthony Mann, you couldn’t help liking him.