The Two Gildas

I have a history with one shared name: Gilda.

First, there’s legendary screen icon, Rita Hayworth. She’s best known for her portrayal of the film noir siren, “Gilda.” When I saw her in that stunning 1946 film, I was thoroughly convinced she was a woman reveling confident in her beauty.

That black strapless gown with its matching opera length gloves…

That red hair cascading over her shoulders…

What wasn’t to love about Rita Hayworth as Gilda?

By the time I was thirteen, she was one of my earliest beauty icons. And I decided to try to mimic her.

It did not go well.

I dyed my dark brown hair red twice in one summer.

Twice.

“Copper Penny” was the name of the hair color.

By the way, I have an “olive” skin tone, with its yellow base. So, mix an olive complexion with “Copper Penny” red hair and what do you get?

The look of Jaundice.

Anyway, Rita made me dream of movie star beauty and the promise of its perfection. However, even she had a more complicated back story going on.

Originally born Margarita Carmen Cansino, of Spanish and Irish-English heritage, a Hollywood studio head was so bothered by her reality, that he changed her name to the “less ethnic” Hayworth. From there, he made Rita undergo her Hollywood makeover. Her hair was dyed red and her hairline was raised, via electrolysis.

And, after her career skyrocketed, things did not get easier.

“Men fell in love with Gilda, but they wake up with me.”

“Rita Hayworth: Portrait of a Love Goddess” (1977) by John Kobal

Rita was married and divorced numerous times, was addicted to alcohol and, sadly, succumbed to complications from Alzheimer’s Disease in 1987, at the age of 68.

She was a human being, susceptible to the human experience.

Just like the rest of us.

In reading about her life, I discovered that she, indeed, separated her true Margarita self from that of the red-headed Rita. When she was on vacation, not filming a movie, she would let her hair grow out. Studio execs probably were mortified to see her dark roots eclipsing that flame-red dye job, endangering the Hollywood sex appeal.

Yet she was Margarita, even when Rita was called to the set. She was real.

And, speaking of real, how about my second influential Gilda?

"Having cancer gave me membership in an elite club I'd rather not belong to."

Gilda Radner

I first read her book, “It’s Always Something” years ago, long before my cancer diagnosis.

Since I was a kid, I’ve been transported from pain to ridiculousness, especially through the likes of her Saturday Night Live character, Roseanne Roseannadanna.

I’ll admit, there was a point when I wanted to have my hair like that character’s wig. I was enchanted by its jutting triangle.

But, beyond the wig, Radner’s power and comic timing were undeniable. And later, with her own Ovarian cancer diagnosis, Gilda taught me how to use humor as a weapon, even with cancer.

Cliché alert. Yeah, we’ve all heard about the healing power of humor. Patients respond better to treatment while watching funny movies. Supposedly, you cannot laugh and be in physical pain at the same time.

Supposedly.

Beyond even the absurdities of treatment itself, this Gilda taught me, through her raw experiences, sometimes you do laugh while being in pain.

Depressing?

Or empowering?

I’m finding more of the latter, although, yes, spoiler alert, depression is right there, making its own rounds.

Radner once said humor’s definition was when you arrive at the truth before someone else does. It’s the zinger, the unexpected humanity.

She created and sang her own “f-bomb” ridden song about cancer cells coming back. She joked about her diagnosis, breaking the stigma as she appeared, in primetime, on the 1980’s comedy, “It’s the Garry Shandling Show.” She posed for a photo with a friend’s newborn, showcasing both beautiful bald heads.

She found a way to make her experiences her own. And, for those of us, diagnosed or not, isn’t that the best we can do?

I’m affected by the name, Gilda. It has spanned beauty, hilarity, awkwardness, elegance, courage, heartache, frailty, strength, disease and death.

Which Gilda am I? Femme fatale fiction? Funny, awkward namesake?

It’s my choice, day to day.

I believe it is our choice. We cannot live removed from the truth of who we are.

Which Gilda are we?

I believe we’re both.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse