PBS produced a new documentary on my favorite movie wordsmith and feminist rebel, Mae West. Dirty Blonde is coming. Check out the preview to see the subjects talking about her (some welcome surprises), and to hear some of your favorite Mae West quips.
I can’t wait! Check it out on June 16 at 8/7c on PBS and on their site.
Its not surprising that the actress who made her mark as a partially nude Ziegfeld Follies girl would star in one of the most seductive films of the 20s.
That the great German director G. W. Pabst would find it worthwhile to draw this star from American isn’t surprising either. The heroine of his 1929 Pandora’s Box had to be sexy enough to lure everyone around her, and heedless enough to rebel against the powerful without considering consequences….and that was kind of Louise Brooks’s forte.
The Kansas-born actress would make a point of ticking people off, refusing to conform to Hollywood expectations of her—or follow the directions of her bosses. In terms of roles, she didn’t really make a big splash, with few starring roles and many bit ones. But that didn’t stop her from demanding her rights. She expected more of her parts. She asked for promotions. She wasn’t much for punctuality. Most damagingly, she refused to do retakes of The Canary Murder Case (1929) to convert it from a silent to a talkie. She DID enjoy Hollywood social life–she was a regular at William Randolph Hearst’s and Marion Davies’s San Simeon, even romancing the latter’s niece, Pepi Lederer.
Her independent spirit ensured Louise Brooks didn’t make it far in Hollywood, but it’s also why we know her name still today. We like that she was who she was, and she didn’t apologize. Louise Brooks’s authenticity comes through in everything she did, especially in her acting. Her naturalistic performances might not have impressed all viewers back in 1929, but today they make her acting accessible to modern viewers–much more so than her contemporaries who followed the day’s more stylized acting trend.
And don’t we all love her rebellious soul? That flapper haircut, the partying all night after days on the set, the love affairs with men and some women that cut short her success. (Who turns down The Public Enemy to be with a guy?) And without that rebellion, we wouldn’t have her tripping off to Germany to make Pandora’s Box or Diary of a Lost Girl with a man who turned out to be one of the most impressive German directors of his time, whose films are still powerful enough to survive on best-of lists while those silents that had far higher box office draw are forgotten.
Of course, her legacy might still have disappeared, but Louise Brooks, as it happened, wasn’t just a good actress; she was talented at telling her own stories as well. The witty book of her movie reviews/Hollywood history in later life, Lulu in Hollywood, gave her a second burst of fame–and ensured that fame would endure. For many of us, she and Clara Bow are the face of the flapper.
I found myself instantly mesmerized by her in Pandora’s Box. Not since Angelina Jolie in Mr. and Mrs. Smith and Marilyn Monroe in Niagara have I seen an actress in such full command of her sexuality.
The way Brooks moves from archness to innocence, from manipulation to fun as the character Lulu is a thrill to view. She seduces EVERYONE in Pandora’s Box. I mean, is this how you act with your lover’s son?
But the son, Alwa (Franz Lederer), is not alone. Every delivery person, businessman, and lawyer gets Lulu’s seductive treatment—most thrillingly, given the time period, Countess Anna Geschwitz (Alice Roberts), a rich lesbian friend, gets Lulu’s full-press sexy attack. Watch as Anna stares at Lulu with stark hunger….
….and dances with her in a sensual sequence….
and expresses her longing to do more at Lulu’s bedroom door….
Wow! I kept checking the date. Was this film really made in 1929? (Of course, the censors butchered it after its initial release, erasing this maybe-maybe-not consummated love affair entirely.)
I’m avoiding all but minor & very vague spoilers, so the plot summary that follows will not be precise, especially after the first acts.
The untampered-with version of the film begins with Lulu hanging out at the apartment where her lover, Dr. Ludwig Schön (Fritz Kortner), is putting her up. She’s flirting and drinking with a deliveryman/mailman when a friend arrives. Lulu calls the new arrival, Schigolch (Carl Goetz), her “patron,” but it will be unclear from later events whether he is her first john, pimp, or father. Whatever he is to her, Schigolch is clearly an unsavory type, so Lulu hides him on her balcony when Ludgwig comes home unexpectedly. Ludwig has bad news for Lulu: he has to marry a respectable girl, not her. Lulu comforts her despondent lover on her bed.
Of course, Ludwig discovers Schön on the balcony and takes off, but Lulu doesn’t seem concerned for long. Nevermind that her lover/income source has now disappeared. Schigolch has another offer for her, a chance to return to the stage. And after all, this woman will have NO issues getting a new lover. Just look at these typical reactions to a Lulu encounter:
Whether Lulu’s flirty nature is mainly a result of calculation, high spirits, or just innocent fun is always unclear. What IS clear is that she always must have everyone in her thrall. Her supposed nonchalance at Ludwig’s loss doesn’t keep her from getting him back when she gets the chance (and what a great scene it is when she does).
After she reunites with her lover, things will go horribly wrong for everyone in the story, justifying one prognosticator’s claim that Lulu is Pandora, the mythical character who unleashed society’s ills into the world. Of course, this pronouncement about her Pandora nature annoys a modern woman to no end, as it’s clear that the man who says so assumes the jealousy Lulu inspires and whatever results from it are all her fault. Forget that the men who surround her are (a) weak, (b) dark/controlling/abusive, (c) silly alcoholics, and/or (d) con men. Forget too that any man who spends five minutes with her knows that fidelity probably isn’t Lulu’s strong suit.
Of course, Lulu isn’t exactly an innocent. The way she repeatedly uses and betrays her lesbian friend is disturbing, and it doesn’t seem the result of any bigotry–just desperation and selfishness. Lulu’s lack of compassion about others’ suffering as she casually checks out magazine fashions is chilling. I like that we’re not merely asked to condemn her actions, but what we ARE to make of her isn’t entirely clear.
The production itself is sophisticated and effective, way ahead of its time. Her clothes are a joy to view. But the script is…odd. The first five acts are memorable, well-written, funny, and exciting, with clear plot development. But after the first five acts, I thought, “this is probably where the film ends.” And then another act would follow and I’d assume it was ending again, and another, and another. The story soon feels like a series of set pieces/vignettes pulled together rather than a coherent story, which is particularly evident in the last act. I guess I would have been OK with this if the story had been framed as a series of Lulu adventures, but there’s a morality play bent to it that just doesn’t work—because you can’t help but enjoy rather than judge Lulu thanks to her considerable charisma, and because you can’t really find a morality play effective without a clearer narrative arc/characterization.
For example, I think we’re meant to pity Ludgwig’s man-boy son, Alwa, for his hopeless passion for Lulu, but his actions throughout the narrative are weak, disloyal, and despicable, so I’m not sure why I’m meant to root for him. I mean, sure, he’s obsessed with Lulu, and Lulu, though she calls him her best friend, isn’t exactly empathetic toward him. But then again, she cheerfully puts up with his dour, leech-like company, and clearly could find a more congenial and ambitious companion. There has to be some strain of kindness and loyalty in Lulu to make her tolerance for him possible. (Think about the suitor she chooses over him/to help him late in the film, and you will see just how bad of company she considers Alwa.)
I also find it hard to understand why this woman, with such a magnetic personality and such great beauty, couldn’t find another well-heeled protector who would conceal her shady past AND help her support her two hangers-on. Her poverty late in the film–given her earlier adeptness with reinvention—isn’t well explained.
This film is often called a masterpiece, and in its first few acts, I think it is. After that, I’d argue that the film falls apart, though I know MANY would disagree with me.
But here’s the thing: It doesn’t matter. The first few acts have already seared into your memory. Your impression of Louise Brooks is already powerful given her electric performance and unforgettable beauty. And your admiration for Pabst’s technical proficiency and daring have already been won. What does it matter if the logic and narrative thread and even Lulu’s character are all a bit of a mystery to you in the end?
This film can be hard to track down at times, but luckily, it’s streaming on Kanopy, which is available for free to most library patrons. (Even if you don’t have a card, some temporary ones are being given during this pandemic.) You may not end up watching the whole thing, but don’t miss Acts 1-5! The court scene alone is worth the viewing.
Bombshell: The Hedy Lamarr Story (2017) is that rare documentary that is somehow uplifting–even when its tale is not. The fact that Bombshell is a story of triumph amidst adversity makes it a perfect film for our time.
I knew the bare outlines of Lamarr’s story: the scandalous film that began her rise to fame, her fraught history with her husband and his Nazi buddies in Austria, her tenure as a beauty in Hollywood, and her frequency hopping invention that eventually led to my sharing this post with you right now, on WiFi. Those details would be enough to make a decent film, I figured, even if it turned out to be–as many actress documentaries are–cookie cutter in style.
But the documentary is so much better than I thought it would be. It seeks to make sense of the elusive personality behind the thousands of lives the actress/inventor lived. The story is greatly enriched by interview tapes of Lamarr, letting viewers hear her story as she wanted to tell it.
It’s hard to picture Lamarr’s life, that brilliant woman who co-created an invention to save soldiers’ lives after long days on the set of (mostly) inane films…and then was patted on the back for her little invention by the military and sent off to sell war bonds with that pretty face instead….which she did.
Crazy as the outlines of the life I knew were, there was so much more, as this inventor was equally bold in other roles she took on–in movie production, in entrepreneurship, in everything really. In the film, she says she helped boyfriend Howard Hughes with airplane design; she even managed to squeeze a big initial salary out of Louis B. Mayer with no English. What an amazing feminist she was, not letting societal conventions for women dictate her moves, but plowing ahead, doing whatever she believed she could do.
Director/writer Alexandra Dean has chosen her sources well, particularly the young animator wowed by Lamarr’s accomplishments. A Mel Brooks cameo, with reference to his Blazing Saddles tribute to the actress through the character Hedley Lamarr, is an unexpected treat.
Lamarr’s personal life was largely tragic: bad marriages, the public’s focus on her looks instead of her mind, the cruelty as those looks faded, financial woes, and the failure of others to value or credit her patriotism since she was an immigrant. The film gives Lamar her proper place in history, but it’s clear to all the subjects in the documentary that they’re trying to reclaim for Lamarr a tribute (besides some very late awards) she never received herself.
But what’s more tragic than her treatment is that had Lamarr been taken seriously earlier, her invention might have saved American lives in WW II, which was her goal all along. The bigotry, greed, bureaucracy, and sexism that made her life so challenging and her invention so tardily applied aren’t exactly difficult to trace in our society or government today. That such obstacles can actually PREVENT heroism like hers is a sobering thought, and a dismayingly timely one.
But the film remains inspiring because we witness Lamar’s refusal to let poor treatment override her determination to act with courage and integrity. What you mainly feel in watching are awe and a profound wish to cheer, Rocky style. Lamarr was a complicated person, and not without flaws, but she was an AMAZING person, and your time with her is truly something to savor.
You can find the film on Netflix (while it’s still there!) or rent it on Amazon. Why are you waiting?
The Guardian‘s statistic about the lack of awards for female cinematographers was particularly illuminating.
In addition to showing what female-driven films could have been honored but weren’t over the years, Relatively Entertaining covers the diversity of voices in film, how we’ve regressed since a high point in the 40s in honoring women’s stories–even if told by men. The post also highlights how seldom black actresses are repeatedly honored for their work: “For that matter, it’s a strange quirk of Oscar that of the 35 times a black woman has received acting Oscar nomination, only three (Whoopi Goldberg, Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer) have been nominated more than once, and only Spencer has been nominated after winning her award.”
I wonder how long Academy voters could sustain the fiction that women’s films just haven’t been good enough yet to get awards after viewing the articles’ startling graphics. I wonder if the lack of repeat nominations for women (and women of color in particular) will finally bring home just how much has to change.
Of all the femme fatales on film and in print, Rebecca may top them all. The woman isn’t even alive at the start of the book or the Hitchcock film that resulted from it, yet the narrator of the story is so haunted by her husband’s previous wife (and Du Maurier is so skilled at freaking readers out) that Rebecca’s reputation as the evil femme fatale endures.
But when we look at Rebecca’s life a little closer, it’s hard to ignore just how much of our impressions of this woman are based on her former husband’s hatred and his second wife’s jealousy. Although I was totally with the narrator in fearing and loathing Rebecca on my first reading of Daphne Du Maurier’s classic gothic novel/thriller/mystery, my opinion of Rebecca has radically shifted in time, and the blame moved from her to the much more questionable Max de Winter.
Since the film sanitizes the hero due to the Production Code, I’m sticking with the book as I ask all of you Du Maurier lovers this question: Who is worse, Rebecca or her husband Max?
Let’s count it down trait by trait, shall we?
Behavior toward Friends & Acquaintances. Rebecca. Tries to suit others’ moods and appeal to their interests—this according to her detractor, Max. Everyone loves her, Maxim admits, including all of her employees. He claims she is fake, a backstabber. It’s easy to discount the tales of her insincerity altogether, given those blunt admissions to Max at the start of their marriage and his own dubious motives in smearing her. But we do hear Ben describing her cruelty toward him, a serious count against her.
Max: Rude to and arrogant toward: his sister, his brother-in-law, attorneys, party guests, servants, Mrs. Van Hopper, his second wife. He does seem to usually treat Frank well, and perhaps the dog. He expects to be thought above the law despite his suspicious actions and has no compunction about the boat maker’s profit losses thanks to his lies. Why? Presumably his class and status.
Personality Points: Rebecca 1; Max 0 Villain Points: Max 1; Rebecca 1
Social Skills. Max is the very definition of prim, spending his days abstaining from most people and food (while strangely expecting an untouched feast on a daily basis). And, there’s that slight issue with his temper and moods. Good company? I think not.
Rebecca’s style intimidates the narrator; she has garnered Manderley fame with her exquisite taste and the elegance, creativity, and humor she exhibits as a hostess. Even the “R” of her name is written with panache.
Personality Points: Rebecca: 1; Max: 0
Treatment of Spouse. Let’s admit from the start that these two are hardly an altruistic pair. A tight race! Max:Wife 1. Marries Rebecca without loving her but planning to be faithful. Keeps the secret of her affairs, but for his own pride. Does tolerate her behavior within limits. (It was a different age.) Seemingly polite to her in public but based on his general actions (see above), I’m guessing she needed to find affection elsewhere. Wife 2. Marries the narrator because she’s chaste and has no relatives (Mrs. Van Hopper isn’t far wrong there). Shows little passion for her, most of that passion being extended to his house. Treats her like a daughter/servant/enemy, depending on the day. Marries her knowing that his limelight-averse spouse will be destroyed if his crime is revealed and the scandal rags come a-knocking while her protector is in jail. Exposes her to Mrs. Danvers, the suicide pusher.
Rebecca: Marries Max for his money and status, planning to cheat on him from the start and admitting as much. Seemingly has multiple affairs. Apparently enjoys some “unspeakable” behavior (though given prim Max’s ways, I’m guessing we’re not talking Roman orgies). May, if the love of Mrs. Danvers is any indication, indulge in affairs with women as well as men, which in this time period would have harmed her husband’s reputation. Shaming her husband with alcohol and drug consumption? Perhaps in private. Meanwhile, spends her days being delightful to all and making his treasured house the talk of the country.
I’m going to leave out Max’s crime for this one, as it deserves its own category. But in terms of behavior up to their final night together, Rebecca’s is worse since Max’s biggest fear is public shame, and she doesn’t seem to care much that he’s a bore and has no fidelity impulses/regard for his pride whatsoever. However, his behavior to his second wife is appalling.
Villain Points: Rebecca 1; Max 1
The Murder. Max shot his wife because she suggested she might be pregnant with another man’s baby. Max demonizes her, calling her not even “human,” to (a) justify his action, (b) keep his wife’s love, and (c) be considered a civilized member of society. The narrator, so pleased he didn’t ever love Rebecca, actually goes along with his version of events, even though he’s not exactly trustworthy because he’s a killer who murdered his last wife, idiot. RUN!!!!
Rebecca. Enjoys her husband’s distress at her infidelity and taunts him. He now says she wanted him to kill her (given her health). Kinda convenient, right?
Personality Points: Rebecca, 1—some considerable moxie revealed in this last fight; Max, 0. Villain Points: Max, a gazillion; Rebecca, 0.
And the Verdict Is…. Personality Points: Rebecca 3; Max 0 Villain Points: Max, a gazillion and 2; Rebecca, 1.
Like I said, Rebecca might not be an angel,
but a femme fatale? Not so much. And is Max, the cold-blooded murderer and
awful husband a homme fatale? You better believe it.
This post is part of the Calls of Cornwall blogathon by Pale Writer on Du Maurier’s work. Check out the other entries!
Today a man I know well surprised me, and I could tell I had one of those hilariously odd expressions on my face in response. When I heard a couple hours later that Doris Day had died, it seemed to me that I’d inadvertently paid tribute to that marvelous, strong, very funny woman. There will never be anyone who has a more entertaining or endearing response to male oddities than Doris Day. So today I want to say how lucky we are–among many, many gifts she gave us–for the hilarious reaction shots only she could deliver. Whether disdainful, amused, outraged–or best of all, all three–Day’s expression just nailed a sentiment….And so today, Doris, this feminist sends her heartfelt thank you. I couldn’t have said it better.
I was wowed by Nicholas Ray’s In a Lonely Place. The film, it seemed to me, was ahead of its time in its powerful portrayal of domestic abuse. On the surface, the film explores whether the hero, Dix (Humphrey Bogart), murdered an innocent woman. His girlfriend, Laurel (Gloria Grahame), begins their relationship in romantic euphoria.
But, as in Suspicion, Laurel begins to suspect he might have done it.
The did-he, didn’t-he soon becomes a “Don’t worry which, Lady. Run.” After all, Dix likes to act out murder scenarios and then mimics the same movements when smoking with Laurel. He won’t allow her to receive a phone call or prescription he doesn’t monitor. He keeps her economically dependent on him. He justifies beating people up and actually considers bashing heads in with rocks.
And just in case she has any doubts about how this is all going to end for her, his former girlfriend reported Dix for breaking her bones.
The story is cast from Laurel’s (Gloria Grahame’s) point of view, and haunts the viewer because Dix can be charming, can be loving, can be apologetic. He does come back with “armloads of gifts” after his scary behavior, not just for her, but for victims of his violence. He is sweet to an alcoholic ex-actor, shows more compassion for him than anyone else. The film sympathizes rather than judges Laurel for staying, reminding audiences that an abuser can be contrite and thus leave the woman who loves him off-balance, uncertain whether to trust he’s changed. And though Laurel’s friend cautions her against him, his friends urge her to stay, to understand, to give him a chance. Meanwhile, we get glimpses of his mind: he can only see unquestioning faith in him–which would be difficult, given his actions–as acceptable. After a near-homicide, he coins a line for a screenplay describing his love for Laurel: “I was born when she kissed me, I died when she left me, I lived a few weeks while she loved me.”
Personally, I found this line chilling. Yet the director, Nicholas Ray–who was experiencing stresses in his marriage to Grahame at the time–gives a romantic packaging to not just that line, but to the final scenes of the film. He seems to imply–even after Dix strangles Laurel and nearly kills her–that this all would have turned out well had there not been that whole did-he-murder-the-woman doubts. And more disturbing yet, both current and contemporary reviewers frequently characterize this toxic relationship movie as a “tragic love story,” and certainly many scenes in the movie would seem to back up that assumption.
I turned to the source material to understand the confusion in tone, and was in for a shocker. Dorothy Hughes wrote In a Lonely Place as a kind of The Killer Inside Me of its time; we know from day 1 that Dix hates women, that he kills them regularly, that he thinks he’s justified because after he came back from the war, women saw through his hustling ways; they didn’t fall all over him, as they had when he was in uniform. His former Air Force friend is now a cop and has married a woman, Sylvia (Jeff Donnell), whom Dix distrusts and (we soon learn) underestimates.
She quickly sees through Dix’s veneer of humanity.
Dix hates her for it in the novel, and plots her death. Think of Dana Andrews in The Best Years of Our Lives, if on encountering his wife’s disappointment in him, he decided to go on a murderous vendetta against anyone who shared her gender.
The best scenes in Ray’s film are moments that capture the stark feminism in the book, in which only the women see Dix for who he is, and only they can succeed in stopping him. In a sharply rendered scene in the film, Laurel and Sylvia are honest with one another: Laurel in her doubts about Dix’s character, Sylvia, in confirming (reluctantly) that Laurel should have them.
In the book, Dix’s demeaning treatment of women–especially Laurel–is accompanied by a conviction that Laurel is taunting him, trying to make him jealous, when she’s simply putting the brakes on a relationship that he’s taken too seriously, too quickly. As writer Megan Abbott so brilliantly put it: “After reading In a Lonely Place, you find yourself looking, with a newly gimlet eye, at every purported femme fatale, every claim of female malignancy and the burning need of noir heroes to snuff that malignancy out.”
In Dix’s eyes in the book and film, Laurel is a femme fatale. She gave her love, then she took it away–all because she didn’t trust him enough. But in our eyes, she’s just fallen for the wrong guy; calling a man you love a “madman” doesn’t usually suggest a relationship is headed for sunshine and rainbows. Whether Dix killed a woman or not, Laurel isn’t wrong to ask, “There is something strange about Dix, isn’t there?” after he bloodies a fellow driver to a pulp or “What can I say to him–I love you but I’m afraid of you?” when he looks at her in the scary fashion Bogart had mastered since The Petrified Forest.
At some point you gotta ask, Is any guy you’re relieved and surprised didn’t kill someone worth sticking around for?
I admire both the book and film because they make me look back at so many of the noir novels and movies I’ve admired, and ask that question Abbott challenges me to consider: Was this woman a femme fatale? Or was she just an independent woman who didn’t say yes?
This is part of the Classic Movie Blog Association’s Femme/Homme Fatales of Film Noir blogathon. Check out so many great entries here.
When asked what outlaw I wanted to feature for the Classic Movie Blog Association’s Outlaws blogathon, I immediately thought of Mae West’s character in My LIttle Chickadee. I know Mae West’s siren ways and bumpy pairing with W.C. Fields are more frequently associated with the film, but it’s hard to miss how West’s Flower Bell Lee flouts the law–not to mention convention–in this 1940s flick. And of course, being co-written by West, the film includes plenty of hilarious one liners and shimmying.
The story begins with Flower Bell (West) traveling by stagecoach to visit (and presumably settle with) her aunt and uncle in a Western town. She’s buffing her nails as the male passengers gawk and an accompanying woman, Mrs. Gideon (played by Margaret Hamilton, of witchy Wizard of Oz Fame), looks on disapprovingly.
Suddenly, a masked robber stops the coach to rob it of its gold. The rest of the passengers race out of the coach with their arms up. Flower Bell just sits there, sure it has nothing to do with her, and more interested in her nails.
The “Masked Bandit” (as he’ll later be called) threatens to kill the others if she doesn’t budge, so she reluctantly does. She doesn’t mind being “held up” she informs the masked bandit, but doesn’t like to be inconvenienced. And thus the delightful double entendres begin.
Of course the bandit notices Flower Bell’s beauty and abducts her. He returns her to her new town outskirts soon after, but clearly, she enjoyed her time away. He comes to visit her in her room at night, Romeo style, and kisses her while still hiding his identity. Unfortunately, her former stagecoach companion, Mrs. Gideon, spies the two in Flower Bell’s bedroom, and informs the town. Flower Bell is forced to defend her actions in court and identify the marauder. She refuses to tell anyone a thing, and gets kicked out of her new town, told she has to stay away till she’s married and respectable. The inflamed Mrs. Gideon also spreads the word to the ladies of the nearby town where Flower Bell is going, Greasewood City, saying Flower Bell won’t even be allowed to get off the train. But Flower Bell doesn’t care, as she makes clear with her parting words to the judge, when he asks if she’s trying to show contempt for his court: “I was doin’ my best to hide it.”
Since this is West, we audience members know she will not only get off the train, but have all of the townsmen in her thrall as well. And that happens. But first she has to fight off Indians attacking the train. Again, she’s buffing her nails, and when arrows almost hit her, she slowly pulls them out of the side of the rail car, rolling her eyes as she does so. Why must these pesky outlaws get in the way of her manicure?
But when a fellow passenger dies, she takes up his two guns, shoots a bunch of Indians with obvious relish, saying she’s dispensed them in a “shower of feathers.” She’s angry because they’ve dared to “intimidate” her (sounds like a typical outlaw response, huh?) Flower Bell’s nonchalance and bravery are hilarious to witness in this strange scene. Even as we viewers flinch at the Indian stereotyping, we know that Flower Bell doesn’t care about race (more on that later). She just doesn’t like any bother, and agrees to be a hero–but only if she must.
Meanwhile, a flirtatious passenger, Twillie (W.C. Fields), has been cozying up to her, and since she sees he has a bag of money, she doesn’t mind, and flirts right back.
He too plays his part in fending off the Indians, but mainly that part is yelling at them for assaulting a private car and bumbling in Fields’s typical physical-comedy way. Twillie has no problem with Indians; his best friend/servant/gambling partner is one (their strange interaction, and the film’s odd combination of racist terms and stereotypes and yet ahead-of-its-time treatment deserves a post of its own).
But even though Twillie doesn’t mind Indians attacking OTHER trains, he does object to being annoyed, much like Flower Bell, though he’s far less accomplished than she in fighting back. Once the danger has passed, the two get closer, as his marriage proposal gives Flower Bell a way to exit the train in peace. She soon ropes another gambling friend on the train into acting as minister. That friend uneasily performs the marital vows. Flower Bell has no intention of sleeping with Twillie, only using him to get a free room and the blameless rep she needs to keep seeing her outlaw and whomever else she pleases. Even Mrs. Gideon, again a fellow passenger, smiles her approval.
Once in Greasewood’s best shady saloon/hotel, a number of antics ensue as Flower Bell keeps Twillie out of her room while helping him with his gambling and lies. When he brags that he saved the train, she lets him take the credit. The town makes him the sheriff, but as the last few have died within months, this honor has more to do with Badger (Joe Calleia), the unscrupulous bar/hotel owner, wanting Flower Bell widowed than any conviction that Twillie has guts. Flower Bell then proceeds to flirt with the muckraking local reporter, even acting as a teacher to help him out in a classic West scene.
Flower Bell enjoys the reporter’s idealism and Badger’s dangerousness, and it’s very unclear which man (if either) will get her in the end. Meanwhile, the Masked Bandit continues his courting, and Twillie, finding out his “wife” likes a man in costume, pretends he’s the bandit himself. Naturally, she discovers the fraud, but can’t save him from the town posse, who is now convinced he’s the villain. Well, she can’t save him at first. Just as she defended him when he lied and cheated gambling, Flower Bell comes to his aid again. She claims he’s no bandit, and after getting put in jail for defending him and her own shady associations, she busts out and saves the day, without giving away her lover.
Of course, we find out who the bandit is, and there are no surprises there. The fact that the bandit’s accent makes it clear he’s Latino (even if the actor isn’t) doesn’t bother West’s Flower Bell. She may be portraying a woman from the last century, but West doesn’t even bother to defend interracial romance in the film, which clearly condones it. The fact that Flower Bell repeatedly breaks the law—in harboring the bandit, in escaping from jail, etc.–never gives the heroine (or her creator) a moment’s worry. In fact, Flower Bell takes the bandit’s gold with pleasure as a reward for her kisses, and encourages the town (when he leaves a bundle of goodies for them) to do the same.
But the transgressive nature of this film goes so much further. The female lead is the hero, the brave town leader and both defender against and abettor of outlaws. W.C. Fields at points seems to be in his own movie (and from what we know of how little the two got along, and how much they wrote their own parts, he basically was). But in all of their interactions, she bests him with no more effort than pushing back a cuticle. Her character’s name highlights her extreme femininity, which clearly doesn’t stop her from having mad skills with guns or enough bravery to face TWO towns full of people eager to attack her. Flower Bell does everything without a trace of fear; in fact, she performs dangerous acts with BOREDOM, proving, lest any males doubt it, that Mae West will always be the biggest, baddest outlaw of them all.
Check out all the fun outlaw entries at the Classic Movie Blog Association’s site.
It’s hard to watch Girl 27 (2007). I first heard Patricia Douglas’s story on You Must Remember This podcast, then read the famous Vanity Fairarticle about it. That a movie extra was raped by an MGM salesperson, that the studio besmirched her reputation and hushed up the story–none of that is hard to believe happened in 1937. What’s shocking is that at twenty, the victim fought back in court. When the DA dismissed the case, she took it to federal court, calling it an issue of civil rights, and holding both the alleged rapist and studio at fault. Girl 27 documents a writer’s efforts to discover what happened at MGM and in the court cases, and what became of Douglas.
The incredible courage it took for such a young woman to stand up against a studio as all-powerful as MGM was in the 1930s is difficult to fathom today; the director compares it to going against the mob. Of course, the cases ended unsuccessfully, thanks to a handsomely paid-off witness (whose daughters admit it now), a DA funded by the studio, a doctor who destroyed any possible evidence after her rape, and shadiness between the girl’s own lawyer and mother, who seem to have colluded to end the second case. The newspaper’s publication of even her address demonstrate just how thoroughly she was shamed, while the man and studio she accused remained protected.
As a film, Girl 27 assumes too much knowledge from its audience. Had I not already known the details, I would have been very confused on the court cases and the timeline, and baffled that the full story of the rape* doesn’t even come up until very late in the film. But it’s true that hearing the story for the first time from the victim was powerful: How she was lured to entertain salesmen at a stag party (clothed as a convention), when she and her peers thought they were auditioning for a film. That the women were basically presented as gifts by Louis B. Mayer for a job well done to his sales force: “These lovely girls—and you have the finest of them—greet you…” How those drunken salesmen forcibly plied Douglas with alcohol until she vomited. How one salesman then attacked and raped her in a car, and those few brave enough to verify her story took it all back.*
Writer/director David Stenn may go overboard with film clips illustrating 1930s attitude toward rape, and may include too much of himself in the film. But it’s hard to fault him too much when his story obviously brought this forgotten hero back into the limelight (he wrote the article as well), this time to appreciation and outrage at her treatment instead of public shaming. Shortly before her death, the film and Vanity Fair story seem to have given her and her estranged daughter some closure. And perhaps more importantly, the director helped ensure that her story continues. Watching Douglas report her experience shows how visceral the attack still is for her, and how thoroughly it destroyed her life.
She admits that it chilled her ability to trust or love anyone, turning her into a fearful recluse. Somehow, the saddest moments are when she talks about her skill as a dancer (her role at MGM), one more thing she left behind after that awful night. Douglas’s silence on the experience was unbroken until Stenn slowly gained her trust, 65 years after the event.
Recently, the Weinstein scandal and the #MeToo movement have given new attention to Girl 27 (which is the number on the casting list for Douglas for that infamous party). While it’s hard to imagine any justice to be gained now, at the very least the story is now doing what it should have in the 30s: celebrating the bravery of a young woman who sacrificed so much to stand up for herself and for the others who’d been tricked and damaged by powerful men.
*Since it was never tried, we will never know the alleged perpetrator’s side of the story. But certainly, the evidence given, the no-win situation she faced, and Douglas’s accounts are very convincing. But even had it not taken place, the cover-up clearly did.
All this talk of Harvey Weinstein and now Louis C.K. has me thinking about Stage Door (1937), that fascinating film featuring a dormitory of smart-talking women clamoring for parts on the stage, and suffering the sexist overtures of a very slimy producer along the way. The film was produced the same year the words “casting couch” were first published in Variety, according to Matthew Dessem. How the film got made is clear: it’s a feminist anthem against sexual predation, yes, but it’s carefully camouflaged as one of the funniest comedies of its era. Critics praised the witty, fabulous dialogue, ignoring or underplaying the blatant warning directed at female aspirants to stage or screen.
The story begins with Jean Maitland (Ginger Rogers) trying to oust roommate Linda Shaw (Gail Patrick). Jean’s a sarcastic gal from the wrong side of the tracks, too proud and ethical to give into seductions in exchange for parts or furs. Her roommate, however, is an opportunist, and has given up her reputation in exchange for gifts from her wealthy keeper, sables and sapphires she rubs in Jean’s face.
The two separate to achieve peace, but Jean isn’t long for a solitary room; enter her new roommate, heiress Terry (Katharine Hepburn), who wants to star on the stage too. She thinks her peers haven’t made it big yet because they lack ambition. Her slow recognition of her own privilege will become the axis around which the plot revolves. Initially mocked by the dorm residents who resent her for slumming, she does make one friend, Kay Hamilton (Andrea Leeds), the acknowledged talent of the bunch.
Sympathy and admiration for Kay will lead Terry to understand that her poverty-stricken companions aren’t slackers, but cynics battered by experience. They face obstacles she doesn’t, and have no safety net if they fall.
While Katharine Hepburn’s Terry is learning how the hungry half lives, Jean encounters Linda’s lover, Anthony Powell (Adolphe Menjou), who eyes her in an audition. The fact that finding prey is his goal in being a producer is clear, as when he says to a dancing school director, “I very likely won’t produce anything unless I can find an angel. You haven’t seen any flying around, have you?” After an uncomfortable amount of leering at a dancing pair, he asks about “the little blonde.” His pal obligingly offers the information, of course, and soon Jean has unwittingly taken a job given to her so that Powell has access to her charms. We can see in all of these moves a clear pattern: he’s after/has sex with the girl, she gets the role. Jean’s response when she sees Powell and Linda at the club where she’s been hired says everything:
Jean’s barbs at Powell (and at his choice of a mistress) have no effect.
But then Jean decides it’s time to teach her former roommate Linda a lesson, steal her guy. Jean doesn’t plan to have sex with him, but what’ll it hurt her to drink a little champagne, have a meal or two that isn’t stew?
But the bigger reason for dating an undesirable man is evident: If Jean doesn’t play nice, what happens to her job? Her dancing partner, Annie, suggests as much multiple times. When Jean complains about his creepiness, saying she needs a “tin overcoat” as protection, her partner responds, “You should be glad he looked at you at all.” Jean doesn’t need her partner’s pestering; she knows full well that “…if I don’t go out with him, I’ll probably lose my job, and so will Ann, and I’ll be right back where I started from.”
Of course, Powell has plans of his own: ply Jean with alcohol, tell her a sob story about his life, talk about her name in lights and himself as the reason, and get what he wants. If she isn’t exactly sober enough to consent, what does he care? Creepily, his butler knows just how to disappear. As Linda warns her (to protect her meal ticket), the butler is “deaf,” so she “really won’t have to bother to scream for help.”
Luckily, Jean gets too sad-drunk on the first trip to his penthouse to make his “seduction” fun. He decides she isn’t worth the trouble, but she (too buzzed to catch the drift of their last talk) thinks she’s beginning to like the guy. The next night, when Terry is having an actual business meeting with him in the penthouse (as Weinstein’s actresses thought), Jean charges in.
Terry fakes drunkenness and sexiness to keep Jean away from the predator, and it works.
Jean realizes he’s as worthless, creepy, and unfaithful as she initially thought, and leaves. The audience is grateful for Jean’s escape, having seen the disaster Powell leaves in his wake: poor Linda has nothing but trinkets in exchange for sexual favors–gifts not even sizable enough to get her out of that dorm. (How thin is her arrogance!) We know how short Jean’s casting-couch career would be after her favors, given that roving eye. The actress in the story with true talent (Kay) who doesn’t succumb to (and apparently was never offered) the producer’s embraces is literally starving as he puts off her auditions for his dalliances, and will soon reach an even sadder fate.
I kept thinking of Terry when the Weinstein revelations came out, not just because she was brave in the story, but because she could be. Of course, Terry too is the object of male manipulation. The only reason she’s up for a part is her father’s secret meddling (He’s finagled her starring role so that she’ll fail and realize she should come home and marry a rich boy like a good little girl. Nice support, huh?) Although she does have a disgustingly condescending father, Terry is safe. That money gives her power of her own, and she can afford to confront the Anthony Powells of this world. It’s really the lesson of the Weinstein story, isn’t it? Predators go after those with no power, so those with it have to be the ones to stand up. And not just men, but female stars, the Meryl Streeps, who have status of their own and can be immune from predators’ hushing machinations. Several media outlets have justifiably called out the male actors and directors who did nothing about Weinstein, and the employees, like that pal in Stage Door, who abetted the behavior. But I’m disappointed too in the prominent women, those who weren’t personally affected, but could have done something…and didn’t. (Streep claims she didn’t know; even if she didn’t, others with star power did.)
At first I thought that the sexual predator storyline and feminist response to it were from Edna Ferber, a friend of Hepburn’s and the original play’s cowriter. Ferber may have been inspired by memories from childhood, I reasoned. According to Janet Burstein, Ferber learned about men’s less pleasant side in her youth, when everyday wants meant she “had to run a gauntlet of anti-Semitic abuse from adult male loungers, perched on the iron railing at the corner of Main Street, who spat, called her names, and mocked her in Yiddish accents.” That disgust on Jean’s face when she spots the way Powell looks at her? Yeah, that’s written by an author who knows. But the play Ferber cowrote was completely redone for the screen by Morrie Ryskind and Anthony Veiller. And according to some sources, the movie’s verisimilitude has less to do with the screenwriters than with Gregory La Cava, who sought the stories of and the funny dialogue of the women he directed, and encouraged improvisation. But then again, the stories of such men were everywhere, then and now, and needed no writer to reveal the behavior. Anyone watching and listening–as La Cava apparently did–could hear and expose them.
I hope one day this film–and La Cava–get more credit for the kind of heroic feminism we see so rarely on the screen or in life. Eighty years ago, this film exposed the terrible repercussions of sexual predation, and instead of suggesting that victims should be blamed for not standing up–as even current headlines do–put the responsibility squarely on the man at fault. More, it gave a path for correction, by showing who could do something to fight back, and revealing the privilege that might blind him/her to what was really going on. How many films in the decades since have done the same?