ARTICLES

Hollywood’s Portraits of the
Artist as a Kept Man
BY JOAKIM NILSSON
Kwantlen Polytechnic University

ABSTRACT
Since the early 19th Century, the male artist has been both celebrated as a heroic figure who represents self-expression and freedom
from traditional work and a figure whose financial dependence of a patron undermines his masculinity. In the USA after World
War Two, men faced increasing suburbanization and consumerism, and often longed for the rebellious freedom represented by
artists like Jackson Pollock, Ernest Hemingway, and Jack Kerouac. But in the post-war Cold War culture, those who rebelled were
threatened with the label of communist or homosexual. Focusing on three films made after World War Two--Humoresque (1946),
Sunset Boulevard (1950), and An American in Paris (1951)--the article explores the portrayal of the male artist as a "kept man,"
and discusses visual and narrative elements in each film that work to reinscribe traditional gender roles. Specifically, each film
uses a love triangle between the artist, an older, wealthy, female patron who threatens the artist's masculinity and artistic integrity,
and a younger, more traditionally feminine woman who, by the end of the film, will help the male artist reassert his traditional
masculine role.

For at least two centuries, the image of the male artist has created
conflicting perceptions in regard to heteronormative models of
masculinity. Romantic writers, such as Percy Bysshe Shelley and
Lord Byron, promoted an image of the male artist as tortured
hero and rebel. Discussing the “heroic artist,” Wanghui Gan
explains how, “according to this trope, the artist is an inspired
visionary, a prophet-like figure marked by potency, legitimacy,
and creativity. Often a solitary genius and tortured outsider
following the inclinations of his desires in self-imposed exile, he
is romanticized as a countercultural rebel who is more authentic
and honest than the masses because he is more attuned to beauty
and truth” (1). To men who follow the model of traditional
masculinity—husband, father, breadwinner who sacrifices his
personal needs to satisfy the material needs of his family—the
male artist may represent freedom and escape from social and
labour conformity.
But this lack of conformity, and the desire to express
oneself honestly through one’s art, often come with economic
instability—the trope of the “starving artist.” As Amelia Yeates
explains, “The figure of the male artist in the nineteenth century
was a locus for various concerns surrounding the construction

of masculinity, such as the issue of labour and production, the
role of the patron and the marketplace and the gendering of
aesthetics” (“Introduction” 133). Katarzyna Kosmala captures
two aspects of the artist’s relationship to work:
The career in the arts’ sectors is often referred to as
having a protean form, that is, a form of a boundary-free organization of creative practice and linked
to an occupation whereby the motivation and a drive
for a success are internally infused and self-driven
(Baruch, 2004; Hall, 2004). A notion of creative
career is also closely linked to the idea of non-career, which is reflected in a pattern of working that is
nonlinear, not easily approximated with the monetary
value or with a form of financial recognition (Hearn,
1977), until it enters the art market through either
patronage, networks or recognition. (17)
To achieve “recognition,” artists usually relied on a patron, a
relationship that undermines the connection between masculinity and financial independence. In 19th Century England,
according to Yeates, some people felt that “the emasculation
MISE- EN - SCÈNE

13

Hollywood’s Portraits of the Artist as a Kept Man

of artists through their subservience to patrons automatically
rendered them prostitutes,” as “within nineteenth-century
discourses …, women were frequently linked with exchange
and transaction, a connection that rendered problematic artists’
activity in the marketplace” (“Slave” 175).
During the period on which I focus this article—the
decade after World War Two—the conflicting feelings about
the artist as rebel were further complicated by the Cold War,
an increasingly materialistic American culture, the growing
corporatization of white collar male labour, and male anxiety about the perceived influence of women: “In the 1950s
American men strained against two negative poles—the overconformist, a faceless, self-less nonentity, and the unpredictable,
unreliable nonconformist” (Kimmel 236). While, as Michael
Kimmel suggests, overconformity was questioned—conformity was associated with communism—”mid-century therapeutic culture pathologized the man who sought a lifestyle
outside of the conventions of the time. Moreover, the increased
awareness of the (invisible) male homosexual in every walk of
American life added to the sense that a man was compelled
to fulfill the life trajectory that experts deemed ‘normal’ and
‘mature,’ lest he be tainted by the stigma of homosexuality”
(Cuordileone 138). Whether men feared homosexuality or
suburban drudgery, it was women who usually took the blame
for society’s social ills:
In the mid-twentieth century, the enemy for many
male critics was less the female reformer proper (the
ominous image of Eleanor Roosevelt notwithstanding) but rather self assertive, “civilizing” women in the
private sphere, and a looming matriarchy radiating
outward from the home. The claims made by mid-century male critics that women maintained a matriarchal
grip on the family and society were absurd, yet they
reflect new and unresolved tensions about women’s
mid-century roles. (Cuordileone 139)
In the films I discuss, these related anxieties about male financial
dependence and growing female agency come together in the
character of a wealthy, middle-aged female patron who offers
the male artist monetary support, but at the cost of his sense
of masculinity.

working-class image. Pollock was hard drinking and wore a tee
shirt, jeans, even cowboy boots (Jones 23), and much has been
written about Gene Kelly’s “athletic” dance style: “Not only did
Kelly’s American style democratize dance through his embodiment of the ‘working man,’ dispelling the myth of aristocratic
ownership of dance, but his consistent portrayal of ‘military man’ roles offered a previously unseen, more universally
recognizable male identity in onscreen musicals that continued to dispel the other American myth of dance as female”
(Guernier 17-18). So, while a rebel against some aspects of
society, male artists
often reassert their manhood through an emphasis
on sexual power relations and reconfirmation of their
artistry. Thus, the correlation between the performance of machismo and of authentic artistic genius
indicates that despite shunning society and being
shunned by society, the [artists] still identify themselves within the boundaries of cultural ideologies that
serve to assert and maintain male hegemonic power.
They often display homosexual panic in grappling
with long-standing cultural assumptions that associate
artistry and male homosexuality, working to re-masculinize art and aesthetics. (Gan 4)
The popular post-World War Two artists I mentioned all maintained an image of masculinity that seemed to balance virility
and heterosexuality with a challenge to the materialism and
suburban drudgery that threatened to undermine traditional
American manhood.
The three films I discuss—Jean Negulesco's Humoresque
(1946), Billy Wilder's Sunset Boulevard (1950), Vincente
Minnelli's An American in Paris (1951)—do not explicitly
address homosexuality; instead, each portrays a relationship
between a young, male artist and an older, wealthy, upperclass woman who at first acts as his patron but soon becomes
demanding in a way that undermines both his art and his
masculinity. Whether buying him nice clothes, providing a
place to live and work, or helping him connect with other
wealthy patrons of the arts, the older woman places the artist in
the position of a “kept man”—a position he reluctantly accepts
in trade for the success and stability that his art alone does not

To men who follow the model of traditional masculinity—husband, father,
breadwinner who sacrifices his personal needs to satisfy the material needs of his
family—the male artist may represent freedom and escape from social
and labour conformity.
In the decade after World War Two, the most prominent
artists in America worked hard to maintain an image of the artist
as approachable and heterosexual, thus challenging the stereotype of the artist as elitist and unmasculine. Ernest Hemingway,
Jack Kerouac, Jackson Pollock1—and Gene Kelly (whom I will
discuss more later)—all portrayed a traditionally masculine,

14

Vol.09 No.01 | Spring 2024

provide. Using the narrative device of the love triangle, each
film juxtaposes this older woman with a younger woman who,
based on age, social class, and potential for love, marriage, and
family—the hallmarks of heteronormative gender roles of the
time—is portrayed as a more appropriate choice to restore the
artist’s manhood. And if these normative gender roles are not

Joakim Nilsson

clear enough, each film relies on other characters to articulate
the expectations that the male artist is transgressing. While the
mood and genre of these films range from melodrama to film
noir to musical, each film resolves the narrative by restoring the
main character’s masculinity.
HUMORESQUE (1946)
The film opens near the end of the story, with Paul Boray (John
Garfield)—a successful classical violinist—facing a crisis.
Through his words to himself, we learn that success has not
brought the happiness and satisfaction Paul has always longed
for; he still feels “outside, always looking in” and “far away
from home,” and longs to “get back to the happy, simple kid I
used to be” (0:03:55-0:04:22). Flashing back, we see that as a
boy, Paul already showed signs of the “heroic artist”: despite his
father’s protests (Rudy played by J. Carrol Naish), Paul wants a
violin for his birthday, rather than the baseball bat or fire engine
suggested by his father. While his working class, immigrant
father seems concerned about the cost of a violin, he also seems
to want Paul to choose a more traditionally masculine occupation. Upon returning home, Paul’s mother (Esther played
by Ruth Nelson) goes to buy the violin, starting a pattern of
support for Paul’s musical dreams. Is she overindulging Paul,
like his father (and many social critics anxious about the impact
of “momism”2 on young men) fears, setting him up for a life
of financial dependence? As Rudy tells Esther about successful
artists, “Statistics show there’s one of them in a million. … Paul
Boray: the genius who lives over a grocery store?” (0:18:480:19:02). But Paul seems to possess the mix of talent and determination needed to be that one, despite his father’s and brother’s
(Tom D’Andrea) criticisms, which focus on Paul’s lack of financial contribution to the family, a situation his mother continues to defend. Now a young man attending a music academy,
Paul tells his fellow (somewhat successful) musician Sid (Oscar
Levant), his older friend and character foil, “I’m not going to
be a parasite from now on. I’m going to pay my way” (0:19:410:19:45). Expressing his desire for social mobility, Paul states “I
don’t want to spend the rest of my life living in a hot box over a
grocery store” worrying about unpaid bills (0:20:43-0:20:55).
Ironically, it is at this point that Sid explains to Paul the realities of being a successful concert musician: nice clothes, an
expensive violin, a manager—all of which rely on an upper-class
patron like Helen Wright (Joan Crawford), and thus another
form of financial dependence.
Before I discuss Helen Wright, the older, rich, married
woman who provides Paul the money and connections he needs
to succeed, I want to discuss Gina (Joan Chandler), the young
woman who loves Paul, and of whom Esther approves. Early in
the film, Paul is walking with Gina, a cellist from the neighborhood who also attends the music academy, telling her about his
artistic dreams which, as a musician herself, she can understand
and support. Paul then tells Gina, “I never open up like this
to most people. Not even mom; it’s only you. I don’t have to
pose with you. I don’t have to fight or argue. I can be just what
I am: no different, no better, no worse, just me....” Before going

Fig. 1 | Our first impression of Helen: surrounded by men eager to please her,
0:33:08. Warner Bros., 1946.

inside, she kisses Paul and says, “If I told you I loved you, would
you laugh?” Once alone, Paul seems surprised and somewhat
pleased, but he does not respond with similarly strong feelings
(0:15:39-0:16:38). Maybe Gina is too familiar—they have
grown up together—or maybe she symbolizes that “hot box over
a grocery store” that he wishes to escape. Esther often speaks
of Gina, and later makes clear that she can give Paul what he
really wants: “I know you. Inside, Paul, you want a wife, home,
children” (1:07:54-1:07:59). However, Gina cannot give Paul
the financial support and social connections he needs to fulfill
his artistic dreams, which he will not compromise. Unlike Sid,
who is full of self-mockery and will acquiesce to the wishes of
conductors or producers, and is happy to make any money from
his art, Paul is proud and egotistical, regularly clashing with
those who do not meet his artistic standards. As Sid says to Paul,
“You have all the characteristics of a successful virtuoso: you’re
self-indulgent, self-dedicated, and the hero of all your dreams”
(0:30:32-0:30:39). We see this pride and pugnaciousness on full
display when he first meets Helen Wright, a meeting arranged
by Sid as a first step toward the patronage that Paul needs and
wants. What Paul soon learns is that there are strings that come
with the support he will receive.
Our initial perception of Helen Wright as a strong,
demanding woman is created by the portrayal of the men who
surround her. Before Paul meets Helen, he sees her surrounded
by obsequious young men who laugh at her quips (Fig. 1), and
he also meets her husband (Paul Cavanagh), who describes
himself as “weak” (0:33:27)—likely for putting up with Helen’s
flirtations. While these other men do as they are told—‘“get
my glasses for me like a good boy, Teddy”’(0:35:51-0:35:53)—
Paul challenges Helen from the beginning—not surprising,
given the choice of John Garfield to play Paul. As Stuart
Hands discusses, Garfield often played tough characters who
combined “dynamic expressions of pent-up anger, vulnerability, cold disillusionment and brimming sexuality” (2). And if
the audience misses the associations, a drunken woman at the
party makes them clear, insisting to Paul, “You look just like a
MISE- EN - SCÈNE

15

Hollywood’s Portraits of the Artist as a Kept Man

Fig. 2 | A shot through Helen’s wine glass—is Paul simply Helen’s latest addiction?
0:40:59. Warner Bros., 1946.. Warner Bros., 1946.

Fig. 3 | Dressing the artist, but with some resistance, 0:55:03. Warner Bros.,
1946.

prize fighter” (0:33:41-0:33:43). But then Paul plays, piquing
Helen’s interest (Fig. 2). Though she hides it behind insults,
Helen seems to enjoy the challenge, likely having tired of the
“weak” men around her, and the next day sends Paul a gift of
a gold cigarette case. Mama seems concerned about Helen’s
interest, a scene followed by Helen buying Paul a suit (0:54:250:55:36). Again asserting his independence, Paul will let her
buy him a suit, but he insists on disregarding her opinion and
choosing the material himself (Fig. 3).
Paul clearly has conflicting feelings about Helen’s help.
At the next meeting, he refuses to light her cigarette, and then
says to Helen, “The patroness of the arts. What am I? A substitute for this year’s trip to Sun Valley? Or the discovery of a new
painter? You think it’s pleasant to be patronized by a woman?”
He fears she has “just added a violin player to your collection,
that’s all” (0:57:40-0:59:22). Hands argues that “In their initial
scenes together, Paul’s hostility toward Helen is well-rooted
in her social status and the upper-class world she represents.
But at times, this anger becomes indistinguishable from his
16

Vol.09 No.01 | Spring 2024

resistance to the emasculation he feels as this strong woman
helps and guides his musical career” (57). Paul clearly expresses
his conflicting feelings between desiring success and relying
on Helen to achieve that success. But his anxiety about being
“patronized by a woman” no doubt, if only on a subconscious
level, also reflects his ambivalence about his relationship with
his mother. Paul may recognize that he has moved from relying
on his mother, who has always supported Paul’s musical ambitions, even in the face of his father’s and brother’s criticisms, to
relying on Helen, whom he feels more comfortable criticizing.
Paul seeks financial independence and artistic success away
from his family; nevertheless, he still seeks approval, not from
his father but from his mother who will continue to question
his relationship with Helen.
While Helen willingly takes on the role of “patroness,”
she initially defines their relationship as strictly professional:
Paul suggests a possible romantic relationship, but she is interested in him “only as an artist” (0:45:00-0:45:06). As Helen
describes her past marriages, we learn her reasons for this reluctance, and for her drinking: she has been unlucky with men,
and seeks to keep them emotionally at arm’s length. She was
married at sixteen to “a cry baby” and at twenty-one to “a cave
man” (0:44:18-0:44:25), and as we know, is again married to
a “weak” man presently. So when Paul comes on to her, she
quickly asserts her need for independence: “I don’t know how
you men get that way, but every time you meet an attractive
woman, you begin to plan how and where you’re going to club
her wings down” (0:44:35-0:44:41)). When Helen does eventually profess her love for Paul—“I love you. I can’t fight you
any longer, Paul” (1:05:57-1:06:06)—she begins to be a more
sympathetic character because despite Paul’s claims that he
loves her, she quickly learns that she is less important to Paul
than his music.
While Esther still distrusts Helen and her interest in Paul—
unlike Rudy, Esther is not impressed by the nice apartment
Helen has helped Paul move into, and still believes “There’s
something wrong with a woman like that” (1:26:36-1:26:39)—
we begin to see the dark side of Paul the “heroic artist”: “the
myth of the artist-genius often goes together with artists exhibiting harmful behaviour, notably narcissism, machismo, and
misogyny, as the myth provides the justification and impetus
for problematic behaviour as natural moral and intellectual
superiority, especially when these artists feel a lack of understanding and acknowledgement from those around them”
(Gan 2). Helen’s husband grants her the divorce she wants,
so she can marry Paul, but echoing Sid’s statement about
Paul’s artistic ego, he warns her that Paul is “not soft” and that
“nothing means anything to him but his music” (1:29:351:29:39). A male friend of Helen’s reinforces this criticism
of the male artist after he sees the negative emotional impact
Paul is having on Helen: “A French philosopher once listed
three hundred ways to commit suicide. Only he left one out:
falling in love with an artist” (1:39:46-1:39:50).
More than the other two films I will discuss, Humoresque
portrays the “patroness” as a complex and sympathetic character,

Joakim Nilsson

Fig. 4 | Joe Gillis finally gets some notoriety in Hollywood, 0:02:33. Paramount, 1950.

To achieve “recognition,” artists usually
relied on a patron, a relationship that
undermines the connection between
masculinity and financial independence.
and questions the drive and “narcissism” of the male artist.
When Helen’s friend speaks of “suicide,” he foreshadows
Helen’s fate; Helen soon realizes that despite his claims of
love, Paul is not a rebel against gender norms: “You want the
homemaker type. Outside of your music, you cherish all the
standard virtues,” but more than anything, he is “married to
[his] music” (1:43:00-1:43:36). Helen shows courage when
she confronts Esther and professes her love for Paul, to which
Esther replies, “You only make demands. Leave him! Leave
him alone!” (1:46:32-1:46:39). Esther has always defended
her son, and does not know what the audience knows about
Paul’s treatment of Helen. Increasingly despondent over her
feelings for Paul, and not wanting to interfere with his musical
success, Helen’s last words echo those of Paul at the beginning
of the film: “Here’s to love. And here’s to a time when we were

little girls and no one asked us to marry” (1:51:44-1:51:54).
Her suicide by drowning in the ocean—made melodramatic
by Paul’s concert music playing in the background, as if haunting Helen—suggests that she sacrifices herself for his music.
Her death leads to Paul’s emotional crisis that begins the film,
but also the resolution he seeks: leaving his penthouse apartment, he returns to ground level and to what looks like the old
neighbourhood. His final words, to Sid—“I’m not running
away” (2:03:30-2:03:31)—suggest Paul has recognized that he
can find happiness in returning to the place he so desperately
wanted to escape, and while it is not clearly shown, the ending
implies that Paul might return to Gina (she was at his concert,
and looked happy), and to the heteronormative values that his
mom defined as his true desire: “a wife, home, children.”
SUNSET BOULEVARD (1950)
Like Humoresque, Sunset Boulevard begins near the end of the
story but not with a question to be answered by the main character. As Joe Gillis (William Holden)—“just a movie writer with
a couple of ‘B’ pictures to his credit” (0:02:28-0:02:30)—floats
face down in a swimming pool (Fig. 4), we quickly realize that his

MISE- EN - SCÈNE

17

Hollywood’s Portraits of the Artist as a Kept Man

Fig. 5 | Nancy’s disappointment in Joe’s lack of artistic integrity, and Joe’s
defensiveness, 0:07:17. Paramount, 1950.

Fig. 6 | Joe as controlling gigolo…, 0:57:29. Paramount, 1950.

Fig. 7 | … or self-deluding object of desire? 0:57:57. Paramount, 1950.

18

Vol.09 No.01 | Spring 2024

fate is sealed. We know that he dies, so our attention immediately
shifts to “How did this happen?”—a question our dead narrator, through voiceover (and some Hollywood magic), answers
by describing “the facts, the whole truth” (0:02:11-0:02:12)
about the events that lead to his death. His story thus becomes
a warning, and his first theme Joe focuses on the high price of
seeking material success in Hollywood: “Poor dope--he always
wanted a pool. Well, in the end he got himself a pool. Only the
price turned out to be a little high” (0:02:35-0:02:42). As Joe will
outline, his desire for success will cost him not only his life, but
also his artistic integrity, an “appropriate” romantic relationship,
and his sense of masculinity.
Continuing to recount his story through voiceover narration, Joe describes a life of financial desperation and artistic failure. Having left a comfortable job as a reporter in Dayton, Ohio,
Joe clearly had artistic aspirations, but unlike Paul Boray, whose
artistic integrity was always supported by his mother, Joe feels
increasingly isolated and desperate. Unable to sell a story or even
borrow money to avoid losing his car, Joe quickly gives up his
artistic ideals, and even considers admitting failure and returning
to his job in Ohio. His cynicism is highlighted when he meets the
first corner of his future love triangle—Betty Schaefer (Nancy
Olson), a young, idealistic script reader—while he is pitching his
story “Bases Loaded.” Not knowing Joe is present, she insightfully criticizes the story as written “from hunger” (0:06:26) and
thus without merit, and then tells Joe that she thinks he does have
talent he should nurture (Fig. 5). His response—“That was last
year. This year I am trying to earn a living” (0:07:15-0:07:17)—
reveals his vulnerability; Trowbridge argues that Betty’s criticisms
“insinuate that Joe Gillis has prostituted his writing ability” and
that Betty “shows foresight, as the opportunistic writer indentures himself to Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) soon thereafter….” Joe soon “does triple duty as the silent star’s ghostwriter,
gigolo and audience, in return for lavish gifts that overindulge
his acquisitive appetite” (296).
Unlike Paul Boray, who maintains his emotional control as he
pursues a relationship with a reluctant Helen, Joe does not recognize the artistic and personal cost of his relationship with Norma.
Hiding his car in what he believes is an abandoned mansion,
Joe believes Norma’s house is a safe place where he can hide and
regroup. Initially, Joe thinks that he controls the relationship with
Norma—“I was pleased with the way I had handled the situation.
I dropped the hook, and she snapped at it” (0:24:01-0:24:08)—
and sees it as preferable to a humiliating return to Ohio. He
does not recognize how, with Max’s (Erich von Stroheim) help,
Norma will manipulate him into a sexual relationship that will
undermine a more legitimate relationship with Betty (Fig. 6 and
Fig. 7). As Joan F. Dean argues, “Joe makes the same erroneous
assumption about his profession as does his colleague played by
Richard Gere in Paul Schraeder’s American Gigolo. Both mistakenly believe that they control their situation, that they have the
freedom to walk away from their trade when they choose, that
they can reclaim their integrity” (95).
As Joe is moved from his apartment to the room over
Norma’s garage to a room in her house to Norma’s bed, he

Joakim Nilsson

In the decade after World War Two, the
most prominent artists in America worked
hard to maintain an image of the artist
as approachable and heterosexual, thus
challenging the stereotype of the artist as
elitist and unmasculine.

Fig. 8 | The salesman’s words of advice and encouragement, 0:37:29.
Paramount, 1950.

Fig. 9 | Joe does not react well, 0:37:31. Paramount, 1950.

feels increasingly conflicted about the relationship: “I wanted
the job, and I wanted the dough, and I wanted to get out of
there as quickly as I could” (0:29:10-0:29:15). His inner voice
recognizes the peril he is in, but unlike Paul Boray, who has
Mama reminding him of his heteronormative aspirations,
Joe remains isolated and self-deluding. In a scene that parallels Helen buying Paul a suit, Norma criticizes Joe’s clothes
and offers to buy him new ones. Joe is initially reluctant—
Joe: “I don’t need any clothes, and I certainly don’t want you
buying them for—.” Norma: “Why begrudge me a little fun?
I just want you to look nice” (0:36:34-0:36:39)—but acquiesces. Through words of support, rather than criticism, the
salesman (Peter Drynan) articulates Joe’s role as a kept man
by quietly suggesting to Joe that he take advantage of Norma’s
money: “Well, as long as the lady’s paying for it, why not take
the Vicunan?” (0:37:28-0:37:31). The salesman has no doubt
seen this older, rich woman/younger man dynamic before,
but as shown by Joe’s reaction to his words, having his secret
relationship made public does not sit well with his sense of
manhood (Fig. 8 and Fig. 9).

Like Gina with Paul, Betty is presented as a more socially
acceptable choice for Joe, as she is younger, of the same social
class, and a writer who wishes to support Joe’s artistic aspirations: “[Janey] Place insightfully points out that in Sunset
Boulevard, Norma ‘insists [Joe] participate in her life rather
than being interested in his’ (57), and that Joe’s ideal partner Betty dreams of his career rather than her own, that she
is content to be behind the camera rather than in front of it”
(Mazur). Joe begins to live a double life, meeting with Betty
to write, but carefully keeping each relationship secret from
the other woman. Some critics have argued that Joe is thus an
unsympathetic character. While describing Norma as a vampire
“feeding on the life-blood of the young,” Cooke criticizes Joe
for “feeding off Norma’s wealth” and sees the film as doing
“little to endear either Joe or Norma to the spectator looking
for some kind of positive identification” (92). I would argue
that unlike Paul Boray, Joe lacks the male artist’s arrogance and
self-centeredness, and he also lacks the focus on money needed
to be an effective gigolo. Out to get cigarettes for Norma, Joe
runs into Betty again at a New Year’s Eve party, and there is a
clear attraction. But Joe calls to check in with Norma, and Max
informs her that Norma has tried to commit suicide. Rather
than seeing this as an easy escape from his “kept man” relationship, Joe feels guilty and leaves Betty, so he can console Norma.
And while not as sympathetic as Helen, Norma is also presented
as a complex character, a victim of the Hollywood system. As
Cecil DeMille tells a younger colleague after Norma drops off
her script at the studio, “A dozen press agents working overtime
can do terrible things to the human spirit” (1:07:14-1:07:19)).
Driven by guilt, Max—her current servant, former husband,
and the director who discovered her—continues to maintain
her illusions of continued stardom and hopes of return, denying
her the opportunity to face reality.
We know from the beginning of the film that Joe will die,
but before this happens, he does recapture his sense of masculine agency with the help of Betty. Joe has been writing secretly
with Betty, and while he fights his attraction to her—Betty is
engaged to Joe’s friend, Artie (Jack Webb)—Betty eventually
visits Joe at Norma’s house to solve the mystery of his private
life. Joe admits out loud the taboo relationship he has worked so
hard to keep secret: “Older woman who is well-to-do, younger
man who is not doing too well. Can you figure it out yourself?”
(1:36:07-1:36:18). His secret revealed, Joe demonstrates some
humility and integrity when he chooses to return to Ohio, without Betty, believing that she will be happier with Artie: “Maybe
it’s [Joe’s relationship with Norma] not very admirable, but you
MISE- EN - SCÈNE

19

Hollywood’s Portraits of the Artist as a Kept Man

and Artie can be admirable” (1:37:08-1:37:15). Joe also tries to
be honest with Norma, an attempt undermined by Max, but
Norma shoots Joe in the back as he tries to leave. So, while Joe
does not survive, and also chooses to give up his artistic aspirations, he does finally show male agency and the willingness
to choose the hard reality of artistic failure over the illusions he
maintains during his relationship with Norma.

Jerry’s first temptation toward the role of kept man occurs after
his first meeting with Milo, who offers to have her driver take
Jerry home. Sitting in the backseat of her large car, Jerry is
cheered by the children in his neighbourhood, a scene echoing
the cheers he might have experienced as a soldier liberating Paris
during the war (Fig. 10). Through most of the film, Jerry will
claim that there is no romantic interest between Milo and him,
but the song he sings after returning home in her car suggests

Whether buying him nice clothes, providing a place to live and work, or helping him
connect with other wealthy patrons of the arts, the older woman places the artist
in the position of a “kept man”—a position he reluctantly accepts in trade for the
success and stability that his art alone does not provide.
AN AMERICAN IN PARIS (1951)
Unlike the other two films I discuss, which are set in the USA,
An America in Paris is set in a society that more willingly accepts
the male artist and places less focus on material success as a
measure of happiness. James Baldwin, an African America writer
who lived most of his life in Europe, describes this different
attitude in a 1959 essay:
The American writer, in Europe, is released, first of
all, from the necessity of apologizing for himself. It is
not until he is released from flexing his muscles and
proving that he is just a “regular guy” that he realizes
how crippling this habit has been. It is not necessary
for him, there, to pretend to be something he is not,
for the artist does not encounter in Europe the same
suspicion he encounters here. (6)
Through his opening voiceover, Jerry Mulligan (Gene Kelly)
does establish himself as a “regular guy”—a veteran who
decided, after the war, to stay in Paris to paint—but also as
a man who has chosen the freedom to paint over trappings of
material and financial success. Angela Dalle-Vache argues that
“While Jerry Mulligan is a tame, good-hearted all-American
guy, his geographical dislocation and eagerness for psychological fulfillment through artistic creativity suggest that he also
might be out of touch with the conservative America of the
fifties” (72). Jerry contrasts his choice to live and paint in Paris
with those men who have given up on their art and chosen
the comfort of middle-class conformity: “Brother, if you can’t
paint in Paris, you better give up and marry the boss’s daughter” (0:02:21-0:02:25). Here, Jerry introduces another version
of the “kept man”: gaining wealth through marriage. And while
Jerry is poor and lives in a tiny apartment, he does not have Joe
Gillis’ precarious financial and social situation, thanks to the
GI Bill, which pays him a small monthly sum; Jerry also has
“many dear friends in Paris” (0:04:44-0:04:46), giving him a
social network for artistic and financial support.
Like Paul Boray, Jerry has a strong sense of artistic integrity,
and of masculine independence, which is only mildly threatened by Milo (Nina Foch), a rich, American, female patron.

20

Vol.09 No.01 | Spring 2024

something else. The chorus includes these lines—“I got my gal/
Who could ask for anything more?” (0:26:38-0:26:44)—which
may be coincidence, or may suggest that Jerry’s interest in Milo
may not be so innocent. However, to assert his independence,
when Jerry returns to her place that evening for a party, and
discovers it is just her, he protests, but she tells him, “I’m not
trying to rob you of your precious male initiative” (0:32:420:32:46). Like Helen, Milo assures Jerry that she is only interested in him as an artist—a claim quickly contradicted when we
learn that Milo has a pattern of relationships with male artists.
Jerry seems to take Milo at her word because he quickly and
aggressively hits on Lise (Leslie Caron), a young woman sitting
at the next table—even commenting on her attractiveness to
Milo and her friend, Tommy (Hayden Rorke) (Fig. 11). Later,
while driving home with Milo in her car, Jerry gets angry when
Milo claims he treated her badly; the relationship is repaired
only when she apologizes for her outburst. Milo is right when
she tells Tommy that Jerry “is just not … housebroken yet”
(0:36:22-0:36:24), clearly showing her plans to domesticate
Jerry. In his disrespectful treatment of Milo, and his aggressive pursuit of Lise, Jerry epitomizes the same qualities as Paul
Boray: the “narcissism, machismo, and misogyny” described by
Gan as a common defense mechanism used by the struggling,
unappreciated artist.
Lise is initially turned off by Jerry’s aggressiveness, but
eventually relents. On their first date, we quickly discover that
Lise better fits the feminine ideal of the 1950s: unlike Milo,
who is middle-aged, rich, assertive, and at times, demanding,
Lise is nineteen, works in a perfume store, is modest, and tells
Jerry, “I don’t like to talk about myself. I prefer to listen to you”
(0:54:39-0:54:43). While she dates Jerry, and they fall in love,
we learn that Lise is also loyal: she eventually reveals to Jerry
that she is engaged to Henri, a successful middle-aged singer
who cared for Lisa while her parents fought, and died, for the
French Resistance during the war. In reality, Milo is not much
older than Jerry, but compared to Lise’s youth, and given her
pattern of failed relationships, Milo comes across as older. And
as with Helen and Norma, Milo’s money, and Jerry’s poverty,
put them in positions of power that undermine Jerry’s sense

Joakim Nilsson

of masculinity. Without telling him, Milo rents Jerry a studio,
and arranges a show of his work. Initially resistant, Jerry eventually agrees but insists that he will pay her back. When Milo
asks Jerry, “Why do you always make such an issue of money?”
he replies, “Because I ain’t got any. And when you ain’t got any,
it takes on a curious significance” (1:11:17-1:11:25). Angela
Dalle-Vache claims that Jerry’s “heterosexual identity is further
threatened by the traditionally ‘male’ initiative Milo appropriates. … By virtue of his artistic vocation and his dependency on
Milo’s money, Jerry himself risks turning into that ‘extra girl’”
she used to lure him to their meeting date (67).
More than the other two films I discuss, An American in
Paris overtly reinscribes normative gender roles. Though he is
not married, Jerry has a strong sense of heteronormative values:
during their first “date,” Jerry tells Milo, who was married for
two years before her husband left her for another woman, “You
know, you should get married again. You need it.” “Why?”
she replies. “Everybody does. Everybody needs somebody to
account to” (0:33:42-0:33:50). When Jerry does become more
financially dependent on Milo—but remains in denial of her
feelings for him—he has his friend and fellow musician, Adam
(Oscar Levant, who also plays Sid in Humoresque), to remind
him of the risk to his masculinity:

Fig. 10 | Jerry gets a taste of the good life in Milo’s car, 0:24:47. Warner Bros.,
1951.

Adam: “This, eh, sponsor of yours. What does she
want in return? Don’t tell me. I shock easily.”
Jerry: “You’re crazy. She’s not interested in me. She’s
just a good-hearted kid who likes the way I paint.”
Adam: “Huh. That’s real dreamy of her. Tell me, eh,
when you get married, will you keep your maiden
name?” (1:04:25-1:04:44)
Later, Adam tells Jerry, “I told you this sponsoring business was complicated. You see what happens today? Women
act like men and want to be treated like women” (1:16:531:16:59). And even Milo says she desires to fulfill the traditional
female gender role, telling Jerry when he finally acknowledges
her feelings for him and kisses her: “I feel like a woman for
a change.” “You are,” Jerry replies (1:26:08-1:26:11) (Fig.
12). Jerry insists on arranging their plans for the evening,
and she gladly agrees.
Despite her seeming acceptance of her traditional gender
role, as a rich, middle-aged woman, Milo cannot prevail against
social, and genre, conventions: “What is at stake in this love
triangle is whether art should be aligned with the docile femininity of Lisa [sic], with the creative masculinity of Jerry, or
with the entrepreneurial aggressiveness of Milo. These alternatives narrow themselves down to form the happy ending,
which suggests that an American male can be a painter in Paris
as long as he marries a French girl” (Dalle-Vacche 71). While
Humoresque ends melodramatically with Helen’s suicide and
Paul’s self-awareness, and film noir Sunset Boulevard ends with
Joe’s death and Norma’s complete detachment from reality, An
American in Paris is a musical, and thus the audience expects
the reuniting of socially-appropriate lovers. And this is what
they get. Ironically, what briefly pushes Jerry into Milo’s arms

Fig. 11 | Jerry spots the other part of his love triangle—unconcerned about Milo’s
feelings, 0:35:22. Warner Bros., 1951.

Fig. 12 | Jerry takes charge, and Milo “feel[s] like a woman,” 1:25:55. Warner
Bros., 1951.

MISE- EN - SCÈNE

21

Hollywood’s Portraits of the Artist as a Kept Man

The artist represents freedom from
suburbanization and soul-numbing work
and consumerism, but as a “kept man,”
he reflects the fear of poverty and loss of
traditional masculinity through financial
dependence.
is learning that Lise is engaged to a man she admires and feels
indebted to, but does not really love. We know that Henri has
overheard the lovers, but we do not know his reaction to their
revelation. But after Jerry’s lengthy dance number, we find that
Henri has freed Lise from their engagement. Lise returns and
she and Jerry kiss—the happy ending we want, but an ending
with little practical resolution: “the happy ending with the
French girl distracts us from the difficulty of being an American
male and a painter in Paris at the same time. From the plot alone
it is hard to tell whether Jerry will continue to paint after marrying Lisa [sic].” Furthermore, the ending “does not completely
resolve the rivalry between Art and Love, unbound male creativity, and the routine to which marriage leads” (Dalle-Vacche 65).
Will Milo continue to help Jerry? Will Jerry and Lise have children, and how will being a husband and father impact Jerry’s
artistic aspirations? These practicalities remain unaddressed as
the two lovers embrace.
CONCLUSION
Writing about the post-World War Two era, Michael Kimmel
describes how men faced a dilemma regarding their definition
of masculinity: “Men had to achieve identities that weren’t too
conforming to the march of the gray flannel suit lest they lose
their souls; but they couldn’t be too nonconforming lest they
leave family and workplace responsibilities behind in a frantic restless search for some elusive moment of ecstasy” (236).
The three films I have discussed each portray the male artist
as reflecting that dilemma: the artist represents freedom from
suburbanization and soul-numbing work and consumerism,

but as a “kept man,” he reflects the fear of poverty and loss of
traditional masculinity through financial dependence. The films
also use the upper class, middle-aged “patroness” to portray
anxieties about the perceived growth in the social and financial influence of women in this time period. Juxtaposing this
empowered woman with a younger, more traditionally feminine
love interest allows each film to reinscribe traditional gender
roles by showing and telling the dangers of assertive women
and weak men.
But the films differ in degree of dependence each artist
faces, and of sympathy we feel for the “patroness” character.
Humoresque is the most critical of the artist, as Paul Boray best
represents the “heroic artist”: driven to escape his working-class
roots, Paul is “married to his music,” and has the arrogance and
selfishness to succeed. Helen is the most sympathetic “patroness,” and it is only after her suicide that Paul begins to question his singular focus on music and to value the family and
community he has worked so hard to escape. Joe Gillis faces
the greatest financial and social vulnerability of the artists I
discuss, and unlike Paul and Jerry, he lacks both arrogance
and people close to him who can remind him of the dangers
of transgressing against traditional gender roles. Through Joe’s
voiceover, we follow his ambivalence and self-delusion regarding his role as an artist and a “kept man.” Although he dies,
Joe achieves self-awareness and masculine agency: his decision
to leave Norma, and give up his dreams of being a Hollywood
writer, and return to his job in Ohio, show that he no longer
wants to live the sort of illusion that has defined most of
Norma’s adult life. Living on the GI Bill, Jerry Mulligan never
really faces Joe’s financial desperation, and Jerry’s artistic arrogance, combined with constant reminders from Adam about
gender roles, means that Milo never really had a chance to make
Jerry a “kept man.” And while the film gives the audience the
happy (gender role affirming) ending it wants, the film sidesteps any serious questions about how Jerry will balance the
roles of male artist, husband, and father. Thus, while not every
love triangle resolves to a happy Hollywood ending, each film
does show the male artist eventually finding his traditional
masculine identity. 

NOTES
1. While Jackson Pollock maintained the image of working-class,
independent masculinity, in reality, he was the epitome of
the artist as “kept man.” According to the documentary film
Peggy Guggenheim: Art Addict (2015), Guggenheim discovered Pollock and “rescued” him from a job as a carpenter
by giving him a large commission and arranging his first
show. She also gave him a monthly allowance and a loan
to buy a place to work, and continued to give him money
after he married. Guggenheim also claims they had only
one sexual encounter, which she described as “unsuccessful”
(0:53:50-0:58:18).
22

Vol.09 No.01 | Spring 2024

2. See Kimmel, chapter 7, and Cuordileone, chapter 3, for a
discussion of post-World War Two critics blaming women for
male anxiety, as well as juvenile delinquency, homosexuality,
and many other social ills.

Joakim Nilsson

WORKS CITED
“An American in Paris,” directed by Vincent Minelli. 1951. Best
Picture Winners. Turner Classic Movies Greatest Classic
Films Collection. Warner Bros., 2009. DVD.
Baldwin, James. “The Discovery of What It Means to Be an
American.” 1959. Nobody Knows My Name. Vintage, 1993,
pp. 6-12.
Cooke, Grayson. “We Had Faces Then: Sunset Boulevard
and the Sense of the Spectral.” Quarterly Review of
Film and Video, vol. 26, no. 2, 2009, pp. 89-101,
DOI:10.1080/10509200600737762
Cuordileone, K. A. Manhood and American Political Culture in
the Cold War. Routledge, 2005.
Dalle Vache, Angela. “A Painter in Hollywood: Vincente
Minnelli’s An American in Paris.” Cinema Journal, vol.
32, no. 1, 1992, pp. 63-83. JSTOR. https://www-jstor-org.
ezproxy.kpu.ca:2443/stable/1225862
Dean, Joan F. “Sunset Boulevard: Illusion and Dementia.” Revue
française d’ études américaines, no. 19, 1984, pp. 89-98.
JSTOR. https://www-jstor-org.ezproxy.kpu.ca:2443/
stable/20873130
Gan, Wanghui. A Portrait of the Artist as an Angry Young
Man: Masculinities and the Male Artist in TwentiethCentury British Literature. 2020. U of Ottawa.
Master’s Thesis. https://ruor.uottawa.ca/items/
a5534383-b32e-43c6-b0c0-d4fea8d09c85
Guernier, Matt. Shattering Stereotypes through Song & Dance:
How Gene Kelly Democratized Dance and Paved the Way for
the American Male Dancer. n.d. U of Florida. Honors Thesis.
https://original-ufdc.uflib.ufl.edu/AA00085572/00001
Hands, Stuart. John Garfield and the American Jewish Son.
2010. York U. Master’s Thesis. https://central.bac-lac.
gc.ca/.item?id=MR62266&op=pdf&app=Library&oclc_
number=758060895
“Humoresque,” directed by Jean Negulescu. 1946. Joan
Crawford. Turner Classic Movies Greatest Classic Legends
Film Collection. Warner Bros., 2012. DVD.
Jones, Amelia. “’Clothes Make the Man’: The Male Artist as a
Performative Function.” Oxford Art Journal, vol. 18, no. 2,
1995, pp. 18-32. JSTOR. https://www-jstor-org.ezproxy.kpu.
ca:2443/stable/1360550
Kimmel, Michael. Manhood in America. 1st ed. Free Press, 1996.
Kosmala, K atarzyna. “Withering into the Past:
Deconstructing a Myth of the Male Artist.” The
International Journal of New Media, Technology, and the
Arts. vol. 7, no. 4, 2014, pp. 15-24. ProQuest. https://
w w w.proque st.c om /doc v ie w/2712928588?pa re nt S e s s i o n I d = g t I U y 4 njY P n w 8j 0 A4 0 M e QY kHOQwEbumqgaPxC1LUkSE%3D&pq-origsite=summon&accountid=35875&sourcetype=Scholarly%20
Journals
Mazur, Matt. “The Devil is a Woman: Sunset Boulevard, Norma
Desmond, and Actress Noir.” International Cinephile Society.
5 Jan. 2011. https://icsfilm.org/essays/the-devil-is-a-womansunset-boulevard-norma-desmond-and-actress-noir/

Peggy Guggenheim: Art Addict, directed by Lisa Immordino
Vreeland. Submarine Entertainment, 2015. https://www.
knowledge.ca/program/peggy-guggenheim-art-addict
Sunset Boulevard, directed by Billy Wilder. 1950. Paramount,
2005. DVD.
Trowbridge, Katelin. “The War Between Words and Images—
Sunset Boulevard.” Literature/Film Quarterly, vol. 30, no. 4,
2002, pp. 294-303. JSTOR. https://www-jstor-org.ezproxy.
kpu.ca:2443/stable/45116773
Yeates, Amelia. “Introduction” to “Visualizing Identities:
The Male Artist in Nineteenth-Century Britain.” Visual
Culture in Britain, no. 16, vol. 2, 2015, pp.133-136. Taylor &
Francis Online. https://www-tandfonline-com.ezproxy.kpu.
ca:2443/doi/full/10.1080/14714787.2015.1039392
---. “‘A Slave Kept in Leyland’s Back Parlour’: The Male Artist
in the Victorian Marketplace.” Visual Culture in Britain,
no. 16, vol. 2, 2015, pp. 171-185. Taylor & Francis Online.
https://www-tandfonline-com.ezproxy.kpu.ca:2443/doi/
full/10.1080/14714787.2015.1041814

MISE- EN - SCÈNE

23