The Brooklyn dancer who remade herself as Hollywood's Love Goddess — her hair dyed red, her hairline altered, her name changed from Cansino — and who said every man she knew fell in love with Gilda but woke up with her, and who spent her last years with what would eventually be recognised as Alzheimer's disease, the diagnosis not yet available for a disease that had no name in her time.
Portrait · Rita HayworthBorn Margarita Carmen Cansino on October 17, 1918, in Brooklyn, New York — the daughter of Eduardo Cansino, a Spanish dancer, and Volga Hayworth, an American showgirl. She was dancing professionally at twelve, in Mexican nightclubs with her father by fourteen, discovered by a Fox talent scout at sixteen. The studio renamed her Rita Hayworth, dyed her hair red, and subjected her to a painful electrolysis process to raise her hairline — the physical transformation that Hollywood required as the price of admission.
Charles Vidor's Gilda (1946) — Hayworth as Gilda, the wife of a Buenos Aires casino owner who has a complicated history with the casino's new employee (Glenn Ford) — is the performance that made her the decade's most desired woman and that she spent the rest of her life unable to escape. The glove striptease; the hair toss; the specific quality of Gilda's challenge to the men around her — all produced by a woman who had been dancing professionally for thirty years and who understood exactly what she was doing. She said men went to bed with Gilda and woke up disappointed to find her.
Her marriage to Orson Welles (1943–1947) — and her subsequent appearance in Welles's The Lady from Shanghai (1947), in which Welles cut her famous red hair short and dyed it blonde — is the most consequential artistic collaboration of her career. Welles deliberately dismantled the Hayworth image; the studio was horrified; the film is now considered one of the finest noirs in cinema. A subsequent marriage to Prince Aly Khan briefly made her the most-written-about person in the world's press.
Her final years were spent in the care of her daughter Princess Yasmin Aga Khan, who organised advocacy for Alzheimer's research after recognising in her mother the symptoms of what had not yet been widely diagnosed. Hayworth died on May 14, 1987, in New York City. Yasmin's advocacy is credited with significantly advancing Alzheimer's research funding in the United States.
Gilda's quality — the desire and the defiance simultaneously, the woman who is both the film's object and its subject — is played by Hayworth with the professional precision of someone who had been performing since twelve and understood exactly how each movement would read on screen. The glove number is not a striptease in any technical sense; it is a statement, delivered to a room full of men who think they are watching something offered to them and who are in fact watching something performed entirely for itself.
Elsa's quality — the coldness beneath the beauty, the calculation disguised as vulnerability — is played by the blonde Hayworth with the specific freedom of someone who has been released from their own image. The funhouse mirror sequence — the multiple reflections of Elsa's face as the film collapses into its climax — is cinema's most explicit statement about the constructed nature of the female icon: the image shattered, the woman behind it briefly visible, then gone.
The Astaire collaboration demonstrated what was under the Love Goddess image: a professional dancer of thirty years' training, whose precision and adaptability Astaire — who had danced with Rogers and all of Hollywood's finest — recognised immediately as exceptional. Hayworth rehearsed with the same discipline she had brought to the Mexican nightclubs at fourteen; the ease the camera saw was the product of the discipline, not its absence.
Sadie's quality — the woman whose experience has made her pragmatic rather than cynical, whose defence mechanisms are genuine rather than performed — is played by Hayworth with the warmth that the Gilda persona had always been too carefully constructed to fully reveal. The film's argument — about the self-righteousness of the moralist and the specific dignity of the person being judged — runs through Sadie's face with a clarity that requires an actress who can hold both the judgement and the defiance simultaneously.
Every man I've known has fallen in love with Gilda and wakened with me.
Rita Hayworth's legacy is Gilda and what Gilda cost her — the image so complete it consumed the person, the performance so definitive it replaced the actress in the public's understanding, and the specific irony that the most powerful image of wartime desire was made by a woman who insisted she was not the image and who found no one willing to listen. The glove striptease is still reproduced; The Lady from Shanghai is still studied; the dancing remains the evidence that the image was built on something real.
Yasmin Aga Khan's Alzheimer's advocacy is the legacy that has saved the most lives. The disease that took her mother produced the daughter who named it publicly, fought for its research funding, and helped transform it from a stigmatised condition into a recognised medical crisis requiring national attention — the most consequential thing the Hayworth name has done, accomplished in the years after the films were over.