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The Little Prince Movie You Probably Never Saw

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This week, Netflix will release The Little Prince, a film adaptation of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s beloved 1943 book about a pilot who crashes in the desert, where he befriends the titular character after the boy demands the pilot draw him a sheep. The movie, which features the voices of Jeff Bridges, Marion Cotillard, James Franco, Benicio Del Toro, Paul Rudd, and more, expands on Saint-Exupéry’s story by adding a little girl and her mother, who live next door to the aviator; the Little Prince’s tale is a film within the film, created using stop-motion animation. But Netflix’s flick isn’t the first time The Little Prince has been adapted into a film; there was another star-studded Little Prince movie, and it was more bizarre than you can imagine.

The first Little Prince film was a musical that brought together a number of Broadway and Hollywood heavyweights. Lyricist Alan Jay Lerner came on board to write the screenplay and songs and, for a time, composers like John Barry and Burt Bacharach were linked to the project. Eventually, though, Lerner persuaded his old partner, Fritz Loewe—with whom he’d written My Fair Lady, Camelot, and Brigadoon, among other musicals—to come out of retirement to compose the film’s songs and score. (Angela Morley, an English composer, was also a part of the team; she became the first openly transgender person to be nominated for an Oscar when she received an Academy Award nod for her work on The Little Prince.) The movie was produced and directed by Stanley Donen, who, among many other films, helmed Singin' in the Rain and the 1958 film adaptation of the musical Damn Yankees.

The cast was no less stellar: Gene Wilder took on the role of The Fox; Bob Fosse played The Snake; and Donna McKechnie (who would later star in the Fame TV show) was cast as The Rose. Six-year-old Steven Warner played The Little Prince, while Richard Kiley was cast in the role of The Pilot. (The studio wanted Frank Sinatra for the role, but Donen vetoed the idea, saying in 1976 that “The part [called] for a man who must allow himself to be dominated by a 6-year-old boy. It’s difficult for me to imagine Frank relating to a child in such a way … I didn’t want to risk the movie on him.”)

You would think, with all of this star power, that the film would have been wonderful, but instead, the result was rather strange. Wilder, Fosse, and McKechnie—who were playing two animals and a plant, respectively—were not voicing their characters. They were just people acting like animals and a flower, and they weren't even dressed up à la Zoobilee Zoo. In his book Kiss Me Like A Stranger: My Search for Love and Art, Wilder wrote that Donen had approached him to play The Fox, telling the actor that it was "the best part." Wilder agreed: "The Fox was certainly the best part for me, and I said I would be happy to do it." In one memorable scene, Wilder sits in a field of wheat and recites the book's most beloved line:

If Wilder seems profoundly sad in the scene, it might not be acting. "Before I left for London to do The Little Prince, I went to Milwaukee to visit my father, who was very ill," Wilder wrote. "When I kissed him goodbye, I knew I was seeing him for the last time. A week later I was told my father had died. I was filming in an enormous artificial wheat field on a huge soundstage delivering the most memorable lines in the script: 'It's only with the heart that one can see clearly; what's essential is invisible to the eye.'"

Donen offered the part of the Snake to Fosse, and to land the legendary dancer and choreographer, the director offered him complete control of the number. Fosse was reluctant to take the part, but his daughter, Nicole, loved the book so much that he couldn't say no. Fosse bought his own costume—yellow tinted sunglasses and a bowler hat, plus gloves from Bergdorf's and shoes from LaRay—and choreographed himself. He also mapped out camera angles for the sequence with his former assistant, Pat Ferrier Kiley (who was married to Richard). "Bobby came with the Snake Dance already mapped out," Kiley recalled, "and Stanley [Donen] was occupied in other areas, so Bobby and I would get up there and literally pick out camera angles."

McKechnie's sequence was filmed on a soundstage in London against a black background. The actress wrote later that she was “thrown at first by Stanley’s direction, as he wanted the number to be seductive, a hot dance with bumps and grinds”:

“I was reluctant to go that way with it because I was performing the scene with [a boy]. I tried to compromise with a more playful approach, which was sexy but not too hard-edged, as if I were a child in a woman’s body ... When I saw the movie months later, I was mortified. My scene had been cut to ribbons and the music was changed completely. The song I sang, ‘Be Happy,’ was in my soprano voice, but my voice in the scene was dubbed by someone with a very low, sultry English accent. It occurred to me that [Donen] never had any intention to use my speaking voice.”

(Lerner would later write that the sequence was “an absolute abomination and that Donen refuses to change it.”)

But the best and most bizarre musical number comes after The Little Prince and The Pilot find water in the desert. Delirious with joy, they sing, “Why am I happy? We’re dying of thirst,” followed by a slow-motion sequence featuring the actors playing in the water:

Much of the film was shot on location in Tunisia, presumably without Lerner and Loewe around—and, according to Lerner, Donen did his fair share of messing with the screenplay, the music, and the choreography: “The director … took it upon himself to change every tempo, delete musical phrases at will, and distort the intention of every song, until the score was entirely unrecognizable,” Lerner said, later calling what Donen did a “butchering of the script and score.”

The lyricist sent letters to Donen with suggestions for what could be reworked, but his letters were ignored. “Unlike the theater, where the author is the final authority, in motion pictures it is the director,” Lerner later said. “And if one falls into the hands of some cinematic Bigfoot, one pays the price for someone else’s ineptitude. In this case the price was high, because it was undoubtedly Fritz’s last score.” (The score, as Lerner and Loewe had intended it to be heard, would be released a few years later.)

Paramount released The Little Prince in 1974, and despite its star power, the film flopped at the box office. The New York Times’s critic Vincent Canby was not a fan. To start, he called it “a very exasperating experience,” then proceeded to drop a series of sick burns: “So little happens,” he wrote, “that the movie, which is stretched out with the Lerner-Loewe music, lasts only 88 minutes and seems at least five times that long.” For one song, Kiley seemed to have been filmed from a helicopter; according to Canby, “the actor, seen alternately in long shots and close-ups, appears to have lost his mind.” Fosse is “dressed like a 19th-century Chicago pimp” whose dance moves “look great when done by Gwen Verdon but [are] embarrassing in this context.” Warner had “a delightful laugh, but the way things are done these days I wondered if it might be Mercedes McCambridge.”

While conceding that “in addition to the score … there are some other isolated good things in the movie,” Canby ultimately concluded that “there are lots of pleasures that children and adults can share: zoos, circuses, Alice in Wonderland, Charlie Brown, roller coasters, hot dogs between meals. The Little Prince is not one of them.” Thankfully, Netflix’s adaptation is already getting better reviews—it currently has a 92 percent rating on Rotten Tomatoes.

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12 Surprising Facts About Bela Lugosi
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Mabel Livingstone/Hulton Archive/Getty Images

On October 20, 1882—135 years ago today—one of the world's most gifted performers was born. In his heyday, Bela Lugosi was hailed as the undisputed king of horror. Eighty-five years after he first donned a vampire’s cape, Lugosi's take on Count Dracula is still widely hailed as the definitive portrayal of the legendary fiend. But who was the man behind the monster?


To the chagrin of his biographers, the details concerning Bela Lugosi’s youth have been clouded in mystery. (In a 1929 interview, he straight-up admitted “for purposes of simplification, I have always thought it better to tell [lies] about the early years of my life.”) That said, we do know that he was born as Béla Ferenc Dezső Blaskó on October 20, 1882 in Lugoj, Hungary (now part of Romania). We also know that his professional stage debut came at some point in either 1901 or 1902. By 1903, Lugosi had begun to find steady work with traveling theater companies, through which he took part in operas, operettas, and stage plays. In 1913, Lugosi caught a major break when the most prestigious performing arts venue in his native country—the Budapest-based National Theater of Hungary—cast him in no less than 34 shows. Most of the characters that he played there were small Shakespearean roles such as Rosencrantz in Hamlet and Sir Walter Herbert in Richard III.


The so-called war to end all wars put Lugosi’s dramatic aspirations on hold. Although being a member of the National Theater exempted him from military service, he voluntarily enlisted in the Austro-Hungarian Army in 1914. Over the next year and a half, he fought against Russian forces as a lieutenant with the 43rd Royal Hungarian Infantry. While serving in the Carpathian mountains, Lugosi was wounded on three separate occasions. Upon healing from his injuries, he left the armed forces in 1916 and gratefully resumed his work with the National Theater.


In December 1920, Lugosi boarded a cargo boat and emigrated to the United States. Two years later, audiences on the Great White Way got their first look at this charismatic stage veteran. Lugosi was cast as Fernando—a suave, Latin lover—in the 1922 Broadway stage play The Red Poppy. At the time, his grasp of the English language was practically nonexistent. Undaunted, Lugosi went over all of his lines with a tutor. Although he couldn’t comprehend their meaning, the actor managed to memorize and phonetically reproduce every single syllable that he was supposed to deliver on stage.


The year 1927 saw Bela Lugosi sink his teeth into the role of a lifetime. A play based on the novel Dracula by Bram Stoker had opened in London in 1924. Sensing its potential, Horace Liveright, an American producer, decided to create an U.S. version of the show. Over the summer of 1927, Lugosi was cast as the blood-sucking Count Dracula. For him, the part represented a real challenge. In Lugosi’s own words, “It was a complete change from the usual romantic characters I was playing, but it was a success.” It certainly was. Enhanced by his presence, the American Dracula remained on Broadway for a full year, then spent two years touring the country.

Impressed by its box office prowess, Universal decided to adapt the show into a major motion picture in 1930. Horror fans might be surprised to learn that when the studio began the process of casting this movie’s vampiric villain, Lugosi was not their first choice. At the time, Lugosi was still a relative unknown, which made director Tod Browning more than a little hesitant to offer him the job. A number of established actors were all considered before the man who’d played Dracula on Broadway was tapped to immortalize his biting performance on film.


The recent Twilight phenomenon is not without historical precedent. Lugosi estimated that, while he was playing the Count on Broadway, more than 97 percent of the fan letters he received were penned by female admirers. A 1932 Universal press book quotes him as saying, “When I was on the stage in Dracula, my audiences were composed mostly of women.” Moreover, Lugosi contended that most of the men who’d attended his show had merely been dragged there by female companions.   


Released in 1931, Dracula quickly became one of the year's biggest hits for Universal (some film historians even argue that the movie single-handedly rescued the ailing studio from bankruptcy). Furthermore, its astronomical success transformed Lugosi into a household name for the first time in his career. Regrettably for him, though, he’d soon miss the chance to star in another smash. Pleased by Dracula’s box office showing, Universal green-lit a new cinematic adaptation of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Lugosi seemed like the natural choice to play the monster, but because the poor brute had few lines and would be caked in layers of thick makeup, the actor rejected the job offer. As far as Lugosi was concerned, the character was better suited for some “half-wit extra” than a serious actor. Once the superstar tossed Frankenstein aside, the part was given to a little-known actor named Boris Karloff.

Moviegoers eventually did get to see Lugosi play the bolt-necked corpse in the 1943 cult classic Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man. According to some sources, he strongly detested the guttural scream that the script forced him to emit at regular intervals. “That yell is the worst thing about the part. You feel like a big jerk every time you do it!” Lugosi allegedly complained.


It’s often reported that the two horror icons were embittered rivals. In reality, however, Karloff and Lugosi seemed to have harbored some mutual respect—and perhaps even affection for one another. The dynamic duo co-starred in five films together, the first of which was 1934’s The Black Cat; Karloff claimed that, on set, Lugosi was “Suspicious of tricks, fearful of what he regarded as scene stealing. Later on, when he realized I didn’t go in for such nonsense, we became friends.” During one of their later collaborations, Lugosi told the press “we laughed over my sad mistake and his good fortune as Frankenstein is concerned.”

That being said, Lugosi probably didn’t appreciate the fact that in every single film which featured both actors, Karloff got top billing. Also, he once privately remarked, “If it hadn’t been for Boris Karloff, I could have had a corner on the horror market.”


In 1935, Lugosi was named Honorary President of the Los Angeles Soccer League. An avid fan, he was regularly seen at Loyola Stadium, where he’d occasionally kick off the first ball during games held there. Also, on top of donating funds to certain Hungarian teams, Lugosi helped finance the Los Angeles Magyar soccer club. When the team won a state championship in 1935, one newspaper wrote that the players were “headed back to Dracula’s castle with the state cup.” [PDF]


Lugosi's fourth wife, Lillian Arch, claimed that Lugosi maintained a collection of more than 150,000 stamps. Once, on a 1944 trip to Boston, he told the press that he intended to visit all 18 of the city's resident philately dealers. “Stamp collecting,” Lugosi declared, “is a hobby which may cost you as much as 10 percent of your investment. You can always sell your stamps with not more than a 10 percent loss. Sometimes, you can even make money.” Fittingly enough, the image of Lugosi’s iconic Dracula appeared on a commemorative stamp issued by the post office in 1997.


The role of Count Dracula in this 1948 blockbuster was nearly given to Ian Keith—who was considered for the same role in the 1931 Dracula movie. Being a good sport, Lugosi helped promote the horror-comedy by making a special guest appearance on The Abbott and Costello Show. While playing himself in one memorable sketch, the famed actor claimed to eat rattlesnake burgers for dinner and “shrouded wheat” for breakfast.


Toward the end of his life, Lugosi worked on three ultra-low-budget science fiction pictures with Ed Wood, a man who’s been posthumously embraced as the worst director of all time. In the 1953 transvestite picture Glen or Glenda?, Lugosi plays a cryptic narrator who offers such random and unsolicited bits of advice as “Beware of the big, green dragon who sits on your doorstep.” Then came 1955’s Bride of the Monster, in which Lugosi played a mad scientist who ends up doing battle with a (suspiciously limp) giant octopus.

Before long, Wood had cooked up around half a dozen concepts for new films, all starring Lugosi. At some point in the spring of 1956, the director shot some quick footage of the actor wandering around a suburban neighborhood, clad in a baggy cloak. This proved to be the last time that the star would ever appear on film. Lugosi died of a heart attack on August 16, 1956;  he was 73 years old.

Three years after Lugosi's passing, this footage was spliced into a cult classic that Wood came to regard as his “pride and joy.” Plan 9 From Outer Space tells the twisted tale of extraterrestrial environmentalists who turn newly-deceased human beings into murderous zombies. Since Lugosi could obviously no longer play his character, Wood hired a stand-in for some additional scenes. Unfortunately, the man who was given this job—California chiropractor Tom Mason—was several inches taller than Lugosi. In an attempt to hide the height difference, Wood instructed Mason to constantly hunch over. Also, Mason always kept his face hidden behind a cloak.


Although Lugosi resented the years of typecasting that followed his breakout performance in Dracula, he asked to be laid to rest wearing the Count’s signature garment. Lugosi was buried under a simple tombstone at California's Holy Cross Cemetery.

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Mill Creek Entertainment
Hey, Vern: It's the Ernest P. Worrell Story
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Mill Creek Entertainment

In her review of the 1991 children’s comedy Ernest Scared Stupid, The Washington Post film critic Rita Kempley described the titular character, the dim-witted but well-meaning Ernest P. Worrell, as “the global village idiot.” As portrayed by Kentucky native Jim Varney, Ernest was in the middle of a 10-film franchise that would see him mistakenly incarcerated (Ernest Goes to Jail), enlisting in the military (Ernest in the Army), substituting for an injured Santa (Ernest Saves Christmas), and returning to formal education in order to receive his high school diploma (Ernest Goes to School).

Unlike slapstick contemporaries Yahoo Serious and Pauly Shore, Varney took a far more unusual route to film stardom. With advertising executive John Cherry III, Varney originated the Ernest character in a series of regional television commercials. By one estimate, Ernest appeared in over 6000 spots, hawking everything from ice cream to used cars. They grew so popular that the pitchman had a 20,000-member fan club before his first movie, 1987’s Ernest Goes to Camp, was even released.

Varney and Ernest became synonymous, so much so that the actor would dread going on dates for fear Ernest fans would approach him; he sometimes wore disguises to discourage recognition. Though he could recite Shakespeare on a whim, Varney was rarely afforded the opportunity to expand his resume beyond the denim-jacketed character. It was for this reason that Varney, though grateful for Ernest’s popularity, would sometimes describe his notoriety as a “mixed blessing,” one that would come to a poignant end foreshadowed by one of his earliest commercials.

Born in Lexington, Kentucky in 1949, Varney spent his youth being reprimanded by teachers who thought his interest in theater shouldn’t replace attention paid to math or science. Varney disagreed, leaving high school just two weeks shy of graduation (he returned in the fall for his diploma) to head for New York with $65 in cash and a plan to perform.

The off-Broadway plays Varney appeared in were not lucrative, and he began to bounce back and forth between Kentucky and California, driving a truck when times were lean and appearing in TV shows like Petticoat Junction when his luck improved. During one of his sabbaticals from Hollywood, he met Cherry, who cast him as an aggressive military instructor named Sergeant Glory in an ad for a car dealer in Nashville, Tennessee.

In 1981, Varney was asked back to film a new spot for Cherry, this one for a dilapidated amusement park in Bowling Green, Kentucky, that Cherry considered so unimpressive he didn’t want to show it on camera. Instead, he created the character of Ernest P. Worrell, a fast-talking, often imbecilic local who is constantly harassing his neighbor Vern. (“Know what I mean, Vern?” became Ernest’s catchphrase.)

The spot was a hit, and soon Varney and Cherry were being asked to film spots for Purity Dairies, pizza parlors, convenience stores, and other local businesses. In the spots, Ernest would usually look into the camera—the audience shared Vern’s point of view—and endorse whatever business had enlisted his services, usually stopping only when Vern devised a way to get him out of sight.

Although the Purity commercials initially drew complaints—the wide-angle lens created a looming Ernest that scared some children—his fame grew, and Varney became a rarity in the ad business: a mascot without a permanent corporate home. He and Cherry would film up to 26 spots in a day, all targeted for a specific region of the country. In some areas, people would call television stations asking when the next Ernest spot was due to air. A Fairfax, Virginia Toyota dealership saw a 50 percent spike in sales after Varney began appearing in ads.

Logging thousands of spots in hundreds of markets, Varney once said that if they had all been national, he and Cherry would have been wealthy beyond belief. But local spots had local budgets, and the occasions where Ernest was recruited for a major campaign were sometimes prohibited by exclusivity contracts: He and Cherry had to turn down Chevrolet due to agreements with local, competing car dealers.

Still, Varney made enough to buy a 10-acre home in Kentucky, expressing satisfaction with the reception of the Ernest character and happily agreeing to a four-picture deal with Disney’s Touchstone Pictures for a series of Ernest features. Released on a near-constant basis between 1987 and 1998, the films were modest hits (Ernest Goes to Camp made $28 million) before Cherry—who directed several of them—and Varney decided to strike out on their own, settling into a direct-to-video distribution model.

“It's like Oz, and the Wizard ain't home," Varney told the Sun Sentinel in 1985, anticipating his desire for autonomy. “Hollywood is a place where everything begins but nothing originates. It's this big bunch of egos slamming into each other.”

Varney was sometimes reticent to admit he had ambitions beyond Ernest, believing his love of Shakespeare and desire to perform Hamlet would be perceived as the cliched story of a clown longing to be serious. He appeared in 1994’s The Beverly Hillbillies and as the voice of Slinky Dog in 1995’s Toy Story. But Ernest would continue to be his trademark.

The movies continued through 1998, at which point Varney noticed a nagging cough. It turned out to be lung cancer. As Ernest, Varney had filmed an anti-smoking public service announcement in the 1980s. In his private life, he was a chain smoker. He succumbed to cancer in 2000 at the age of 50, halting a series of planned Ernest projects that included Ernest Goes to Space and Ernest and the Voodoo Curse.

Varney may never have gotten an opportunity to perform in a wider variety of roles, but he did receive some acknowledgment for the one he had mastered. In 1989, Varney took home an Emmy for Outstanding Performer in a children’s series, a CBS Saturday morning show titled Hey, Vern: It’s Ernest!

“It’s a blessing and a curse,” he told the Orlando Sentinel in 1991, “because it's as hard to escape from it as it is to get into it.''


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