Sometimes you see an Oscars list, and you’re happy to see not what IS on it, but what isn’t. Some idealistic prognosticators theorized that this buzzy little tennis film called Challengers (2024) would get a bid. After all, its music had won a Golden Globe.
The only thing more annoying than the film, I can safely say, is that music.
I watched the movie out of lethargy. Anora (2024) had just completed, and Challengers started playing. I watched for a bit, idly thinking, “This has to get more interesting.”
Forty-five minutes in, I thought, “No, it really doesn’t” and turned it off.
I turned the movie on again a week later, committed to discovering what others saw in it, and can now say I liked it–the last five minutes, that is. I yawned through every minute of the rest.
So here’s what I saw:
There are some scenes of tennis, in which I had no stake.
There were some characters, so thinly developed I felt nothing for them–not even dislike. They reminded me of the fly that got into my home the other day after surviving the cold. It buzzed here. It buzzed there. No one could say why. I did watch it. I watched Zendaya too. She’s pretty. I liked her clothes. She flitted here; she flitted there. She frowned a lot, sometimes in sunglasses.
There are two other characters. There’s some implication they all want to have sex. The preview suggests that, as does the brief scene it captures. Actually, they don’t. They don’t seem to like anything, including sex. A sandwich is eaten with more relish than they gaze at each other. The sandwich was my second favorite part.
The tennis was at least more active than the characters’ faces. Right when I would wonder, “What is the point of this?” some loud, abrupt, terrible music would come in, but only after a very awkward pause, kind of like an angry teenager turning on speakers full blast to drown out parents, but a teenager unaccustomed to how speakers work. Then the music would go away for no reason, and then come back. Much like my fly. EDM is bad enough at any time, but I’ve never experienced a less artful use of music in any film, at any time. Apparently, this is what wins an original score award at the Golden Globes these days.
And besides the last five minutes, which I did enjoy?
Laura is a curious film. I always think of it as the male gaze on steroids, as we know so little of the heroine apart from the versions we get from the men who surround her: the portrait artist, the boyfriend, the best friend and the cop. All are obsessed with her, and all want their version of the murdered heroine to supersede the others.’
That’s why I chose the film for A Haunting Blogathon: In the Afterlife, hosted by the Classic Movie Blog Association. Crime writer James Ellroy once said something about Laura being the ultimate film for cops, and I think he’s right: the victim you only learn of from diaries, from photos, from others’ words. You never quite know who she was.
Surely, it would be easy for those driven to solve a homicide (especially one that remains out of reach) to become possessive about what they know and haunted by what they don’t. (Ellroy, whose mother was murdered, explores his own haunting in My Dark Places, a fascinating read, as is the book that inspired him: Joseph Wambaugh’s true-crime masterpiece, TheOnion Field.)
It’s not hard to imagine becoming enamored with and fascinated by a victim who looks like Gene Tierney. In this particular story, however, the hauntings turn from reasonable to pathological.
What I love about the film is that the versions of Laura these men (and one woman) tell don’t quite add up. Her housekeeper, Bessie (Dorothy Adams), describes Laura as the sweetest lady on earth, and certainly Gene Tierney’s perfect face and that sentimental theme song seem to confirm those impressions.
But would such an angel be best friends with Waldo Lydecker, enjoying his poisonous remarks about her admirer and fellow party guests, as we see her do (in his version of her story, of course)?
Is she really a woman who, as fiancé Shelby Carpenter (Vincent Price) claims, will indulge any visitor, day or night? He has treated his bride-to-be like a doormat. Since he wants to continue to do so, this tenderhearted version of Laura is convenient for him. But Laura does, in fact, dump him, and despite occasional remarks seems little affected by the poor woman (cheater or not) who got killed in her doorway. Not exactly the heart-on-her-sleeve, always-forgiving softie he takes her for.
Of course, Lydecker isn’t wrong in accusing Det. Lt. Mark McPherson (Dana Andrews), Laura’s most recent admirer, of being a creep. McPherson wants to buy a portrait of her when she’s dead and becomes instantly possessive of her after she returns to life.
Who instantly hits on a stranger (worse than that, assumes she’s already his) while she’s still in shock?
Even if she is vulnerable enough to think she’s in love too, it would be wise and kind to wait–I dunno–48 hours? He also chooses for the moment of his wooing a party during which the following things are happening to his new love:
Her fiancé has basically just said to her, “Yeah, I know you killed my lover, and that’s cool,” after inviting said lover into Laura’s home and into her clothes during the latter’s wedding week.
Someone has just been murdered in Laura’s home, and this cop/admirer has invited people over to it for a gathering before she’d had time to sage it, obsessively clean it, or call a real estate agent to put it on the market.
Her aunt, Ann Treadwell (Judith Anderson), has confessed–casually, I might add–that she’s toyed with murdering Laura herself.
And oh yeah, our heroine is still in grave danger from the best friend who tried to off her.
Our infatuated cop follows up this uproariously fun party by pretending he’s arresting her, ruining her reputation in front of her friends, because he can’t control his feelings without taking her into the police station. Ummm, what?
McPherson is right that Laura has surrounded herself by “dopes”–if by dopes he means a heartless group of friends and lovers, with some sociopathy in the mix. He’s just wrong not to include himself in the description. Andrews is quite handsome and feigns calm (with his trusty toy), so it’s easy to think of this detective as the hero in the beginning, but that impression soon wanes.
Right after returning home and shocking Bessie, Laura says gently, “I’m not a ghost, really,” and then jokes, “Have you ever heard a ghost ask for eggs?” But her claims ring hollow. Though she’s physically in the room, I would argue Laura still is a ghost through no fault of her own. Real/imagined impressions of her haunt her admirers and herself.
Actual men are also looming in her life, refusing to let her be who she wants to be, love whom she wants to love, or take five minutes to recover from life-altering trauma. And then there’s the method her best friend chose to kill her with: buckshot (interesting that Waldo doesn’t even reconsider that method during his second attempt). It’s not bad enough he wants to kill her. He wants to obliterate her.
If I were Laura’s true friend (or her therapist), I’d say, “Hey, honey. It time to hightail it out of town. A transfer overseas would be ideal. Also, you may want to keep that phone number unlisted.”
Episode 2 of the femme fatales season of Nobody Knows Anything is up!! Dangerous Liaisons, a film that pits the dueling wits of Glenn Close and John Malkovitch against each other in a fight over love and power . . . . and also, Keanu Reeves is there, being strangely perfect in eighteenth-century dress. We ask this critical question: Can the femme fatale ever win? (Just why Close didn’t get the Oscar for this is a big mystery.)
I walked into Barbie with sky-high expectations. I had been tracking the career of its co-screenwriter (and Greta Gerwig’s spouse) Noah Baumbach since 1995’s Kicking and Screaming played on my VCR in college. My roommates and I–and my sister–had fallen deeply and completely into lifelong loyalty with him the moment we pressed play. Baumbach GOT us.
Far more than Reality Bites or other Gen X standards, Kicking and Screaming captured my life and my friends’ and siblings’–not in a literal sense, of course, most of us being female and at large state schools. We were certainly not young, privileged men at a small New England college. But in spirit. He got our reluctance to move on with our lives, our fear of door-to-door salespeople, our reluctance to complain to servers, our laziness (putting a sign stating “broken glass” on the floor instead of cleaning a mess up), all our ridiculous rituals we couldn’t break.
I remember the year I paid roommates for their time if I told a bad story or joke, thanks to the film’s influence. I recall my excitement when TheSquid and the Whale (2005) finally showed me others had recognized the writer-director’s brilliance. (Though I don’t think he’s equaled either of those films since; I’m not a huge fan of Marriage Story, for example, and thought Margot at the Wedding cold and half-baked.)
Gerwig won my admiration–though to a lesser extent–with Ladybird and by capturing Little Women‘s Jo so well. She pictured the heroine’s future as Louisa May Alcott would have, had the times she’d lived in been less sexist than they were.
To have THESE TWO creating a funny Barbie movie? I was in–especially with Ryan Gosling starring. I admit I had some apprehension, given Baumbach’s caving to Wes Anderson in The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. (Where WAS he in that?)
There is A LOT to like about Barbie: The opening scene is brilliant–& the first half is so funny. “Beach” as Ken’s theme for life and his joy at realizing he’s the beneficiary of the patriarchy are so amazing. The costumes and production design are so well done, and Kate McKinnon’s Weird Barbie is an inspiration.
But then, there’s that by-the-book speech delivered by America Ferrara and the muddled second half. Until the ending, which I loved, the film lost its focus.
I don’t question the lack of an Oscar nomination for Margot Robbie. Best actor/actress awards rarely go to men or women in comedies. (It’s all about supporting with comedy nods; this year’s two best actor comedy nods are the exception, not the rule, and both men are starring in dramedies, not comedies, like Barbie.) In addition, the male characters in this film are better written and thus the men have better roles, which is hardly surprising, since Noah Baumbach, the better writer of the pair, has been perfecting this kind of arrested-development male (aka, Ken) since Skippy of Kicking and Screaming. (Actually, arrested-development male describes nearly every character in that film.)
I do think–given its innovative spirit and how much it had to offer–Barbie deserved to be in the best picture mix, especially with undeserving films like The Holdovers, Past Lives, and Oppenheimer on the roster.
Did Gerwig deserve an Oscar nomination for director? It depends on how you look at it. If I ask, “Do I think this film, with its muddled second half, deserves a directing Oscar nomination?” I would answer no. But does she deserve it MORE than Christopher Nolan for his poorly developed, uninspiring borefest? You better believe it.
In the end, I realize Gerwig just tried to please too many audiences with Barbie. And given that, I’m grateful for what I got, and for the joy I felt in wearing pink with Barbie-loving peers at the theater (my first theater return post-COVID). But I hope she and her spouse streamline their styles a bit more because what amazing potential that duo has. We’ve seen what they can do (in Barbie) if they get it half-right. Can you imagine what they can accomplish, once they get it right?
I’ve always been curious about the film that united director Roberto Rossellini and actress Ingrid Bergman in their illicit romance. How red-hot would an affair have to be to lead to a public censure in the US Senate and a six-year ostracism from Hollywood?
I was prepared for something akin to Mr. and Mrs. Smith (2005), where the chemistry of actors (and new lovers) Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt inflamed the screen.
Of course, I neglected to consider a few things before viewing: 1) the absence of the director as an actor in the film, 2) the film’s very un-Hollywood use of everyday people as actors–in this case, fishermen in Stromboli, a small island off of Sicily, 3) the plot.
The Keystone Cops would have been just as likely to show up as a red-hot romance.
But in one way, I was still on the right track about Stromboli (1950): you can’t keep your eyes off of Bergman, and she IS unbelievably sexy in the film.
The nature of that sexiness is curious because this is a very, very odd movie. I found myself siding with early American critics, who called it dull. I agreed; it was dull. But it was also haunting, with a grim take on marriage quite unusual for its time.
Bergman’s character, Karen, is fascinating because she is one of the least sympathetic, most selfish brides I’ve ever witnessed onscreen. She marries a poor but handsome ex-POW, Antonio (Mario Vitale), to get out of a displaced persons camp.
When he brings her home to his fishing village, she doesn’t even try to be civil–to anyone. She attacks her new groom for taking her there. She tells him this place is terrible, that she’s too refined for it and can’t stay. Kind of harsh right after his release from a camp, huh?
In fairness, the village does suck, at least for Karen. There’s an active volcano that can erupt at any moment. Their house is a shack. There’s little to do or see. The townspeople are super judgy and foreigner-averse, which doesn’t make Karen, a Lithuanian, feel very welcome.
But it’s hard not to pity (at first) the poor husband who just takes Karen’s verbal abuse and hostile glances–especially when he quietly accepts an underpaid fishing job to buy her a better life.
She starts filling the home with the worst decor I’ve ever seen–and hides away her husband’s family photos and religious icons, which she despises. Apparently, this process gives her some pleasure. She’s appalled when he doesn’t love what’s she done, including the weird flowers she’s painted on the walls, kindergartener style. (I told you this film was bizarre, right?) She decides to use a sewing machine in the home of an apparent madam, despite warnings. Then she’s mad at others for thinking she’s loose.
But just when I’m ready to care only about him, her husband proves he’s brutish, like she’s claimed: he beats her for making him look like a cuckold. Now, we audience members don’t have anyone to like in the film.
As for Karen, it’s not long after the house decorating that she begins to plot her escape. Her method is to throw herself at every man who might get her out of there, including–wait for it–the village priest. And the seduction act Bergman pulls is something to witness. I’m not sure how anyone resists it, transparent as her motives are, because this is Ingrid Bergman throwing herself at you, men!! And she has moves. (Narratively, it would have made sense to choose a less attractive actress, but I fully enjoyed full-seduction Bergman. It’s easy to understand how Rossellini fell for her while filming.)
But it’s not just her sensuality that has the audience enthralled by Karen. Her breathless confidence in herself in the face of hostility and discomfort and abuse and foreignness is something to witness. You can’t help but root for her even as you question her decisions. Bergman displays confidence not just through her voice and expressions, but through a kind of ease with her body typical of athletes and dancers. In another world and in another time, you think, what couldn’t this single-minded woman do!? No wonder she’s so angry about her lot!
Unfortunately, Karen soon proves that her poor judgment is not limited to her words and decor. On a lark, she stops by her husband’s job while he’s fishing for tuna with his crew in a ploy to earn his affection. WHO DOES THIS???
This choice is one of the plot devices that seems to be an excuse for Rossellini to include a beautiful neo-realistic scene. It’s easy to understand Rossellini’s reputation as a director when it comes to cinematography. It was fascinating to watch the brutal and dangerous process of catching these huge, gorgeous fish and killing them as the refined wife looks on, horrified.
Later gorgeous scenes include when the volcano erupts, and the town flees for the sea. The escape is fascinating and frightening to watch, and beautifully rendered. (In typical fashion, Karen is only concerned about her own rescue when she sees motorboats.)
**Spoilers coming**
Stromboli is most famous for its ending. Fresh from volcano PTSD, Karen takes off, despite being pregnant. She heads over the still-active volcano alone to get to the side of the island where she plans her escape. She dumps her suitcase in exhaustion after breathing in copious amounts of smoke. She passes out after admitting defeat.
But when she wakes, she calls aloud to God, asking for strength, proclaiming that her experience has been too awful to endure and that she must depart. Whether she really means awful for her or for her unborn child (or for both) is unclear despite her words. Hollywood later added a voiceover suggesting she returned to her husband, a disturbing “happily ever after,” given his violence and decision to forbid her exit by nailing the front door shut while she was inside.
But I don’t buy Hollywood’s interpretation. Karen seems more intent on the birds above her, on the flight still possible with God’s help. The end is ambiguous, it’s true–I can’t be sure I’m right. What ISN’T ambiguous is how miserable Rossellini makes marriage look–which is interesting as he’s breaking up Bergman’s and his own.
Regardless of what anyone makes of the film, Bergman’s performance is unforgettable, and not to be missed by her fans. The extended final scene of her climb and pleas is breathtaking: her resignation, her desperation, her anguish, her hope. This woman deserved all of her three Oscars and then some, and it’s a pleasure to watch her commanding the screen in this stunning finish. If nothing else, watch that.
This post is part of The Wonderful World of Cinema‘s 6th Wonderful Ingrid Bergman Blogathon. Check out the other celebrations of Bergman here!
You have to hand it to Dan Stevens. Two years after his dramatic Downton Abbey exit, he starred in the camp treasure, The Guest, putting behind him one type of ponderous silliness for a decidedly lighter-weight version.
The Guest bears all the hallmarks of Lifetime fare in the first half: a mysterious, ridiculously attractive stranger. Hints that his motives—and past—might not be as innocent as his southern charm and “ma’am” courtesy would suggest.
A young woman who suspects him despite her parents’ trust (and her dad’s overeagerness to have a drinking buddy). And a young brother too pleased by the stranger’s help with his bullying problem to fear the degree of the man’s violence. Had that been all that The Guest was, I would have been happy enough.
But oh no, The Guest is much more. Because halfway through, it takes an abrupt 90 degree turn into campish horror/slapstick, without bothering to clarify basic character motives or anything else. In so doing, it gave me the best burst of unquenchable laughter I’ve experienced in some time.
Dan Stevens just OWNS this film, reveling in his goofy role as only an actor with a deep-seated love for black humor could do. His tiniest gesture is hilarious. The film even pays tribute to a famous scene in one of my favorite noirs from the 40s—which I’ll link to, but won’t reveal. Because to give anything away in the second half would be a mistake. Instead, I’ll just give you the basic premise:
David (Stevens) visits the parents of his dead army buddy. They ask him to stay. Because of course they do. The mother (Sheila Kelley) plays Debbie Hunt in Singles, and she has always expected the best.
Soon, David’s actions become suspicious, and then the plot turns downright bonkers. Because of course it does. The actor playing the father, Leland Jones Orser, starred in the (deeply dark) black comedy Very Bad Things, which should have foretold it for me.
The viewing pleasure isn’t hurt by just how sexy Dan Stevens is in the role. He has clearly spent a lot of gym time in preparation, and his lean, beautiful body is a nice complement to those riveting blue eyes. One can hardly blame the daughter/heroine (Maika Monroe) for waiting until his behavior goes truly off the rails to seek help.
And one can hardly blame you for enjoying every minute of this eye-candy-filled, ridiculous romp of a film.
Sex and the City had this odd way of pretending its heroines were parentless. Sure, there was a reference or two, and that lovely episode about Miranda dealing with her mother’s death. But overall, the show just pretended the women had no moms or dads. For six seasons and two movies, the lack of parents enabled the show to stick with sunnier, lighter fare, favoring romance over family drama.
And then the reboot came, presenting the show’s writers with a conundrum: how do you talk about women in their fifties—especially childfree ones—without dealing with aging parents?
Unfortunately, the writers’ solution was to conflate the fifties and eighties, giving the ladies hip replacements and their husbands hearing issues and farmers’-market-forgetfulness. Even the elderly parents of the new characters are pressuring their kids to get married or use their time differently—in other words, things parents of 30-year-olds do.
And how grim these writers make aging seem! Look how much more measured—and funny—Grace and Frankie is in tackling the same ground—and for much older women.
What Carrie, Miranda, and Charlotte would really be doing if they were in their fifties is worrying about their parents’ minds, limbs, and ailments. And for those of us who have been living with the slow-burn terror that our parents will catch COVID—or grieving the loss of those who died of it—the fear of parental aging is what’s keeping us up (not partying neighbors or mysterious dinging sounds). That’s why the erasure of our worry from the experience of 50-year-old women is infuriating in a franchise that used to get us.
What important things this show could have covered about what single, childfree women face in their fifties! What if Carrie’s married siblings with children had expected her to move home to take care of their sick mother or father? How would she have dealt with that as a single woman whom they assumed had time they didn’t?
The parentless state of our heroines also killed so many avenues for humor, like mothers’ attempts to comfort their daughters’ PMS worsening with age by saying, “Don’t worry. You don’t have long to worry about that.” (Just my mom? OK, the cheese stands alone.) Or dads bluffly cheering daughters after bad Bumble dates by saying, “Aren’t you about ready for Our Time? That’s much better.”
Of course, those weren’t the only humorous avenues And Just Like That neglected. Exactly how much did your frugal friend invest in wrinkle cream once she spotted Zoom’s skill for highlighting neck skin sagging? What collection of ring lights has your single buddy amassed to ensure she looks young for those selfies of her breasts for Hinge dates?
And the thing is, your friends in their 50s will confess these acts openly to strangers. That’s one of the beauties of aging: you don’t care what others think. We are ALL Samantha now. I remember the joy of canceling plans for the first time because I didn’t feel like taking a shower. Or the admission that yes, I was watching Lifetime reruns on a Saturday night, or organizing my earrings instead of going to a party. How much I would have loved Carrie dropping by Miranda’s because the latter couldn’t tear herself away from a marathon binging of Tiger King! (An update on the rabbit episode. LOL.) Remember when Carrie struggled to get her friends together? Now THAT’s a struggle for your 50s.
A podcast for Carrie never made much sense to me either—not for a woman who loves being seen (especially not a 90s-era radio show masquerading as a podcast). What does our former sex columnist think of Love Is Blind? Or 90-Day Fiancé? What if she hosted some cheesy reality dating show, like Love Island? That could have been so funny, unlike Che’s humorless standup.
And what silly notions about being woke these AJLT writers have! Is this an after-school special from 1985? What women in their fifties are suddenly realizing they have no non-white friends? I know these characters aren’t as reflective as they could be, but I do believe they have eyes.
What would these women be facing? Well, these characters might be worrying about terminology they use when it comes to race, ethnicity, and gender. Miranda would not have blundered as much as she did in class. But I could see her using a term from five years ago. Or Charlotte, Carrie, or Miranda could be chided by BIPOC friends for a clueless privilege moment. If AJLT wanted to address race in a more organic way, why not have Lily recovering from the trauma of the racism she dealt with during COVID, or Charlotte appalled by other parents fighting critical race theory?
(About midway through the series, I began to wonder whether Michael Patrick King was paying us all back for calling Carrie an unlikeable narcissist by making Charlotte and Miranda so much worse. Why else reinvent history, and make Carrie suddenly the most tolerant and understanding of the bunch? You think Miranda should have been the star? he might have said. I’ll show you…..)
I was, of course, happy to see Miranda, who is played by a public-school advocate, re-inventing her life to do something she found meaningful. That’s what women in their 50s do: Try to find new purpose in their lives. But AJLT had her dump that idealism to play fangirl to a bad comic (how like Carrie that decision was). Che was a missed opportunity, of course. I would have liked Carrie recognizing in Che’s struggles some similarities between what she had dealt with in feeling isolated as a single woman. Their experiences would never be quite the same. But empathy is born of comparison. Carrie didn’t have to fully get it. But she could have begun….
I didn’t expect much of the reboot, I admit, despite my love for Sex and the City. The movies, after all, had already done damage. Samantha’s absence, I knew, would do more. Still, I didn’t expect to be this disappointed. I’m younger than these women, but they always echoed some measure of my experience—and some measure of my future.
Until now.
Parents couldn’t have saved And Just Like That entirely. But it would have been a start.
Romeo & Juliet. This guy was in love with another gal last week. This is not a romance for the ages; this is a guy who can’t handle being without a girlfriend. Juliet, why didn’t you hold out for something better?
The Teens of Say Anything. Diane (Ione Skye), I’m sure you’re going to have a great time on your British adventure while your boyfriend, Lloyd Dobler (John Cusack), is hanging out in your apartment watching kickboxing videos all day. I know your daddy, the embezzler, set the bar for men low, but come on.
The Cheaters of Something Borrowed. Hollywood has such a low opinion of us really. We’re asked to get behind Rachel (Ginnifer Goodwin), who had sex with her best friend’s fiancé, Dex (Colin Egglesfield). We’re supposed to root for the cheaters’ love to prevail because the betrayed friend, Darcy (Kate Hudson), is vain, and Dex used to like Rachel. Ummm, what??
Heathcliff & Catherine of Wuthering Heights. Ahhh, the sociopath and the narcissist. Now that’s a coupling that we all want to see, right?
TheUnnamed Heroine & Maxim de Winter of Rebecca. So, when you find out your husband killed his ex in a rage, the proper reaction is NOT to feel better (because now you know he didn’t love her). That makes you almost as creepy as he is. I’ve never rooted so hard for a (dead) villain of a story.
Those are five of the least ideal couples that novels, plays, and movies would have us celebrate. I can come up with ten more without trying. Which couples do you find the most laughably awful?
I read Of Human Bondage as a preteen/teen and was moved by the story of a would-be artist who eventually discovered that a simpler life of helping others was his route to happiness. As a wannabe artist myself, Philip’s journey was meaningful, even enlightening. His time practicing medicine for a poor community won the respect of his patients and his gruff superior—even crushed the snootiness that had marred the rest of his life. While Philip’s extreme sensitivity (related to his club foot) was what drew me as an angsty young girl, it wasn’t his only trait. He was funny, self-aware, compassionate—a fully rounded character.
What Hollywood would do to William Somerset Maugham’s reflective character I had a right to fear, especially since the 1934 version was known as Bette Davis’s breakout role. She played the extremely unlikable Mildred, a mean-spirited waitress who detours Philip on his journey. Mildred traps him in his lust for her, but never pretends to like or be faithful to him. She sucks away his time, energy, and money, and he’s too weak to resist.
She is, in short, one of Maugham’s complex female characters: fascinating, headstrong, real—the kind of role actresses are craving now, almost a hundred years later. And with an ambitious young Davis at the helm, sick of her milksop roles and ready for something meaty, what chance did Leslie Howard have for any attention (his starring role notwithstanding)?
No one can stand up to Davis in full chewing-the-scenery mode.
She doesn’t nail the accent, but Davis does fully personify this selfish woman, particularly her flirtatious nature and prickly pride. She shows how Mildred’s self-interest–her primary trait–can’t stand up to her destructive passions. Except for her trademark burning magnetism, Davis is nearly unrecognizable in the role: she BECOMES Mildred.
She famously only got a write-in nomination that year, but won the Oscar the next, most say in compensation for the MIldred loss. Bette’s (Cockney?) accent is regrettable, but everything else about her characterization is perfect.
I’m not sure if writer Lester Cohen decided the movie would be the Philip-Mildred show, given that part of the book’s high drama, or if director John Cromwell saw what he had in Davis and switched it accordingly. But poor Philip’s spiritual journey is reduced to a few scenes, with conversations with Mildred and his later love Sally (Frances Dee) meant to explain his transformation.
Basically, fans of the book can enjoy the fine sensitivity of Philip on screen, which Howard carries off. But Philip’s growing devotion to his career is off the screen. Somerset Maugham was a genius at empathy, and his semi-autobiographical masterpiece shows how Philip’s extreme sensitivity, such a burden as a child, led to his success and happiness as a humble doctor (just as Maugham’s sensitivity to his stutter may have made him a great writer). That theme is totally lost in the don’t-date-women-like-Mildred messaging of the film.
So as far as capturing the book, this film fails. But the movie does nail William Somerset Maugham’s trend of giving female characters their due. I’ve written before about how frequently actresses in his stories are nominated for (and often win) Oscars once his films are screened—including Annette Bening, who should have won for Being Julia.
Look at Davis: wins her Oscar for Dangerous because of her performance as Mildred, then gets nominated for The Letter, another of Maugham’s most famous stories, just six years later.
If that isn’t an advertisement for the continual reading of William Somerset Maugham’s body of work, I don’t know what is. And that–in my eyes–is what makes for a successful film adaptation.
Join my friends’ and my new podcast! Tomorrow we feature the gum-chewing, sunglass-wearing Roddy Piper as he breaks through all the conventions of conspiracy films we’ve discussed so far. Don’t miss it.
