Author: leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com

Jack Lemmon & Restraint

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Of course I’ve been dying to see The Fortune Cookie (1966). Who wouldn’t want to view the first pairing of Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau, the two whose seamless chemistry led to almost 30 years of hilarious cinematic repartee?

Matthau won his only (!) Oscar for the role of Willie Gingrich, an ambulance chaser who capitalizes when his brother-in-law, sports cameraman Harry Hinkle (Lemmon), gets injured by a football star running a play. Look at the people Gingrich can sue! The TV station! the Cleveland Browns! Of course, Hinkle was barely hurt, but an old injury might appear new, and thus enriching. If only Gingrich can get his brother-in-law to go along, he’ll be a millionaire! Of course, there are obstacles: his brother-in-law’s stupid scruples, for example, are holding up the path to gold.


Luckily, Gingrich has an ace up his sleeve: Hinkle never got over his ex-wife, Sandy (Judi West), and she’s an anxious for the dough as Gingrich is.

Gingrich is a magical character, a monstrous anti-hero whose avarice is fascinating to witness. He’s Saul Goodman with an even darker sense of humor. I particularly love when he calls Sandy, saying he’s glad to have her as part of the “organization” conning the Browns (not to mention fooling her ex with fake affection). His children interrupt the call, prompting Gingrich to yell out (with a straight face), “Why don’t you kids go play on the freeway?”

Gingrich’s reaction to love getting in the way of profit is typical of him:


His hope to avoid his kids is displayed from the start of the film; his face dims when they’re present, but glows when opportunity arises. He’s only animated when they skate away:


With Gingrich on the screen, you can’t look away, and he’s in nearly every scene. Why he was considered “supporting” and Lemmon the star is one of those mysteries of Oscar nominations no one outside of the industry ever understands.

In terms of plot, not much else happens. Hinkle agrees to fake a grave injury to win back his wife, who pretends better motives for her return in order to get at the money. ‘Boom Boom’ Jackson (Ron Rich), the player who hit Hinkle, slowly falls to pieces about what he thinks he’s done, to Gingrich’s delight (verisimilitude!) and Hinkle’s growing horror. What happens by the end of the movie, most viewers could predict, but given that Billy Wilder is the director and cowriter (with I.A.L. Diamond), there are wonderful twists along the way.

What’s notable about Lemmon’s performance is its generosity. Lemmon can play, often did play, a ham. His first Oscar, over a decade before, was for his scene-stealing, exuberant character in Mister Roberts. Yet here he is, ceding every scene to Matthau, and letting the latter’s role glitter just enough for his supporting Oscar. A less confident, thoughtful, or serious actor would have made Hinkle showier. But not Lemmon. When Hinkle finally stands up to Gingrich, we do see the dam of the character’s (and Lemmon’s) restraint burst, but only briefly, and even then, the goofiness pales in comparison to Matthau’s darkly funny turn as Gingrich. And as we all know, Lemmon only pales when he feels like it. Hinkle’s character is a subdued, passive one, and Lemmon never forgets it.

When I decided to join the Lemmon blogathon hosted by Crítica Retrô and Wide Screen World, I wondered which Lemmon I would see in The Fortune Cookie: the desperate and dark type he captures in Glenglarry Glen Ross, but this time played for humor? The sarcasm he spins in The Out of Towners? The nearly shrill silliness of his role in Some Like It Hot? How many actors has Lemmon been, just as a comedian?

Given how fun his banter typically is with Matthau, I expected to see the two out-goofing one another here. But I find it charming to discover something else: a realism to their dynamic, a sort of half-tolerant contempt that rings true for two characters joined by a marriage rather than by love or blood. A willingness (in real life) for one artist to help out another—in this case, Lemmon aiding Matthau with his one and only Oscar win. Their dynamic is definitely less fun than at the height of their powers in the wonderful Grumpy Old Men. Yet there’s something sublimely sweet about where it all started, and–though I didn’t think it possible–that makes me love Lemmon all the more.

For wonderful tributes and analyses of Lemmon’s work, check out the Jack Lemmon blogathon hosted by Le at Crítica Retrô and Rich of Wide Screen World.

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Airplane!: The Joy of Recognizing Classic Movie References

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**Spoilers about George Gipp ahead**

The other day I was watching Airplane! with some friends. For the first time, I caught that the film includes a hilarious spoof of Knute Rockne’s “Win One for the Gipper” speech, that speech leaders of underdogs everywhere like to imitate. Popularized by Knute Rockne-All American (1940), the speech was given by the famous Notre Dame football coach when his team was losing against Army in 1928. In the speech he references his former player, George Gipp, the National Football Hall of Famer who died tragically in his mid-twenties. Pat O’Brien plays Rockne beautifully in the movie, capturing some of the cadence of his words, and using understated sadness where another would have gone for drama. Eight years after his famous player’s death, Rockne discusses Gipp’s last words with his losing team (in real life, and in the film):

“I’m going to tell you something I’ve kept to myself for years,” says Rockne (O’Brien). “None of you ever knew George Gipp (Ronald Reagan). It was long before your time. But you know what a tradition he is at Notre Dame… And the last thing he said to me: ‘Rock,’ he said ‘sometime, when the team is up against it — and the breaks are beating the boys — tell them to go out there with all they got and win just one for the Gipper…’ I don’t know where I’ll be then, Rock,’ he said – ‘but I’ll know about it – and I’ll be happy.'”

Of course, the team wins, and history is made.

Ronald Reagan’s deathbed scene in the film, of course, meant he was associated with the name George Gipp, as different as they were. Gipp, phenomenally talented as a football player, was very modest about his accomplishments. He was an interesting man, too: actually preferred another sport, spent time gambling with out-of-towners who thought South Bend hicks could never beat them (afterward secretly giving his winnings to charity). Always, Gipp displayed an allergy to limelight.

Once I learned Gipp’s true story, I became horrified that Reagan’s presidency had turned Gipp’s legacy into a promotion campaign. Of course, Airplane! (1980) would capitalize on the humor of this discrepancy. The movie came out before Ronald Reagan’s first White House term, but the politician had made two runs for the Republican nomination before getting it in 1980; there are digs on his acting in the film. And then the perfect parody: In a moment when Ted Striker (Robert Hays) is despairing about his poor chances of landing the plane, with death certain for all if he doesn’t, in comes Dr. Rumack-Don’t-Call-Me-Shirley (Leslie Nielsen) to give Striker a hilarious pep talk. Almost word for word, it’s Rockne’s speech. Nielsen even captures the coach’s understated style. To give a football speech in such a moment is very tacky–in even more ways that most viewers might suspect: Rockne died in a plane crash. Screenwriters Jim Abrahams, David Zucker, and Jerry Zucker capture inappropriate uses of Gipp’s name and of his coach’s tribute by using both inappropriately in their own film.

But I wasn’t thinking of any of those details as I watched. What I felt was a thrill, that delightful shock of recognition every classic film fan feels when she sees or hears a reference to an old favorite. And I didn’t think it was possible, but Airplane! is even funnier than I thought. How marvelous.

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Sexy Con Man: John Garfield

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Even my classic-movie-hating sister, who is seldom willing to admit ANYTHING positive about my beloved black and whites, had to admit, there’s just something about John Garfield. Some sensuality, magnetism that escalates him far beyond his seemingly average looks. I mean, if the guy were standing still, I’d maybe compare him to Matt Damon: ordinary enough to slip from notice (as a man playing a superspy should be). But Garfield rarely stays still. And once he moves, his look intensifies, his fluid athleticism kicks into gear, and all that ordinariness is gone: this guy is crazy hot.

I realize his looks are far from the best thing about Garfield. This superb actor is among my favorites, can make me root even for the often disreputable characters he so thoroughly inhabits and humanizes. But it’s undeniable that if a guy plays a con man who can get any woman, he needs to either have Cary Grant’s looks, or be a guy like John Garfield, whose intensity and confidence make you ignore every other man, woman, dog, cat, and chair in the room.

Take Nobody Lives Forever (1946). When Nick approaches his mark, Gladys (Geraldine Fitzgerald), you feel a kind of pity, even though Nick is the hero: she doesn’t stand a chance. We know from the script she’s a lonely and bored widow. Her financial manager is giving her an unutterably boring description of his golf game. Here’s her expression before Nick arrives:


Nick approaches, and the effort not to swoon–how does she manage it? Notice the intensity of this expression:


And here’s how she looks after five minutes with him:


He walks away, and the formerly abstaining Gladys orders a brandy.

**some spoilers–but not how it all ends**

In most films, it’s hard not to despise the mark. Even if he/she is sweet, the level of stupidity is so pronounced you root for the con artist, as the screenwriter wants you to do. The fact that you’d never feel that way in real life is irrelevant: for the space of an hour or two, you’re all for cleverness over heart. Nobody Lives Forever is that rare film that makes you respect both con artist and mark because there’s a kind of maturity and world-weariness to Gladys, despite her blindness to Nick’s motives; clearly, her former husband’s long illness has taken away some of her illusions.

Nick’s recent war experience makes his change of heart believable, and her desire for him, even when she discovers his true character, seems not the reaction of a sap but of a woman who has had enough experience not to expect perfection in her man. Part of that is the role; part of that is Fitzgerald’s convincing performance. But most of it is Garfield. I mean, how the hell do you say goodbye to that man? Clearly, Gladys is not ready to; just check out that grip:


Since this is noir, of course, we don’t know how it’s all going to end. Nick has two frightening foes in his ex and a shaky co-conspirator. The ending is suspenseful, and involves large doses of Nick’s friend, Pop (the wonderful Walter Brennan), so I obviously won’t spoil it for you.

I will say as a huge fan of con artist movies that any cleverness is utterly absent. Nick makes up a career that would be so easy to disprove, with little effort to give it substance. There’s no satisfaction for my Ocean 11’s-, The Sting-loving gene, no big reveal or sleight of hand. But there is some of that sweetness I’ve come to love in Leverage, and like that highly satisfying TV show, the film gives us the toll such a life takes on its players (especially since these grifters aren’t the do-gooders of that small-screen team). Overall, I had a mixed reaction to the film as a story. But as a vehicle for Garfield, it’s wonderful. He’s so believable in the role, so intense and mesmerizing. And as always, so sexy.

This post is part of Phyllis Love’s Classic Movies’s John Garfield: The Original Rebel blogathon. Check out the wonderful entries!

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Kimmel & the Great Gaffe: Why Comedians MUST Host the Oscars

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Here’s the typical Oscar hosting scenario:

Year 1: A comedian hosts, performs well and with confidence, then is trashed in the press.

Year 2: The Academy chooses an actor/actors for the hosting gig. The script fails; the actor (not being a writer) panics and keeps trying the script anyway/hides backstage/whoops. We all flinch in sympathy, long for the ceremony to end.

Year 3: One of the previous comedian hosts is asked back, and is trashed a little less.

Year 4: The Academy chooses an actor/actors…..

Strangely, the Academy fails to recognize exactly why comedians perform better. Not being comedians themselves, Academy members mistake comedic actors for comics, assume song-and-dance types can roll with the inevitable botched entrances and exits. They’re forgetting the obvious: comedians IMPROVISE; actors PERFORM THE SCRIPT. And last night, the difference was written out so plainly I’m hopeful that they will finally, finally get it.

Let’s review:

Something unexpected happens (say a wrong card is given out):

  1. Actor’s response: panic, stare at the other actor next to you, read out/let your partner read out something you suspect is wrong, cast blame, ruin the Oscars for the mistaken winners and the real ones.
  2. Comedian’s response: riff on a another comic’s similar mistake, cast all blame on yourself in such a way that it diminishes the gaffe, makes the audience (and comic) laugh, and earns you thanks from the company that blew it in the first place.

Kinda obvious, isn’t it? A host needs to respond to the crowd, alter/rip on jokes if they don’t work, recover from mistakes by oneself and others, and relax. Comedians have suffered through brutal NYC stand-up crowds; Oscar crowd judgment? Easy. That’s why comedian hosts will often return to the gig even if unfairly attacked the first time around.

Let me be clear: I’m not saying what happened is Beatty’s fault; I’m saying it’s to be expected. Improvising is simply not a required skill for an actor (though arguably, more so for a stage performer). But let’s envision if instead of Kimmel, Neil Patrick Harris or James Franco were hosting. Imagine how much MORE botched that conclusion to the night would have been.

Jimmy Kimmel nailed it last night. As usual, the critics are already nitpicking, as they are wont to do. Were The Lion King bit or the name jokes the best calls? No. Though they weren’t nearly as offensive as some claimed (he’s no Seth MacFarlane), they were ill conceived. Comedians always struggle with that sensitivity vs. humor pull, especially when improvising. But the humorist who tries too hard to be PC is never going to make us laugh. (Would someone remind the critics please just how often they have attacked every previous host for being potentially offensive in one/more of his/her jokes?) No one will remember those comments/bits anyway; they weren’t funny.* But his Meryl Streep-talentless-Trump reference? His conscientious objector Mel Gibson slam? The Matt Damon attacks? Oh yes. We’ll remember those.

Kimmel was sarcastic and charming: the snark of Jon Stewart or Chris Rock with Billy Crystal’s crowd-pleasing style. And so confident. The crowd there and the audience at home both seemed to enjoy themselves, even during that halftime lull. Kimmel can be the host we’ve been waiting for, if the Academy just gives him the chance. Hopefully, they’ll beg him back despite his hilarious parting promise never to return. For those of us still vainly attempting to have faith in a show that so often blows it, let’s hope Oscar planners catch on.

*For a great spoof on white people’s mispronunciation of minority names, check out Key and Peele’s brilliant role reversal clip.

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Never Considered: Jake Gyllenhaal’s Repeated Oscar Snubs

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I’m tired of the assumption that there must be buzz about a star before he/she can be considered “snubbed” by the Academy. Let’s look at the term, shall we?

Oxford Dictionary: snub: ” rebuff, ignore, or spurn disdainfully.”

“Ignore disdainfully” includes not noticing one’s performance at all, doesn’t it? In fact, wouldn’t that be a more insulting snub? As in, we don’t even consider you worthy of DISCUSSION?

Take Jake Gyllenhaal, whom The Verge describes as the “best actor alive.” His performance in Nocturnal Animals was riveting. He played two vastly different characters in one film. The one is a study in innocence and naiveté.


The other is a subtle take on suffering, the weight apparent in limbs, gesture, look—a role that most others would play with histrionics. In every frame, you can feel the way the character’s combating his own weakness in trying to be strong.

Both of these parts required versatility, and does Gyllenhaal have that skill down: In End of Watch, a headstrong young cop; in Nightcrawler, an animalistic creep; in Zodiac, an obsessive; in Brokeback Mountain, a romantic. (Uproxx‘s Steven Hyden called his Nightcrawler snub the worst of the decade; I know I’ve seen few performances to compete with it). Each time, Gyllenhaal moves beyond the stereotype, managing to imbue each character with such a singular, unique presence that you can’t look away, even when (as so often with Gyllenhaal’s choices) you want to.

I haven’t seen all the nominated performances this year, but I know Ryan Gosling’s part demanded a fraction of the skills of Gyllenhaal’s this year (much as I love the guy), and this is Denzel Washington’s worst performance since The Book of Eli. 

Of course, I could offer the usual bromide–that the best actors are so seldom recognized. Take my beloved Cary Grant, and all of those perfect, Oscarless performances. (And yet if I asked 100 people who know nothing of classic films to name one classic film star, which name do you think they know?)

My sister suspects a possible family bias, as neither Gyllenhaal’s sister, nor brother-in-law (Peter Sarsgaard) ever get their due either. Yet BAFTA values him. Catch up, Academy. Listen to the way Jake talks about his work–and how modest, funny, fascinating he can be. Pay attention to the complex vulnerability in his characters, the intensity, the quietness and the strength. Each of the men he plays are fully human, weird and disturbing as they so often are. Watch him pushing himself, over and over again, in roles other actors with his looks would avoid. Risk taking, funny, odd, so talented, Jake Gyllenhaal deserves some Oscar love. (The man himself, with typical modesty, actually claimed it was Ryan Reynolds who shouldn’t have been overlooked this year.)

But all you commentators out there, even if the Academy does keep snubbing him, let’s call it what it is. We have enough folks trying to deny reality this year, and change the definitions of basic words. Let’s all try some honesty instead: A snub by any other name still sucks.

This post is part of the 31 Days of Oscar blogathon, hosted by Aurora of Once Upon a Screen, Kellee of Outspoken & Freckled and Paula of Paula’s Cinema Club. Check out the first day of entries here.

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Loving Asta, the Canine Film Star

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I’ve been dogsitting this week, which has me thinking about my favorite canine of classic film. I have to admit, I’m not an original at all: I love Skippy, of Asta fame. It doesn’t matter that I’m not a wire-haired terrier fan, or actually a terrier fan period. That dog runs the show, and I love him for it. So, apparently, did everyone who watched him. According to his IMDB bio, William Powell fell for him so hard in The Thin Man that he tried to adopt him. (Now we know that chemistry wasn’t just for show).

My favorite performance of Skippy’s, however, is not in my favorite sleuth film, wonderful as he is in it, and fantastic as his acrobatics as Asta are.


(By the way, that dog has a SERIOUS list of credits). No, my favorite role is his take on Mr. Smith in The Awful Truth.

There’s so much to love: His character’s name: the mister, and all it implies. His exposure of Lucy’s (Irene Dunne’s) shenanigans through his love for mirrors and hats.


Impressive hide and seek face hiding. And best of all, his role in Jerry’s (Grant’s) needling of his soon-to-be-ex (Dunne), first in the trial’s custody battle, and then on canine custody visits. Mr. Smith’s integral role in the couple’s lives is as much a part of the script as their jealousy and insecurities, and so closely models the dog love exhibited by so many couples I know.

Lest you doubt my love, take a look at the image on my blog: That’s Grant, laughing with Skippy in their incomparable The Awful Truth duet. You can watch this thrilling, lovable dog in action thanks to a marvelous YouTube tribute (forgive the song choice).

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The Little Foxes (1941): the Melodrama for Our Political Moment

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I found it eerie watching Regina (Bette Davis) plotting with her brothers in a story described by a contemporary reviewer as a “grim and malignant melodrama.” Certain themes kept surfacing that read like today’s headlines: mistreatment of minorities, disregard for others’ health, promoting an unlivable wage, business trumping decency to others. I was in the mood for a soapy melodrama, and naturally sought out a Davis flick. Usually, there’s no one I’d rather see in the role of a ruthless schemer. But she played the part too well; I didn’t expect to recognize so much. If it was escape I was after, The Little Foxes was a remarkably poor choice.

That isn’t to say I felt no sympathy for Regina Giddens (Davis). Anyone married to the sleep-inducing characters Herbert Marshall unfailingly plays; this time an ailing, upright man named Horace; deserves a bit of sympathy. Especially a character as vibrant and smart as Regina. It is fun to watch her messing with her brothers, in full control, before her husband enters the picture.


But he does, and her satisfaction is therefore short-lived: To watch her husband not only refusing to join a business venture so sure of success, but then condescendingly explaining her powerlessness to stop him, doesn’t sit well with Regina, but neither does it with those of us accustomed to more equitable romantic relationships.


While her role as wife to Horace is hardly as pitiable as that of her sister-in-law, Birdie (Patricia Collinge), the victim of neglect and domestic abuse, Regina’s not exactly free. It’s 1900, after all. While a Southern state might have initiated women’s marital rights in the US, it’s clear from Regina’s and Horace’s behavior that she has no power over their money, which clearly originated with his family rather than hers. Her daughter (Theresa Wright) is right that berating her dying husband is wrong, but what other move (besides submission) does Regina have? We don’t like her, but it’s hard to watch her brothers (who control the venture if her husband is out) triumph over her, given their sexism and treatment of Birdie.

Of course, Regina doesn’t warrant much sympathy, and her self-destructiveness is hard to witness: it’s not exactly politic or wise to explain to your mortally ill spouse (who holds all the power) that you kinda hate his guts. Then there’s her desire to get more than her fair share of the spoils from the business. And of course, there’s the real crux of the matter: her utter lack of concern over the unlivable-wage-for-employees-thing, which is motivating her husband’s refusal to buy in. Regina takes rejection personally, unable to view any scruples about heartless business practices as anything but stupidity or pretension.

While viewing the ruthlessness of Regina and her brothers as they plot to build their cotton mill, I found myself thinking “realism” far more than “melodrama.” We know these people, their goals, their casual cruelties. We’ve seen them in action. That’s why you’re getting daily emails from political action groups urging you to call Congress members right now. Regina’s avarice may take her farther than we predict. But is it so hard to believe that in a moment of passion, greed would triumph over humanity?

I kept remembering as I watched the film that Lillian Hellman, who penned the original play, didn’t have the sunniest view of her fellow beings (a viewpoint which couldn’t have improved when her Blacklist-targeted boyfriend went to jail for refusing to name names years later). But unfortunately, I can’t help but believe her cynicism justified. The hope we do get—the ethical love interest for the daughter showing some spunk—is muted, his victories offscreen. Regina may look a little scared in the big bad house as the story closes, but she still looks victorious.


Needless to say, I’m watching a comedy next week.

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Gut Reactions to the Oscar Noms: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

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Oscar nominations are out, and as usual, my first reaction is outrage. But there are some good choices in the supporting category, so I’ll tone down some initial snark, and try to give credit where it’s due. So far, I’ve seen only four of the nominated films, so I’ll wait till I’ve seen more for additional commentary. Here we go:

Best Picture (of those I’ve seen):

The Good

Hell or High Water: Deserves the nomination, and the win (of the nominees I’ve seen). Understated, nuanced, beautifully written and acted.

La La Land: Deserves the nomination, not the win. Charming, creative, fun. A blast for those of us who love the classics. I’m glad it’s getting so much credit. But ultimately, no musical deserves the top prize with such forgettable songs. Crazy Ex-Girlfriend has more memorable tunes in each episode than this film in its whole running time.

Moonlight: Deserves the nomination, possibly the win. Focused, touching story of one boy and his struggles with his sexuality and family. Points for subtlety. An unexpectedly nuanced depiction of a sensitive, quiet kid. Great acting too.

Thank you, Academy, for passing on the execrable Jackie, which was so wretched I almost left the theater 20 minutes in. Aside from jarring music, awful plotting, and a cruel portrayal of its heroine, its sum insight was this: Jackie O liked history, and losing her husband so tragically really sucked. Yeah, I kinda got that.

The Ugly

GLARING OMISSION: Where is Nocturnal Animals? Tightly edited, riveting, meaningful, beautifully acted, memorable, each frame relevant. Best film I’ve seen in years, and not even a nod.

Fences: I challenge a first-year film student to do a worse job converting a play to a film than Denzel in this unwatchable turkey. Gabriel and a literal horn? Are you kidding me? Clichés writ large, full earnestness, awkward closeups, dialogue that translates poorly to film, and histrionic acting almost all round. Larry McMurty, in a funny, humble essay, wrote that Hud would have been better if the filmmakers had diverged more from his original story. Denzel needed that lesson.

Lead Actor

The Good
Ryan Gosling anchors La La Land, which wouldn’t have been nominated without him. The man has comic skills; it’s good to see a role requiring both drama and comedy chops get some credit.

The Bad
Where is Jake? Jake Gyllenhaal, who gets (unlike Denzel did in this year’s film) that sadness can be about weighty limbs and haunted eyes, not screeching?

Where is Joel Edgerton? I’m wondering if the Academy hadn’t seen enough of his work to know what a departure this role was for him. Watching his restraint, the pain he shows in every limb at being unable to protect his wife, is powerful.

The Ugly
Instead, we get one of the best actors of our generation in his hammiest performance ever. Worst I’ve seen since The Book of Eli. You’re not in a theater, Denzel! Stop shouting down the house, making unfunny jokes, and smirking. It’s not the role. It’s you. You’re so, so much better than this.

Lead Actress

The Good and Bad
I suspect Annette Bening deserved the award this year, but I haven’t seen her film yet, and The Academy would probably just have passed her over for inferior performances, as they usually do. Emma Stone was very good, not great, and Ruth Negga just solid in Loving. But where is Amy Adams? She was memorable in Nocturnal Animals, and apparently even better in Arrival. But she’s a subtle actress, and the Academy likes to wait until the mid-golden years to award that quality (I’m looking at you, Jeff Bridges). Bring it on, Natalie. Shouts and painful closeups win.

The Ugly
Oh, Natalie. It’s funny that comics get no nominations for mimicry, and the Academy falls over itself to nominate dramatic performances for the same skill. Portman does imitate Jackie’s voice well, but in a distracting way (especially when she slips), and her histrionic, Black Swanish take on the first lady was disturbing, one-note and insulting. Weirdest of all was her awkward, hands stiffly held penguin walk. I guess when she was observing footage of her subject she missed the poise and grace. Cause you know, those don’t come up that often when we’re talking about Jackie….

Supporting Actor and Actress:

The Good
Very happy about Mahershala Ali for Moonlight. A magnetic, yet still understated performance. Likewise Jeff Bridges deserves the nod, though I wish he’d mumbled a bit less in the role. Had to watch it twice to catch all of his great dialogue. I think I was one of the few who preferred Michael Shannon’s performance in Nocturnal Animals to Aaron Taylor-Johnson’s.

Naomie Harris was very convincing in a small, but pivotal role. I hate to give credit to anything in Fences, but Viola Davis was tremendous, and unlike her costar, modulated her performance to suit the film. Give this woman an Oscar already, even if it should have been for best actress.

The Bad
I’m upset about the lack of love for Ben Foster in Hell or High Water. Even the reviews credit Chris Pine more, but Foster enlivens and gives depth to a role that in lesser hands could have been cartoonish. He sells the bond between the brothers, which keeps us hooked on this rather slowly spooling story. And he adds comedy as well as pathos.

OK, that’s it for now. When I’ve seen more, I’m sure I’ll gripe some more…:) (I’m posting more fully about Jake later this month for an Oscar blogathon, and will, of course, want to discuss the screenplays soon….)

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Interview on CMBA Site

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One of my favorite bloggers interviewed me for the Classic Movie Blog Association‘s profile. Check it out here. Such an honor. I feel like this:


For fantastic reading, view the author’s site, Silver Screenings. Her support, and that of other awesome veteran bloggers (such as Caftan Woman), has kept me going when it’s hard to continue with the blog.

While you’re at CMBA site, don’t neglect to check out the sites of my other wonderful peers at CMBA, whose recent posts are featured in the right-hand column.

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Fred and Ginger Fans, Watch La La Land

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Sometimes when I’m watching Gene Kelly, I’ve had to resist my urge to reach through the screen and push him into one of the puddles he’s leaping around.  I want to enjoy his joyful movements, his talent, but for me, the acting just kills it. His characters seem so smug, so sentimental, so cheesy, as if they were born to and continue to expect a cheering section. (Forgive me, Kelly fans. I can’t help it.)

Fred Astaire’s characters, in contrast, are cynical, world-weary, and as a result, often quite funny. Ginger Rogers, his most frequent sparring partner, is at her best when she’s delivering the snark too.


I’m willing to surrender to some sentimentality, but only if it’s tempered with some sarcasm; that’s why La La Land was an unexpectedly welcome surprise. Writer-director Damien Chazelle clearly gets that need for bite, and his own musician past is as evident here as it was in Whiplash. Thanks to him, my Ginger-and-Fred-loving peers will discover a bit of that magic they’ve missed in films since. Here’s how Chazelle pulls it off:

Witty Conversations
The plot is pretty simple: an aspiring jazz club owner and pianist, Sebastian (Gosling), and actress (Stone) fall in love and wrestle with the conflicts in their dreams and relationship. The previews are heavy on the cheesy side, but I should have trusted the actors, especially Gosling, whose  flight to indies after The Notebook revealed the level of his aversion to saccharine.


Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling excel at sarcastic banter. Their expressions are hilarious to witness. When Mia mocks Sebastian’s embarrassing keyboard gig by requesting an 80s abomination, I fell for the film, and for them. Astaire-Rogers films similarly begin with hostility: his character’s making a racket, tearing the heroine’s (Rogers’) dress, pretending to be Russian. Her characters’ (Rogers’) icy responses only begin to melt when the dancing brings the two together, and the self-protection their characters have constructed for themselves collapse.

Singing by Nonexpert Actors


Astaire and Rogers weren’t gifted in the choral department, but they sang their own tunes anyway, and as a result, there’s an authenticity to the chemistry between them, and the move from (relative) realism to song is less jarring. If I were watching a Broadway musical, I’d expect some serious pipes. But in a film, amateurism can work. As with Astaire and Rogers, Stone’s and Gosling’s lack of expertise works to highlight their characters’ insecurities and the fragility of their new bond. Their lack of professional music cred also helps give the impression that this singing is natural, just a way to express something that regular conversation can’t quite capture.

Dancing as Foreplay
Stone and Gosling are far better dancers than singers, and as with Astaire-Rogers, the dancing numbers are when their defenses dissolve, and they begin to fall in love.

My favorite moment is actually when the uber handsome Gosling approaches an older couple and starts dancing with the wife. The husband’s outraged response is so funny, but what’s lovely is the moment after: when we see the couple in the background, dancing with one another.

Characters Inspiring Each Other
I love in Shall We Dance (1937) that Petrov (Astaire) feels his dancing is so inspired by Linda (Rogers) that he must have actresses in his musical all don images of her face.


Petrov begins not with love, but professional admiration. And it’s fun to watch Mia (Stone) and Sebastian (Gosling) do the same: respect and promote one another’s art. As in Once, one of my favorite films of the past decade, the romance (or in Once‘s case, almost-romance) matters less than the impact the characters have on one another, the way they force one another to be honest about the decisions they’re making, the repercussions, and the inevitable conflicts an artistic life creates.

Talent
Astaire and Rogers are obviously finer dancers than their 2016 imitators. But Stone and Gosling are both fine actors, which Astaire was not.* Stone brings that effervescent charm she does to everything. She excels at mocking, as she has since Easy A. Her auditions for various terrible acting gigs are hilarious.

But it’s Gosling I couldn’t stop watching (and not just because of that ridiculously handsome face). Gosling’s timing, expressions, and posture deliver the humor, and the pathos of Sebastian’s unbending personality, his devotion to something others don’t love (jazz), is beautifully conveyed. Sebastian’s efforts to conceal his vulnerability are heartbreaking. A conversation late in the film when Mia calls him out on being a sellout is particularly tough to witness, as for Sebastian, giving in to some need for practicality demonstrates growth. Mia’s simply not been forced into the kind of compromises he has, and she doesn’t get what those decisions have cost him. I could see why Gosling–who has taken a long time to come around to big-budget films–was drawn to the role, and why the writer-director, a musician himself, knew just how to capture it. I don’t think it’s an accident that Sebastian is a far more developed character than is Mia.

Whimsy & Joy
What a pleasure it is, to watch actors with chemistry having fun with one another. It was always true for Astaire and Rogers, and is true for Stone and Gosling as well.


I didn’t find the music in La La Land that memorable, certainly not as strong as any of Astaire’s or Rogers’s outings. (Admittedly, that would be a bit unfair to expect, with Irving Berlin and the Gershwins at the helm.) Still, the enjoyment of singing, of dancing, of just playing around is there. At one point, in a surreal, An American in Paris kind of way, realism just leaves, and Mia and Sebastian act as if a departure from the rules of gravity is a natural result of their connection. In a way, it is. The moment conveys how art can transport a person away from reality, just as love can. That a director just over 30 can convey that sentiment so beautifully and lovingly–and with such humor–gives me excitement about whatever he’s cooking up next.

*Rogers, it could be argued, bests Stone in certain roles, but Gosling is a stronger actor than all of them.

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