1950s films | Cary Grant Won't Eat You

The Odd Stew of Designing Woman

12/16/2016 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 14 Comments

It’s surprising the screenplay for Designing Woman (1957) won George Wells an Oscar, given its strange stew of marital conflict, mob threats, brain damage, fashion, and acrobatic fight moves. But there is a cleverness to it, and some insights about marriage one doesn’t usually get in a comedy. So while not exactly an amazingly tasty stew, it’s curious enough in flavor to keep you watching, and the fourth-wall-breaking format leads to moments of humor throughout, especially through the thoughts of the ex-girlfriend.

Of course, being a fan of complex heroines, I hoped Designing Woman would have a double meaning, that Lauren Bacall’s fashion designer bride had sneaky moves up her perfectly tailored sleeves. Alas, no such luck. Marilla (Bacall) is a sophisticated businesswoman, but traditional when it comes to her sports reporter husband, Mike (Gregory Peck). The two have married after a very short affair, and much of the story hinges around his utterly unnecessary concealment of a former flame, Lori (Dolores Gray), and Marilla’s anxiety about it. The couple is so prickly over this conflict that they endanger Mike’s life as he hides from the mob. (Mike, it seems, is more truthful in reporting than in life, and has ticked off a boxing fixer with mob ties.)

So here are my thoughts on the memorable moments of this Vincente Minnelli-helmed comedy: the flavorful additions, the questionable spices, the discordant ingredient that nearly destroys the whole, and a wonderful final pinch of flavor.

The Flavorful Moments
Confession to the Ex
Mike’s former girlfriend, Lori (Dolores Gray), adds wonderful comedy to the plot, which has gotten a little too sweet in the opening meet-cute aftermath. Mike keeps not getting around to breaking his marriage to her, and she, sharing her reflections with us, reveals, “He was so pathetic I had to help him out.” She generously delivers the breakup news, and then adds a jab he completely misses: “I’d have probably done the same thing myself if I’d found the right man.”

After she relieves him from hurting her feelings, she observes him to be as “grateful as a Saint Bernard.” Her initial euphoria over her own maturity and strength soon dissolves: “But then I made a mistake. I asked him to tell me about her, and he made a bigger mistake, he told me.”

Rolling her eyes, she listens: “I heard all about her eyes, and her hair and her figure….I heard all about her fine sense of humor, and her clothes, and the cute way she had of tilting her head when she laughed….After a while I knew her like a sister.” And of course, she gets a thoroughly justified revenge with a strategic placement of his ravioli plate.

Party Scenes
The movie highlights the divisions between this high-class business leader and her working-class husband in various ways, most successfully with their apartments: his small and messy; hers refined, large, and including what he calls an “outside flunky.” Before he’s had time to look around his new place, all her friends arrive and rush her, barely registering his presence as he tries to excuse the embarrassingly short pants he’s wearing (his own being smeared with ravioli). Even when he leaves the room to change and returns, her distracted friends ignore him. And she is oblivious to his annoyance and embarrassment as she dons and then leaves behind his handsome form. The scene is perfectly orchestrated to reveal his disconnection and loneliness, and the way she’s suddenly made him feel alienated and extraneous in his own home and marriage.

In the aftermath, she’s dismissive of her career to soothe his ego, the embodiment of a bride worried about losing her new man. Luckily, she’s humbled herself enough to ease his insecurity (sigh, at least she doesn’t give up the career). The later party scene, with her rehearsal and his poker game colliding, is so cacophonous it’s actually hard to watch, but perfectly captures just how unalike their work lives are. Both of them are occasionally petty and jealous as they try to navigate in one another’s worlds, and yet come back together through their feelings for one another. The movie never suggests this union will be easy, and there’s something refreshing about that, and–unlike many romantic comedies–very honest.

The Fight Scene
The hilarious antics of the final fight scene make for good comedy. It’s well orchestrated, especially a brilliant final touch (see below). In a favorite moment, Mike observes that his wife doesn’t know how to help, as she can’t identify who is on Mike’s side, and who is not. I loved this reflection, as it echoes my reaction to every bad action sequence I’ve seen in the past decade. I so often can’t tell characters apart once the fists or legs start flying.

The Rotten
I don’t expect PC treatment of subject matter in my 50s films, but usually, I can cringe a bit at unfortunate touches and move on. Unfortunately, much of the comedy of Designing Woman hinges around making fun of a former boxer’s brain damage. Yes, you read that correctly. Maxie (Mickey Shaughnessy) is tasked with protecting Mike from the mob, but can never quite figure out what town he’s in, or what it is he’s supposed to do. Mike is by turns exasperated with him and condescending toward him. Marilla’s not much better, and sometimes worse. Mickey Shaughnessy’s performance is, unfortunately, often convincing, making his character’s brain damage poignant when the actor’s going for funny. The only way to enjoy this comedy is to block out whenever he’s on the screen, which is often.

The Brilliant Final Touch
Early in the film, in a typical bro kind of way, Mike objects to the effeminate dancing style of Marilla’s friend and colleague, musical director Randy (Jack Cole). You can just hear the homophobic chains in Mike’s mind churning as he watches those fluid, flamboyant movements, even before he imitates him to Marilla. But when the mob is beating up Mike and his friends, Randy appears and starts taking out half of them with his dance moves. I haven’t seen dance fighting this fun since Kevin Bacon’s in Footloose.

It’s in this moment of brilliance that you know Minnelli’s at the helm, and you’re so glad. I only wish we’d seen more such flourishes of his style because I could watch that clip over and over again. There, as elsewhere, I was more interested in the musical Marilla was designing for, than the marriage she was trying to save. The problem is, I think Minnelli was too. Luckily, there’s enough of the lovely costumes (and how Bacall wears them), enough of the self-absorption of those running the musical (who find the mob fight merely distracting) to intrigue and entertain. And of course, you can always rewatch Randy….

Hope you’ll enjoy the many other contributions to this Minnelli blogathon hosted by the marvelous Michaela of Love Letters to Old Hollywood.

The Lure of the Selfish Genius

10/19/2016 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 10 Comments

The Bad and the Beautiful (1952) presents that classic question: what are you willing to put up with, to be under the direction of a genius? Whiplash (2014) did the same just a couple years ago, conductor Fletcher (J.K. Simmons) compelling his protégé drummer to dangerous extremes for his art. The question has obviously lost none of its potency in the last 60 years. But this classic Hollywood version begins with the victims of brilliant producer Jonathan Shields’ (Kirk Douglas’). You see the damage first, and it colors how you view the rest of the film.

And yet….It’s the start of the film, and while you’re soon treated to flashbacks of what treatment led Shields to get such cold shoulders from former pals, you can’t help wondering how they’ll answer the question—and how you would too.

Shields, it appears, is destitute in Paris. But he has an idea for a film, and three victims of his ruthless ambition would be perfect for it: Georgia (Lana Turner), the actress he romanced to improve her performance, then dumped; Fred Amiel (Barry Sullivan), the director/best friend whose work he stole; and screenwriter James Lee Bartlow (Dick Powell), whose life he destroyed. Shields sends proxy Harry Pebbel (Walter Pidgeon) to lure them. And Pebbel, who has forgiven Shields for his own wrongs, gathers them together, hoping they’ll stick around long enough for Shields’ call about the film. And so the flashbacks of each betrayal begin, ranging from egregious to abominable.

Douglas is predictably mesmerizing in the role, which was supposedly loosely based on producer and studio exec David O. Selznick, best known now for Gone with the Wind. In fact, Douglas is so good in such roles that I found myself actually expecting worse behavior from Shields, bad as it was (Ace in the Hole being the last film of his I viewed).

What I found fascinating about the film this time around is the horrifying cruelty of Pebbel.

walterpidgeonthebadandthebeautiful
He actually pooh-poohs the three victims over their healthy desire to avoid the psychological damage Shields excels at inflicting, as if their heartbreaks are merely scraped knees. Pebbel’s argument—that human losses are inconsequential in comparison to accolades—is terrifying, and his calmness in expressing these views chilling. Shields may have a monstrous side, but he’s nothing compared to his Machiavellian helper.

But it is a question, whether for some the pursuit of greatness is worth human costs (though it would be hard to argue James’ was). Certainly, many artists we celebrate today have said yes to such a question. Many do now. The kindhearted instincts within you may urge such artists, “Leave!! Leave!” But the part of you who cherishes excellence secretly whispers, “Stay….”

The call from Shields comes, of course. And of course, they all refuse to remain. But then Georgia picks up the phone connection in another room, and the others lean in to hear, and we see them listening, lured back.

thebadandthebeautiful
Will they, won’t they?

This post is part of the Hollywood on Hollywood fall blogathon hosted by the Classic Movie Blog Association. Check out the wonderful entries here.

The Good Stuff: What’s to Love about Fights in Film

07/08/2016 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 9 Comments

Talented poet and screenwriter, martial artist, and classics enthusiast Brian Wilkins agreed to guest post for me as part of The Sword and Sandal blogathon, hosted by Moon in Gemini. Check out his wonderful tribute to fight scenes below.

Sometime in 1998, I sit on the floor in my living room watching John “Kickboxing is the sport of the future” Cusack eject Benny “the Jet” Urquidez into a wall of lockers. He then proceeds to tattoo those locker numbers into Benny’s back several times with his foot. After some athletic grappling, the two fumble at each other’s skinny ties and Cusack jams his pen into Benny’s throat. I am overjoyed: Grosse Pointe Blank is everything a boy could wish for.

“Mom,” I say to the horrified woman behind me folding laundry who thought “light action comedy” would be a great choice for family movie night, “I think I want to do that. “

“I would pray you out of it,” she snaps. Mothers in the south can definitely snap and mention prayer in the same breath.

“What? Why?”

“You tell me you want to be an assassin because of a movie and you think…”

“Not an assassin, Mom! Geez. A fight choreographer.”

This comeback mollifies — but not much: “As long as you finish college.”

***
I finished a lot of college and never became a choreographer for anything beyond amateur productions of Shakespeare, but it’s hard to say who I would be without fight scenes in movies. I fenced because of The Princess Bride. I fell in love with Karate after watching Daniel-san wade through a series of talented black belts who inexplicably led with their faces. I even tried to land a crane kick at a tournament: once. I studied epic poetry in grad school because of 13th Warrior.

So when my friend Leah asked me if I’d like to contribute something for this blogathon, I jumped at the chance to look at the fights in gladiator movies. And not just any fights, but material from before Bruce Lee one inch punched his way into America’s heart and everybody was kung fu fighting. What did fighting look like in classic sword and sandal flicks?

Awful. It looks awful. It looks like America (except for James Cagney) couldn’t take a cardboard cutout prior to 1968. Honestly, watching films like The 300 Spartans must have given comfort to our enemies. I don’t know why the Russians didn’t invade.

And while I think even Alexander the Great couldn’t drink Spartans into being entertaining, it actually provides a solid rubric for what makes a good fight scene. It just doesn’t know that’s what it’s doing. Seriously, folks, I don’t think the director had ever heard the word phalanx. The best fight scene in the movie is when Diane Baker judo flips an overly amorous Greek shepherd.

***
Early in Spartans, Persian King Xerxes (David Farrar) argues with traitorous Spartan king Demaratus (Ivan Triesault) over Spartan valor. When Demaratus defends it, Xerxes suggests a fight to the death between Demaratus and a Persian swordsman. I suppose this is because Demaratus is so tiresome Xerxes would rather have him killed and be lost in Greece than listen to him flap his cheeks anymore about Spartan values. I felt that way. The two champions draw their blades in what seems an interminable fight with bowie knives. Xerxes demands, along with the audience, that they hurry it up. Quickly, death comes for the Persian, and Xerxes concedes, much to his boredom, that Spartans can fight.

Let me check my notes for this scene…oh, I just wrote, “WHAT?” about 15 times.

Two guys in tunics rolling around on dinner tables with plus-size steak knives isn’t an epic scene. There’s nothing to distinguish their fighting styles from each other, no real costuming, nothing resembling martial talent — if a fight scene looks like your kindergartner was filming themselves after raiding your closet for costumes, something has gone awry.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not advocating for historical accuracy, but just the exotic fantasy of history. I don’t care, nerds, that Russell Crowe stepped into a stirrup in Gladiator, so long as his wolf skin cloak looks really fabulous while he does it.

But just as important to style, there must be stakes for the viewer. Demaratus is a cowardly traitor: why do we care if he dies? Even this dude’s Spartan mother would spit on his corpse rather than shed a tear over not hearing more of his mind numbing dialog. Nameless Persian Thug #1 is no better. If I can’t feel passion or fear or even a soupcon of lust, why am I watching?

The plot must motivate the action as well. We have to learn something about character in this scene and the logic of the movie must give impetus to the conflict. It’s a bit like a song in a musical: the truth that can’t be said must be expressed and it must change the world we’re seeing. The correct ending in this fight scene was to have the Persian kill Demaratus. Instead, we’re now convinced the Spartans are being underestimated by Xerxes and that they’re nearly invincible. I found myself rooting for the Persians, underdogs that they were.

***
Demetrius and the Gladiators (1954) is like all of the strange pseudo-christian elements of Ben Hur wrapped up in one hell of a bogged down film.

This sequel to The Robe continues in that proud tradition, peppering in a few action scenes with Victor Mature to prod the viewer awake. It made the studios a lot of money, but I can only hope that was due to a paucity of action films…what’s that? Seven Samurai came out the same year? Well, screw it, 1950s America just loves misogynistic Christianity. Shame on you, 1950s. Shame.

Still there are elements in the fights in Demetrius that have potential. Take this clip, where Victor Mature’s Demetrius is throwing away his Christian values to avenge his girlfriend who was accidentally killed (but not really, there’s a magic robe that brings people back to life) by knuckle dragging gladiators at a party. Now that those “turn the other cheek” gloves are off, we can get some real fighting! Good thing her (apparent) death paved the way for some real entertainment! Or something like that.

You may have noticed that Mature uses his shield like a kid with a trash can lid storming the kitchen. I put that down to the vices of the choreographer, Jean Heremans, a fencing champ most noted for choreographing Scaramouche (not just a line from Bohemian Rhapsody, folks). His refined modern fencing style makes perfect sense in that 18th century setting, but it fails the style of the sword and sandal motif. Treating fighting as if it is fencing is the real dereliction of this period of choreography. I can only assume it comes from the same instinct that yearned to put a steak dinner into a pill: progress knows best.

Notice also the curious way of holding the sword with the palm down and the sword to the side, almost a foil fencer’s seconde parry. It feels out of place as a guard with short stabbing weapon and will likely get it smacked out of your hand — just in case you have to fight someone with a trident who knows what they’re doing. Despite a nice moment of dual wielding, the style doesn’t offer much excitement or novelty.

However, in terms of stakes and spirit this fight actually picks up the pace a bit. While I would have preferred any other reason for Demetrius to throw away his values and dig into fighting, his existential crisis adds a tangy zip to the clashing shields. This fight will change his destiny as a character, adding a thrill to what we’re watching. Revenge giving permission to the viewer to sanction violence, while also showing a character’s descent after the fact, and redeeming the character with a deus ex machina (almost literally) reeks of cliché, but that doesn’t mean it’s toothless. And when Demetrius actually gets clobbering a guy like Ty Cobb on opening day, we feel relief because the action initiates the structure of the story. And we like it because the choreography matches the moment and the weapons a bit more: freer and more direct.

But if you’re looking for a more nuanced examination of violence, watch Seven Samurai. Actually, if there’s one lesson you should take from this review, it should be “watch Seven Samurai.”

***
For a taste of a film that lets style guide the way, there’s always Jason and the Argonauts (1963). Ray Harryhausen’s special effects are legendary, precisely for their ability to create a world that, despite having a giant bronze statue really need a hair pin, feels real. In fact, unlike much modern CGI, it’s the actors that feel less real than the animations: a testament to the quality of both.

This clip is so iconic it really needs no introduction.

There are a lot of things to love about this scene, but there are certain moments that stand out for me.

The war cry the skeletons give just before charging after Jason and his compatriots: it immediately moves the bony little bastards out of the realm of slouching zombie and into something else entirely.
The skeletons get into fighting stances and even seem to relish stabbing the heroes. Their stances are better than anyone else on screen: hunched, menacing, preparing to do ill to the enemy. Jason looks like he just discovered swords over breakfast.
The skeletons seem to know how to use their shields. One even hooks a shield into the sea.

But most of all, this scene understands the equipment being used. You can’t stab a skeleton risen from the sown teeth of a hydra! Everyone knows that! Except Jason, who tries it at 3:36 in the clip. And that’s the core of why this scene is great: the heroes have to improvise and start using dodges, feints, throws, and even clubbing the skeletons with the shields (although why no one can seem to stab and block simultaneously is beyond me. I guess we’ll have to wait for Troy).

Though we learn little about the spirit of the characters beyond the fact that Jason is quite content to flee and let his friends die, the stakes in this scene feel high. Perhaps it’s just that as humans we must root for those of us still covered in skin. Perhaps it’s that this idea was fished out from the Hieronymous Bosch corner of the unconscious. But either way, Ray Harryhausen was a genius I wouldn’t have wanted to fight in any place with a sandy floor.

***
There’s no mystery in my mind about the best of the sword and sandal genre. It’s Spartacus, hands down. Ignoring the politics, history, and its place in film for a moment, though, it’s a damn fine fight film. It even has a great training montage! Look, a spinning practice dummy with a mace on it! And there, a spinning blade of death machine! Even face painting!

To set up the scene: Spartacus (Kirk Douglas) has been paired with the more experienced gladiator Draba (Woody Strode), to fight to the death for the amusement of visiting nobles, particularly Crassus (Laurence Olivier).

Good movies work as fractals: little gems of the overall message replayed again and again to make one larger, faceted meaning. This fight tells you all you need to know about the movie, and the tragic but worthwhile attempt of compassion and brotherhood to fight back against a rigged system. It teaches you to ask who the enemy really is. This is a fight between Drapa and Crassus, first and foremost. And the mild annoyance with which Olivier kills Strode, with his distaste for the blood spatter rather than the action of murdering a human being, drives the nature of that character home.

But that moment is preceded and earned by some rather decent fighting. Strode was far too athletic to not take advantage of his size and is a perfect pairing with the trident. Douglas is a little too lightly armored, actually. He should have at least a helmet. The lack here is better than just artistic license and wanting to see the actor’s face: it shows even more how dangerous this fight is for Spartacus, making the act of compassion even greater.

Though he does hold his own. He’s always driving forward, trying to cover the distance and his lack of technique with enthusiasm. And while it ends with a rather spectacular boot to the ribs, Spartacus fights with just enough skill to lose well, which helps momentarily suspend our belief that just because the movie is called, “Spartacus”, he’s unlikely to die at the first real fight.

Though you could wonder if the Romans care at all. The audience talks over the two men fighting to the death at first, allowing us to condemn the Romans for being that annoying couple at the movies who explain the plot as the movie progresses. The inclusion of the audience into the scene makes the points of the movie so well, and asks us to question our own participation. It calls us to act with mercy and courage.

***
The complaint you’ll hear most often about these fight scenes is that they aren’t realistic, by which most people mean gritty or brutal. Fights in real life aren’t as spectacular, they argue, or as technical, and they don’t tell us much about the nobler parts of our role to play as humans. This lack of realism somehow damages the truth a fight may offer. Sometimes they’re right: the samurai master is killed by a punk with a knife at dinner, people windmill at each other over bar stool rights, and most fights are just attacks by predators or drunks.

But that’s why we come to the screen in the first place: to dream our better selves into being. A fight, even a silly one against skeletons, can show us how to be brave, to stand against impossible odds. When asked to surrender by the Nazis during the Battle of the Bulge, Gen. Anthony McAuliffe sent back a telegram with a one word reply: “Nuts!” You can’t write better dialog than that. And that’s what I say to folks who can’t see the beauty in the ringing steel, the athletic achievement, and most importantly, the spirit of laying it all on the line. Except I want to add “you,” and “are.”

by Brian Wilkins

This post is part of the Sword and Sandal blogathon. Check out the other entries here.

Sympathetic Liars: The Book of Mormon & Beat the Devil

06/26/2016 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 2 Comments

BeattheDevil-JenniferJones
Kooky. Bizarre. Silly. Odd. Original. It’s difficult to sum up the strange charm of Beat the Devil (1953), that Truman Capote-penned film* that fits no genre and makes no sense. You have the feeling as you watch that Capote must have been tripping, but his quirky personality, not to mention the strange antics that took place on the set–arm wrestling competitions between him and Humphrey Bogart, celebrity drop-ins who dictated costuming, etc.–may do something to explain its odd mishmash of mystery, comedy, and social commentary. I’ve never been a fan of Jennifer Jones, but she won me here as Mrs. Gwendolen Chelm, a seemingly ordinary wife who has the imagination of Capote, and no compunction about confusing her fantasies with reality. She is truly the director of the show. Just ask this question: “What would a film be like if a compulsive, whimsical fantasist got to rule the plot?” Your answer is Beat the Devil.

The film’s heroine reminds me of Arnold from the hilarious musical The Book of Mormon, and his twisting of the Mormon faith to convert Ugandans. (Minor spoiler: If you haven’t seen it, Elder Arnold Cunningham adds Boba Fett and some unfortunate AIDS-curing frogs to his faith’s origin story.) While an everyday liar provides little narrative interest, Chelm’s degree of imagination, as with Wes Anderson’s many heroes, seems to color the world with such an enormous brush that it’s hard not to become enthralled by her, as Bogart’s character is throughout Beat the Devil.

I dare not attempt to explain the plot to you, what little there is of one. It’s better if you simply start watching and see where it takes you. That’s clearly what Capote intended, and as any casual reader of his life knows, hanging out with Capote on a boring, rainy Sunday was probably thrilling. Watch the film. It’s as close to experiencing the mind of that fascinating socializer and entertainer, that creator of world-famous parties and disastrous scandals, as any of us are now likely to get.

*According to Gerald Clarke, Truman’s biographer, John Huston’s screenplay contribution was probably negligible.

The Dark Humor of High Noon (1952)

06/12/2016 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 6 Comments

**Contains spoilers**

When I watched High Noon many years ago, I was struck by its pacing, its intensity, its seriousness. This time, I kept laughing. There’s something comic about watching Marshal Will Kane (Gary Cooper) aimlessly tread around the town, waiting for someone, anyone to assist him. I found myself curious (having forgotten most of the details) not whether he’d find aid, but just what methods of bailing on responsibility his fellow townspeople would employ.

The judge (Otto Kruger) is, of course, is my favorite. Having passed sentence on Frank Miller (Ian MacDonald), a killer who has now been freed and is headed to town for revenge, the judge opts for exiting pronto. He tells Kane, the marshal who caught Miller, to do the same. His advice is a cynical history lesson about how little one can rely on civilian ethics when danger is afoot–an account of Athenians who welcomed a tyrant they’d once banished, and watched as he executed their government; an incident much like one that recently occurred in a nearby town. The judge shares these accounts as he casually packs away his flag and scales of justice.

ScalesofJusticeOttoKruger
His assessment about the value of the people he’s leaving to the mercy of an outlaw is almost as breathtakingly cold as the clock speech in The Third Man: “This is just a dirty little village in the middle of nowhere. Nothing that happens here is really important. Now get out.” The former marshal (Lon Chaney, Jr.), Kane’s mentor, is likewise a ray of light: “People got to talk themselves into law and order..down deep, they don’t care. They just don’t care.” Poor Kane is asking for just a bit of support before he takes on a posse, and these are his cheerleaders.

Of course, it’s hard not to love Kane, even as you wonder whether there’s a better way to overcome Miller than the one he’s devised (i.e., shoot it out).

Cooper-HighNoon
“I’ve got lots to do,” Kane keeps saying as the minutes creep by. But really, he doesn’t. He has to warn Helen Ramirez (former lover to both him and Miller), ask for volunteer deputies, and write a brief will. But this is a small town, easily navigated, and these tasks are quickly accomplished. What he really has to do is busy himself to avoid dwelling on the cowardice of his companions and his own slim chances for survival if he stays in town until noon, when Miller is arriving.

While Ramirez (Katy Jurado) is the most interesting character, it’s clearly Kane’s new bride, Amy (Grace Kelly), who brings on the dark humor.

JuradoandKelly
First, there’s the fact that she’s just had the biggest bummer of a wedding day ever. Then there’s the small detail that she’s a Quaker who has married a marshal. I don’t think I have to tell you that she may not be the wisest of women. Sure, he’s retiring; the new marshal is arriving the next day, and the newlyweds are planning to leave town and to run a store elsewhere before they hear about Miller. But surely five minutes of Kane’s obdurate behavior during courtship would have enlightened Amy that this whole conversion business–of both faith and career–wasn’t going to work so well. (Admittedly, given the pickings we see of the townspeople during the film, she may still have made the best choice of a mate she could.) And of course, it’s quite amusing that a woman who has to overcome her beliefs–not dodge them–is the only helper Kane receives. No wonder Kane throws his star on the ground after besting Miller.

That the film would include such darkness isn’t surprising from a screenwriter (Carl Foreman) who had been blacklisted before High Noon even came out. What he was witnessing of former friends and those he must have once respected couldn’t have led to idealism. Apparently, John Wayne scorned the film as anti-American, and Rio Bravo is a reinterpretation, with more admirable townspeople. While I agree with the movie’s distance from Wayne’s optimism, I think Foreman’s (and the original story’s) cynicism goes much deeper than any individual country, any specific belief system. It’s a simple, sadly humorous morality tale about human nature: while there may be rare moments of heroism (like Kane’s), typically, when the going gets tough, the “tough” scatter.

The Klutziest Bonnie & Clyde Ever: Gun Crazy (1950)

06/06/2016 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com Leave a Comment

**Only very minor, preliminary spoilers here**

Gun Crazy begins with a boy getting caught for stealing a gun because he trips. The kid, Barton Tare, has a mysterious attraction to guns he can neither explain nor control. Others try to defend him, given that he has no desire to harm and isn’t a good thief. But he’s sent to reform school anyway, and after that and a bout in the army, the young man returns home and falls for a carnival sharpshooter, Annie Laurie Starr (Peggy Cummins). The two are both skilled in their expertise with weaponry and in their seduction of one another (clearly what brings them together), but their limbs just go haywire in all other contexts. When they turn to crime to satisfy Laurie’s lust for excitement and cash, the two can’t stop themselves from tripping, falling, and dropping the payroll.

The chief delight of this famous noir is Laurie’s ruthlessness; she’s one of the most fascinating femme fatales; the whole movie, you’re just waiting to see if her attraction to her now-husband, Bart (John Dall), will trump her self-interest.

LaurieGunCrazy
Bart’s a little screwy (as when he brings a gun to school as a kid and refuses to give it to teacher or superintendent). But there’s an aw-shucks, Jimmy-Stewartist innocence to his love for his wife, making her single-mindedness and easy manipulation of him both sinister and completely believable. When the going gets tough, you know Bart will save Laurie. What you don’t know is whether Laurie will lose a nail to save him.

Their gun skills, of course, make them a dangerous pair when they start to rob. But in peak moments, the pair keep FALLING, making you wonder how many capers they could have actually pulled off. Call me cynical, but I think some grace might help in a getaway. This lack of finesse might dissatisfy viewers looking for slick criminals in action, but being anything but nimble myself, I found their lack of coordination endearing–an unexpected trait that made me worry for their chances, and realize that I’ve seen this trait in cinematic bank robbers too seldom. Far too many action stars have amazing reflexes without Jason Bourne’s training; more of us stumble in real life, as the Darwin Awards and local news so often prove. I know I’m not alone in loving the pratfallers, even in a noir. (Usually, only minor characters make such silly mistakes.)

Of course, there’s a lot more to recommend the movie: its stylishness, the costumes of Cummins (clearly an inspiration for Faye Dunaway’s in Bonnie and Clyde), the many artfully composed shots. But its lack of predictability (thanks to screenwriters, blacklisted Dalton Trumbo and MacKinlay Kantor) is what kept me watching and wondering. I expected some hairy getaways, but not the twists I got. I expected a dastardly female, but couldn’t predict her moves. And I certainly didn’t expect–but loved–all the great moments like this, Bart’s first tripping incident, which led to all the rest:

Bartsfirstfall-GunCrazy

Canada Lee: Blacklisted Actor, Civil Rights Activist, Benefactor

02/06/2016 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com

CanadaLee-Lifeboat
In 1940, a white kid shows up at actor Canada Lee’s door in Harlem. Lee knows him, met the lonely teenager backstage while starring in Broadway’s Native Son.

The kid asks to stay; Lee says yes, lets him remain a year. Introduces the kid to the lights of the Harlem Renaissance, loans him money for college. Later, the kid becomes a Civil Rights activist, goes on to found Physicians for Human Rights, creates the first US community health center, eventually leading to 1000 in America alone.

It’s the kind of story that baffles comprehension, but then, so does Lee’s whole life: jockey, boxer, musician, Broadway producer and star, groundbreaking film & radio actor, Civil Rights leader. He played Banquo as part of an all-black cast in Orson Welles’ famous production of Macbeth. Helped his generation empathize with black men’s plight in a racist culture through his smash performance of Bigger Thomas onstage. Even played whiteface.

His most famous film role, that of Joe in Lifeboat, is a complex one. The moral center of the story, Joe fails to succumb to mob violence, as the white passengers do. And though his companions have racist moments (the names they use, their shock at his having a wife), they respect him. It would be easy to just credit the characterization to Alfred Hitchcock. But much of the credit goes to Lee himself. He convinced Hitchcock into changing a belittling part into a fascinating one.

Lee’s insistence on dignified roles, paired with his blacklisting, may have given us too few of his films to appreciate (his early death is often attributed to the ban). But what performances they are. The viewers of Body and Soul, Lost Boundaries, Lifeboat, and Cry, the Beloved Country can thank him for selecting and affecting the development of roles that not only revealed the force of his talent, but his integrity in the face of unspeakable odds.

And despite his unjustly forgotten contributions to film, Lee’s influence is still felt in our communities today. Just ask those who’ve benefited from former runaway Jack Geiger’s medical and human rights work. All 17 million of them.

***

For more on Lee’s life, check out this well-written Wikipedia entry, a This American Life tribute to his kindness, the biography (Becoming Something: The Story of Canada Lee) by Mona Z. Smith and the following reviews of her text: Blue , Howard. Rev. of Becoming Something: The Story Of Canada Lee, by Mona Smith. The Black Scholar 35.2 (2005): 65. Print; Gautier , Amina. Rev. of Becoming Something: The Story Of Canada Lee, by Mona Smith. African American Review 40.2 (2006): 387-389. Print; and McGilligan, Patrick. Rev. of Becoming Something: The Story Of Canada Lee, by Mona Smith. Cinéaste 30.4 (2005): 73-74. Print. Geiger just posted about the situation in Flint.

A Classic Film for Media Critics: Ace in the Hole

12/06/2015 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 19 Comments

This fall, the media is a top-trending topic (surprising in a season when we’ve lost Jon Stewart’s acerbic touch): Ted Cruz won applause for attacking the media, Spotlight accolades for celebrating them. For the second year in a row, news-centered movies have garnered Oscar buzz; this year, it’s the biopic about a Pulitzer-winning investigative reporting team; last year, it was the scathing Nightcrawler, which satirized junk TV news with its sadly accurate refrain: “if it bleeds, it leads.”

Maybe these movies and headlines are why Ace in the Hole (1951) sprung to my mind when film bloggers Sister Celluloid and Movies Silently asked for posts on gateway films to lure the classic-movie-hesitant. Surely, the film that coined the term “circus” to capture a media-driven extravaganza should be viewed by both news cynics and fans.

Before Network and Absence of Malice unsettled notions of the media’s integrity, and long before Jake Gyllenhaal creeped viewers out with his road to tabloid success, Billy Wilder asked: How far would a reporter go to get a story? His dark answer might have hurt box offices returns in his day, but in ours, Kirk Douglas’ turn as the ruthless, immoral newspaperman is mesmerizing.

If you avoid old movies because you consider them cheesy or overly optimistic, Ace in the Hole is quite a cure. Here’s the scenario: Down-on-his-luck reporter Chuck Tatum (Kirk Douglas) happens into a small town in New Mexico, where a foolish hunter of Indian burial site treasures, Leo (Richard Benedict), has become trapped under a mountain, blocked by rocks that will cave in on him if he moves. Inspired by a similar scenario that earned writer William Burke Miller a Pulitzer, Tatum decides he’ll be the victim’s sole contact, and bilk the accident for all it’s worth. When his cub reporter companion questions Tatum’s wish for a prolonged rescue, Tatum snaps, “I don’t make things happen. All I do is write about it.”

Of course, Tatum immediately proves the lie of his words, sweet talking an engineer and sheriff into the long route to Leo. A rescue that should only take hours stretches for days, with hyped-up tourists and aspiring entrepreneurs and newspaper staffs quick to follow. Eventually, a carnival even arrives.

The only potential obstacle to all this hoopla–Leo’s wife–is not exactly distraught.

How’s this for spousal support: Lorraine (Jan Sterling) figures with Leo stuck, she can take off on him without interference; when Tatum attacks her betrayal, she throws his motives back at him: “Honey, you like those rocks just as much as I do.” Since Tatum needs the lovely, worried wife for his stories, he convinces her to stay—by pointing out all the money the media vultures will bring with them, and by seducing her now and then.

Tatum fully enjoys the maelstrom he’s created. He has become the hero who takes the dangerous trek to give Leo comfort daily. He even enjoys Leo’s friendship–with no real guilt. Tatum is so shameless he even agrees to the “honor” of Leo’s father loaning him his own room, even if it means dodging Leo’s silent mother, who spends the entire film praying. But when the trapped man’s health starts to decline, with hours still to reach him, the reporter’s long-dormant conscience starts to emerge. The question, of course, is whether it’s too late.

The role of Tatum is ideal for Douglas, who is never better than when he plays a character like this: oily, smart, cynical, smug, self-assured, and sexy. Despite Tatum’s cruelty, it’s hard not to root for an anti-hero so lacking in illusions, especially about himself.

When Lorraine quotes his writing to him, praising its eloquence, Tatum snaps back, “Tomorrow this will be yesterday’s paper, and they’ll wrap a fish in it.”

Lorraine’s right, of course: This film boasts some of writer/director Wilder’s (and his coworkers’) finest lines. Although not his most celebrated film, it’s clearly one of the master’s best. Any media lover/hater is a fool to miss it.

This post is part of the “Try It, You’ll Like It!” Blogathon, hosted by Sister Celluloid and Movies Silently. For more movies that might bring non-classic-film lovers into the fold, click here!

The Spirit of St. Louis (1957): Enthralling & Infuriating

10/23/2015 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 10 Comments

The first half of The Spirit of St. Louis, Billy Wilder’s ode to Charles Lindbergh, is engrossing. It’s even that rarest of traits in a biopic: fairly accurate. The scenes of his airmail days capture the impossible bravery of America’s early pilots and the primitive conditions under which they flew. Wilder conveys each stage of Lindbergh’s struggle beautifully: The search for funding and a plane for the epic NY-Paris flight, the near-universal doubts about his fitness for the attempt, the rush of finally finding a team to build that plane, as eager to prove themselves as he was.

Until just after that terrifying take-off, I couldn’t believe the film hadn’t earned more praise than it had.

That’s why the clunky transition into the flight–Lindbergh (Jimmy Stewart) gabbing with a fly–shocked me enough to stop the film, ponder what had gone wrong.

It wasn’t the cheesiness of the fly talk; after all, Raymond Chandler had managed to make a similar conversation in The Little Sister downright poetic. It was that everything about the first twenty minutes of the famous flight confirmed my fears: Wilder would definitely fail to make 30+ hours of sleep deprivation interesting, and his attempts to do so would not only grossly misrepresent his subject’s character, but Lindbergh’s whole purpose for making the journey.

Given, Wilder had quite an obstacle: How do you convey hours of reflection without awkward voiceovers? How do you enlighten viewers about the brilliant, reserved, limelight-averse, notoriously elusive Lindy with so little narrative space? That’s why Stewart was chosen, I thought. Wilder must have hoped the actor’s folksy geniality would while away the minutes, make us forget that the star was twice Lindy’s age, and about 100 times as charming. (If you doubt this comparison, check out Bill Bryson’s hilarious depiction of Lindbergh’s social awkwardness in One Summer: America, 1927.) The autobiography on which the film was based illuminates just how much Wilder miscalculated, and just how his still very worth viewing first half could have been redeemed in the second.

The Flashbacks

The Pulitzer Prize-winning book moves from flight to memory throughout, as the film does, but the latter’s flashbacks have a homespun, aw-shucks feel to them, with Lindbergh as a kind of lovable oaf who survives only due to luck. In one flashback, he buys a plane he can’t fly, utterly unconcerned about his lack of skill. The scene plays for comic relief, but painfully reinforces everything that Lindbergh stood against: recklessness.

Lindbergh was daring, yes, but cautious and calculating. When the flashbacks begin to appear in the book, he uses them not to illustrate character or give the reader a lovable feeling toward him. No, they explain his success. Here’s a moment of danger, and here’s the experience that prepared him for it: earlier escapes, his training as an instructor, his previous discoveries of flaws with his planes. His whole mission was to disprove that air travel was suicidal daredevilry because otherwise why pave runways? Why install lights for landings? Why allot money for research and development?

When Stewart actually pored half the canteen of water on his face—twice! —I nearly shouted at the screen. The real man was apportioning his own water in dribbles. Had anyone involved with the writing of the film read the book? “Lucky” Lindy put more thought into one move above or below the clouds than the writers did into his entire characterization. (Wendell Mayes co-wrote the screenplay with Wilder, and Charles Lederer was given adapting credit.)

Was Lindbergh lucky? Of course. But that isn’t the primary reason he succeeded. His competitors for the NY-Paris flight–those few who survived–were hundreds of miles off course, with safety features and luxuries he lacked. Lindbergh landed on his intended airfield early based on dead reckoning—no radio, no sextant, no help. How disappointing that the filmmakers would buy the “Lucky Lindy” headlines, and miss the far more interesting man.

The Moments of Danger

Lindbergh almost died innumerable times on that flight across the ocean, but Jimmy Stewart’s wide-eyed panic in no way captures Lindbergh’s icy calm. Interestingly, the pilot forced himself to calculate how to handle various frightening scenarios not out of panic, but to stay awake. He discovered that pleasant thoughts soothed, and thus led him to sleep. Plans to land on Arctic waters kept him alert—and alive. If Lindbergh really were as shot through with anxiety as the film implies, how could he have been a professional parachuter, as he was at the start of his career? A wing walker? (Tellingly, Lindbergh even dismisses the dangers of this part of his history, analyzing how safe both jobs could be with the right team.)

Oh, Jimmy…
I love Jimmy Stewart. Maybe if it were just the age, or the accent, or the personality. But it was everything: The talking aloud. The boisterous shouts. There’s a deafening, tone-deaf, overacting feel to nearly every word in the second half of the film.

Lindbergh was not Jefferson Smith or George Bailey. Effusiveness, goofiness—how widely these traits miss the quiet, introspective, highly scientific man that Lindbergh apparently was. I suspect this hamming was under protest: Stewart’s own distinguished flying record in WWII suggests he was far too acquainted with pilots to misstep this badly without directorial intervention.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have been so disappointed in the depiction of the flight, had the film not been so brilliant in the first half. But I kept thinking about what could have been: What if the film had ended at takeoff? Why try to put onscreen so much of a reflective book? Like The Great Gatsby, another notoriously hard to film text, the ideas are paramount here: Lindbergh’s meditations about God, about power, about nature and loss and risk.

Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger could have attempted an arty take on Lindbergh’s thinking. But Wilder, the storytelling genius, should have stuck to action, and let us end with that lovely image that he conveyed so perfectly: of Lindbergh weighing the current against forecasted weather, his chance to beat the competitors versus his sleeplessness, the muddiness of the airfield versus its length, and then deciding to go, and with a few laconic words to the panicked faces around him, pushing off into the sky.

This post is part of the Classic Movie Blog Association’s fall blogathon. Go here for fantastic entries on films highlighting planes, trains, and automobiles. You can also find an eBook version of the blogathon with many of the group’s entries, including mine, at Smashwords (for free) or Amazon for. 99. All funds for the latter go to the National Film Preservation Foundation.

Mad Men Meets Sex and the City: The Best of Everything

06/28/2015 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 16 Comments

This post is part of the Modern Era portion of the Classic Movie History Project Blogathon, sponsored by Aurora of Once Upon A Screen, Ruth of Silver Screenings and Fritzi of Movies, Silently. Previous days are covered here: Silent Era and Golden Age. Thanks to Flicker Alley for sponsoring and promoting this event.

Ever since Mad Men ended, I’ve been wondering about Peggy’s real-life equivalents, from the woman who coined “A Diamond Is Forever,” to those who paid a far greater cost for their romantic missteps than Peggy did. I’ve been curious about ’50s and ’60s movie versions of the career girl as well. Films covered single women in the city from the silent era on, but naturally, I viewed the movie based on the book Don Draper was reading at the start of the show, Rona Jaffe’s The Best of Everything.

Jaffe is an interesting figure in herself; her characters are based on her own experience in publishing, and her friends within it. She earnestly explained to Hugh Hefner (what a choice!) that her goal in writing the book was to normalize and destigmatize the experience of those girls who felt ashamed and alone in their mistakes: their dalliances with married men, the children they bore (or didn’t) as a result.

The controversial film version (1959) quickly lands us in the center of the action in a publishing company, and I was instantly hooked by the drama: the boss (Brian Aherne) who casually pinches his workers’ rears, the secretaries trying to balance social lives and unreasonable work demands, the crowded shared apartments and crammed lunch spots. (The film is given props for fashion, and deserves it. It’s a visual feast throughout.) Right away, we get a sense of what women had to put up with just to get paid, and not well.

First day on the job

Newcomer to the city Caroline (Hope Lange) rooms with coworkers Gregg (supermodel Suzy Parker) and April (Diane Baker) in a miniscule apartment, and the three instantly become tight friends despite having little in common: Gregg is the adventurous bombshell/aspiring actress, April the innocent, and Caroline, the sophisticate who is trying out work until her fiancé returns to the U.S. and marries her.

Single roommates celebrating

Caroline and Gregg talk about lovers with April

The three unite in hatred of Amanda Farrow, the harsh editor who has chosen success over marriage, and scorns the secretaries who didn’t have to go through as much as she did to advance.

She has a smidgen of Miranda Priestly of The Devil Wears Prada in her, but there’s pathos and empathy to Farrow too. She may fail to support her many secretaries’ ambitions, but she tries to save them from her romantic fate, from awful men. And The Best of Everything is full of them.

The Sex and the City ladies might have faced a lot of freaks, but at least they had some personality; the men of The Best of Everything are as interchangeable as the vice presidents in American Psycho. A recent play of the book even used cardboard cutouts of men to emphasize the point.

What’s puzzling is what these interesting women see in these duds. Effervescent April (Baker) falls for a guy who is so obviously a sleaze he might as well be wearing a signboard to announce it. Hope’s fiancé announces he’s married a rich girl instead of her—over the phone—and then expects her to sleep with him afterward. And get this: dazzling Gregg (Parker) falls so hard for a director (Louis Jourdan) that she goes into a crazy, stalking tailspin when he dumps her. (Yes, nothing inspires sexual obsession so much as heartthrob Gigi‘s Gaston. What??)

Since the men are so patently lacking in any redeeming qualities but sleep inducement, the film’s attention to them rather than the workplace and roommate dynamics is disappointing, as the latter, when they’re the focus, are well developed and fascinating. Caroline advances quickly to the rung above secretary (a reader), but is accused by an alcoholic friend, Mike (Stephen Boyd), of faux ambition, just to avoid her romantic life (by the way, this is the love interest we’re rooting for).

Ambitions attacked

Yet between the romantic interludes (and their sad repercussions) are intriguing signs of the second wave of feminism to come: Farrow (Crawford) leaves the marriage she impulsively makes with an old flame, returning to work, and we have the sense that she’s better for it. Caroline is promoted again. Abortion is presented as the fault of men who are careless with the hearts (and bodies) of naïve women—not the deserved end for loose ones. Female solidarity* prevails throughout, as when one of our heroines slaps a faithless boyfriend of the other. (*In one brief, funny exception, the secretaries all try to pass off work on one another.) The workplace even has moments of startling modernity, as with the hilariously painful bonding “picnic,” with its forced fun and workers getting drunk in self-defense. There’s enough worth watching in the film, in short, to get viewers through the unearned suds of these worthless romances.

Single women have fled to New York for all kinds of reasons, in all kinds of ages: post-Civil War belles, without men or funds; rural women leaving farms for factories; aspiring starlets, hoping for a berth at the glamour-girl dorm, The Barbizon Hotel (an upscale Footlights Club, a la Stage Door). These women certainly didn’t find the “best of everything.” But they still managed to live out enough of the excitement of the big city to keep other women coming, to keep dreamers hankering for if not the best of everything, the thrill of aspiring for it.