James Dean, ‘50s Teen Idol: An Unfinished Life
For movie buffs of my generation who were born in the 1940s, raised in the 1950s, and came of age in the 1960s, James Dean was our cultural icon. A refreshingly unique symbol of teenage disillusionment and rebellion. But he was also an extraordinarily talented actor. I first became aware of him when I was 12 years old and a regular attendee at our neighborhood movie theater where my uncle happened to be the manager. In addition to free admission and free popcorn, my uncle was also a movie fan and he kept me informed about new releases and current trends in movies. So, with unlimited access to movies, my weekends were spent viewing current Hollywood films as well as the classics. The first time I saw James Dean on screen, I was absolutely mesmerized. Transfixed and rendered motionless. His powerful and riveting performance literally took my breath away. He was like no one I had ever seen in movies before. In the brief opening scene of East of Eden, a profusion of character information was on display in those few intense moments.
In his portrayal of Cal Trask, his visible tormented demeanor and body language set the tone for the story that was about to unfold. It also revealed a tortured life of longing as well as his obscure connection to the mysterious woman in black. The woman that his persistent gaze was following and visually caressing as she strolled slowly behind him.
In his first major film role, the world was introduced to James Byron Dean, the shy Indiana farm boy who burst onto the world stage and into our awareness with the force of a meteor. In a matter of minutes, a few frames of film revealed a new brand of acting and a young performer of extraordinary talent. He was such a powerful and compelling onscreen presence that he owned every scene he was in. And his performance seemed so real that he appeared not to be acting or reciting lines that someone had written, but rather displaying genuine raw emotions. In an instant, he became an overnight sensation, a teen idol, and shortly thereafter in death, a pop culture icon and legend. His heart wrenching portrayal of Cal Trask in East of Eden, the only one of his three films released while he was alive, resulted in his being nominated for an Academy Award for best actor, and then posthumously in the same category for his riveting performance as Jett Rink in Giant, which was released in 1956.
As an impressionable adolescent Catholic school girl growing up on the West side of Detroit, movies were a welcomed escape from the rigid rules and strict teachings of my parents and the nuns and priests educating me. My family had recently joined millions of other Southern Negroes in the Great Migration, leaving our Montgomery Alabama home for the promise of racial equality and better opportunities “up North”. Having lived under the pervasive shadow of segregation and Jim Crow laws, with no access to public libraries and first-run movie theaters, I was thrilled with all the possibilities that our family’s new life in the big city presented. I spent hours gathering and devouring library books, and carefully budgeted my weekly allowance to include the fifty cents price of a movie ticket at our neighborhood movie theater. In those days, with few notable exceptions, e.g., Dorothy Dandridge, and Sidney Poitier, there were precious few positive images of black people being depicted on the big screen. Stereotypical portrayals of Negroes were the norm, there was no balance in the characters being represented, and racial diversity was totally absent. Similarly, choices in terms of teen self-identity were also extremely limited, so our search for our own identities, different and separate from those of our parents, led us to the same teen idols as our white counterparts. When James Dean came along during this coming of age with such a forceful image of teen angst, adolescents and teens of every ethnicity easily identified with his reputation as rebel and loner, and we related to and embraced his non-conformity. Sadly, this real-time romanticism was short-lived while he was still with us. The announcement of his sudden and tragic death was stunning, and like millions of other kids, I mourned him with regular and devoted attendance at showings of his three films, voluminous stacks of fan magazines and books, and tribute even more photos of him lining my bedroom walls.
Only one of James Dean’s movies had been released at the time of his death. East of Eden, in March 1955. Rebel Without a Cause in October 1955, and Giant in October 1956. But his star turn in East of Eden put him on the world stage and his meteoric rise had already begun.
The site of the collision has been memorialized and is now known as the James Dean Memorial Junction. Located at State Route 46 (formerly 466 in 1955) and 41 interchange, east of Cholame, California. The tragic accident occurred on Friday September 30, 1955 at 5:45 p.m. Over the years it has been reported that Dean was on his way to compete in a sports car rally in Salinas, California. When the accident occurred, Dean was traveling west on 46, in his new 1956 Porsche Spyder, and another motorist, Donald Turnupseed, was traveling east in a 1954 Ford Tudor. Reportedly Turnupseed crossed into Dean’s lane, making a left turn onto State Route 41, and Dean’s Porsche and Turnupseed’s Ford, collided head-on, instantly killing Dean.
Almost 70 years have now passed, and all of this happened a long time ago, and today, in my approaching dotage, with the perspective lent by the inexorable passage of time, I now see James Dean, not as Cal Trask, or Jim Stark, or Jett Rink or a cult hero, but as the real-life enigma, he was. His time on this earth, though brief, showcased a phenomenal talent to be observed and enjoyed and studied for generations to come. My guess is that he was unaware of the profoundly emotional and lasting effect he had on audiences. But we’ll never know. He left us too soon. His rapid rise to fame was soon followed by a sudden departure into eternity. The instant mythology created by the shock of his death at the age of 24 has endured. And we are left to always wonder what might’ve been. But on the morning of September 30, 1955, when James Byron Dean hopped into his new Porsche 550 Spyder and slid behind the wheel and drove away from his Sherman Oaks, California home, he began his last drive — into history.
For the children of the ’50s and ’60s, the September 30, 1955 date was seared into our collective memories and synonymously linked to James Dean, our very own cultural icon. The archetypal sullen, disobedient, and misunderstood young man of our era. Today, an incredible sixty-nine years have passed since the shocking news. Yet, he remains frozen in time. Gone too soon. Forever young.
