The Tulsa actress born Phylis Isley who became Jennifer Jones at David O. Selznick's direction, won the Oscar for her first major role, and spent a decade as the most intensely managed star in Hollywood — the subject of a producer's obsessive creative love that shaped and constrained and occasionally transcended everything she did on screen.
Portrait · Jennifer Jones
Born Phylis Lee Isley on March 2, 1919, in Tulsa, Oklahoma — the daughter of a theatre and film exhibitor who put her in front of audiences from childhood. She married actor Robert Walker in 1939, arrived in Hollywood with him, and attracted the attention of David O. Selznick — the producer responsible for Gone with the Wind — who signed her, changed her name to Jennifer Jones, divorced his wife, and proceeded to manage every aspect of her career with an obsessiveness that was simultaneously the source of her greatest opportunities and the constraint that occasionally prevented her from fully inhabiting them.
Henry King's The Song of Bernadette (1943) — the story of Bernadette Soubirous, the Lourdes visionary who reported seeing the Virgin Mary — gave her a role for which the combination of spiritual intensity and physical delicacy she was capable of was perfectly suited. She was twenty-four, had no major screen credits, and won the Academy Award for Best Actress over Ingrid Bergman, Joan Fontaine, Greer Garson, and Lana Turner. The win announced a major talent; Selznick immediately set about controlling its development with the complete attention of a man who believed he knew better than the actress what she should be doing.
King Vidor's Duel in the Sun (1946) — Selznick's deliberately provocative attempt to make a Western as operatic as Gone with the Wind — cast her as Pearl Chavez, the mixed-race half-breed who is the object of two brothers' desire and who ends the film crawling through the desert toward the man who has shot her to shoot him in return. The performance is the most extravagant thing she ever did; the role required exactly the intensity that Selznick had found in her and had been both promoting and mismanaging.
William Dieterle's Love Letters (1945), Vincente Minnelli's Madame Bovary (1949), and Henry King's Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing (1955) demonstrated the range that Selznick's management had both revealed and constrained. She married Selznick in 1949 after her divorce from Robert Walker; he died in 1965; she survived him by forty-four years, eventually living quietly in Malibu and declining all interviews. She died on December 17, 2009, in Malibu, aged ninety.
Bernadette's specific quality — the directness of a person who has seen something and knows what she saw, the inability to deny it no matter who interrogates her — required an actress capable of playing spiritual conviction without irony, which is among the most technically difficult things cinema asks of a performer. Jones plays it as simple fact: Bernadette doesn't argue for what she saw; she simply insists on it, calmly and completely. The performance established the quality that Selznick recognised — the intensity that could read as either vision or pathology depending on the context — and that he would spend the rest of her career trying to find roles for.
Pearl Chavez's final crawl — shot through the desert toward the man who has shot her, dragging herself across the scrub to reach him and shoot him in return — is the operatic extreme of what Jones was capable of: a passion play staged as a Western, the intensity pushed past the point where ordinary naturalism could contain it. The film was critically derided and commercially enormous; "Lust in the Dust" was the contemporary title; Selznick considered it one of his finest productions. All three responses are defensible.
Emma Bovary is one of literature's most demanding roles — a woman whose psychology is self-deceiving in ways she can never recognise, whose romanticism is both the film's subject and the trap that destroys her — and Jones plays the self-deception without the protective irony that would make the character safer to watch. Minnelli's direction and Jones' performance together produce the American cinema's most psychologically honest portrait of female romanticism as a form of self-destruction.
Han Suyin's position — the woman between worlds, belonging completely to neither the Chinese nor the Western culture she navigates — is the film's central dramatic fact, and Jones plays the in-between quality with a specificity that prevents the role from collapsing into romance-novel generality. The title song became one of the era's most successful, which somewhat overshadowed the performance; the performance is more interesting than the song suggests.
I did not see a beautiful lady. I saw something bright, and I did not know what it was.
Jennifer Jones' legacy is the tension between what she was and what she was managed into being — the five nominations and one Oscar that represent genuine achievement, and the question of what a career unconstrained by Selznick's obsessive vision might have looked like. Bernadette and Emma Bovary are performances of rare quality; Duel in the Sun is a performance pushed to its operatic extreme; Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing demonstrated warmth the more demanding films had occasionally suppressed.
She survived Selznick by forty-four years and spent them in a privacy that was clearly chosen and clearly sufficient. The career was simultaneously too managed and genuinely distinguished; the woman who won the Oscar for her first major role and received four more nominations across twelve years deserves recognition on her own terms, which Selznick's shadow occasionally prevented and which time has begun to restore.