Davy Arturo

Burton Stephen Lancaster grew up in a tough East Harlem neighborhood during the Roaring Twenties, the son of a postal worker and a mother who was a strong disciplinarian and a woman of immense principle. During the decade of the Great Depression, the young man toured across America as a circus and vaudeville acrobat, performing with his childhood buddy, Nick Cravat. And during World War II, Lancaster served as an enlisted man in North Africa and Italy, entertaining troops with comedy sketches and no doubt, a few acrobatics thrown into the mix. Upon that big silver screen, well, Burt Lancaster was really something. Sometimes, it was his humanity and fallibility that we, as the audience, identified with in our own lives. Other times it was his marvelous athleticism and willingness to risk his own valuable neck, as he ran, jumped, leaped, fought with swords, guns, fists, anything and everything that he could throw at a screen adversary in performing stunts that we could only marvel at and call simply amazing. And often it was just that big, beautiful Lancaster smile that he broke out in many of his hero, villain, and even anti-hero roles. The actor’s screen persona was invariably charming and sometimes menacing, but it was always a force; your ears absorbing the voice, alternating velvet and gravelly texture, while your eyes tracked his movements to discover what surprising things were in the Lancaster bag of tricks. And through it all, he maintained a sense of humor and never took himself too seriously — he never played the movie star “game.” This is Burt Lancaster’s true story, with his triumphs and failures, his flaws and his faults, his analytical thinking, his bravado on screen, and his warmth and sincere caring for his fellow man.