Comedies (film)

Lubitsch, My Expectations Were Too High!

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Here’s a question: Can we blame a brilliant director for films that don’t match his usual brilliance? If a film has a little of his luster, enough to make it stand out from the rest, but not enough to make us clamor for repeat viewings, is it fair to claim, “That sucked?”

I just watched That Uncertain Feeling (1941), a comedy directed by Ernst Lubitsch, that master of the comedy of manners. At first, I was wooed: Some expected cleverness in the dialogue. A starring role for Burgess Meredith, whom I will always love for being Mickey from the Rocky franchise.


And Melvyn Douglas as the wronged husband, who brings a lighthearted energy and humor to his roles, making me like him even when I don’t enjoy his pictures.


Of course, casting Merle Oberon as the lead was a baffling choice. A cardboard cutout would make more comedic impact. But flat as her acting is, Oberon is equipped to play upper-crust types, and somehow reminded me of Tahani (Jameela Jamil) in The Good Place: her refinement verges on parody, but never quite achieves it (unlike the consistently amusing Jamil). I found myself ignoring her performance and just enjoying her strange clothes:


Burgess is funny as pretentious musician Alexander Sebastian, who lures bored housewife Jill Baker (Oberon) away from husband Larry (Douglas) by explaining modern art to her and otherwise displaying his supposed sophistication.


In my favorite move, Sebastian snatches an absurd amount of photos of himself from Jill’s home after she sways back to Larry; Burgess’s spoiled boy huffing as he does so is a thing of beauty. And Douglas employs Lubitsch’s air of the wised-up husband so well that you wish he were in a better film.

The true crime in the movie is the deployment of Eve Arden. How, Lubitsch, do you give Eve Arden NO WISECRACKS? Even in Grease, the woman is a riot, that expert sidekick with snark embedded in her DNA. Mildred Pierce and Stage Door fans, share my dismay. I found this film by seeking Arden vehicles, saw “Lubitsch,” imagined the director known for wit and actress expert at expressing it together, and found that…Oberon is given the good lines instead, with Arden left to rely on silly expressions:


Does that mean the film is bad? No. Lubitsch is Lubitsch, and frequently, we find the witty lines we’ve come to expect in his movies:

Jill, speaking of Sebastian: “He’s an individualist!”

Larry: “Is he that rich?”

And of course, we find that trademark cynical attitude toward marital fidelity that always makes me think of French films without the despondency. Larry resents his wife’s attachment to another man, but he isn’t brought low by it. Instead, he plays her, and often shows glee in doing so. He’s going to win her back, and he knows it. Whether through generosity (in giving her everything), or jealousy (in cozying up to Eve Arden’s Sally), or in nonchalance about the whole divorce process, he feeds on his knowledge of her. We know that all will turn out with the Bakers happy together in the end, even if the wife doesn’t have enough charm for us to understand all the fuss about her.

There’s also a funny framing device: the disloyalty began with Jill visiting a psychiatrist about nervous hiccups, which he manages to blame on a poor marriage. The meeting of the lovers occurs in the waiting room. This send-up of therapy is an amusing move, though I wish in the story we’d seen Sebastian’s sessions too, as hearing him drone on about the philistines around him with his expert sneer would have been so much fun.

I haven’t seen the original version of this film, Kiss Me Again, and suspect it’s better. If you have lower expectations, maybe you can get past Oberon and Arden, enjoy Burgess’s spot-on performance enough and the lines enough to forget the rest. I just wish I could.

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Sexual Predators in Film: Weinstein, 1937

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All this talk of Harvey Weinstein and now Louis C.K. has me thinking about Stage Door (1937), that fascinating film featuring a dormitory of smart-talking women clamoring for parts on the stage, and suffering the sexist overtures of a very slimy producer along the way. The film was produced the same year the words “casting couch” were first published in Variety, according to Matthew Dessem. How the film got made is clear: it’s a feminist anthem against sexual predation, yes, but it’s carefully camouflaged as one of the funniest comedies of its era. Critics praised the witty, fabulous dialogue, ignoring or underplaying the blatant warning directed at female aspirants to stage or screen.

The story begins with Jean Maitland (Ginger Rogers) trying to oust roommate Linda Shaw (Gail Patrick). Jean’s a sarcastic gal from the wrong side of the tracks, too proud and ethical to give into seductions in exchange for parts or furs. Her roommate, however, is an opportunist, and has given up her reputation in exchange for gifts from her wealthy keeper, sables and sapphires she rubs in Jean’s face.


The two separate to achieve peace, but Jean isn’t long for a solitary room; enter her new roommate, heiress Terry (Katharine Hepburn), who wants to star on the stage too. She thinks her peers haven’t made it big yet because they lack ambition. Her slow recognition of her own privilege will become the axis around which the plot revolves. Initially mocked by the dorm residents who resent her for slumming, she does make one friend, Kay Hamilton (Andrea Leeds), the acknowledged talent of the bunch.


Sympathy and admiration for Kay will lead Terry to understand that her poverty-stricken companions aren’t slackers, but cynics battered by experience. They face obstacles she doesn’t, and have no safety net if they fall.

While Katharine Hepburn’s Terry is learning how the hungry half lives, Jean encounters Linda’s lover, Anthony Powell (Adolphe Menjou), who eyes her in an audition. The fact that finding prey is his goal in being a producer is clear, as when he says to a dancing school director, “I very likely won’t produce anything unless I can find an angel. You haven’t seen any flying around, have you?” After an uncomfortable amount of leering at a dancing pair, he asks about “the little blonde.” His pal obligingly offers the information, of course, and soon Jean has unwittingly taken a job given to her so that Powell has access to her charms. We can see in all of these moves a clear pattern: he’s after/has sex with the girl, she gets the role. Jean’s response when she sees Powell and Linda at the club where she’s been hired says everything:


Jean’s barbs at Powell (and at his choice of a mistress) have no effect.


But then Jean decides it’s time to teach her former roommate Linda a lesson, steal her guy. Jean doesn’t plan to have sex with him, but what’ll it hurt her to drink a little champagne, have a meal or two that isn’t stew?

But the bigger reason for dating an undesirable man is evident: If Jean doesn’t play nice, what happens to her job? Her dancing partner, Annie, suggests as much multiple times. When Jean complains about his creepiness, saying she needs a “tin overcoat” as protection, her partner responds, “You should be glad he looked at you at all.”  Jean doesn’t need her partner’s pestering; she knows full well that “…if I don’t go out with him, I’ll probably lose my job, and so will Ann, and I’ll be right back where I started from.”

Of course, Powell has plans of his own: ply Jean with alcohol, tell her a sob story about his life, talk about her name in lights and himself as the reason, and get what he wants. If she isn’t exactly sober enough to consent, what does he care? Creepily, his butler knows just how to disappear. As Linda warns her (to protect her meal ticket), the butler is “deaf,” so she “really won’t have to bother to scream for help.”

Luckily, Jean gets too sad-drunk on the first trip to his penthouse to make his “seduction” fun. He decides she isn’t worth the trouble, but she (too buzzed to catch the drift of their last talk) thinks she’s beginning to like the guy. The next night, when Terry is having an actual business meeting with him in the penthouse (as Weinstein’s actresses thought), Jean charges in.


Terry fakes drunkenness and sexiness to keep Jean away from the predator, and it works.


Jean realizes he’s as worthless, creepy, and unfaithful as she initially thought, and leaves. The audience is grateful for Jean’s escape, having seen the disaster Powell leaves in his wake: poor Linda has nothing but trinkets in exchange for sexual favors–gifts not even sizable enough to get her out of that dorm. (How thin is her arrogance!) We know how short Jean’s casting-couch career would be after her favors, given that roving eye. The actress in the story with true talent (Kay) who doesn’t succumb to (and apparently was never offered) the producer’s embraces is literally starving as he puts off her auditions for his dalliances, and will soon reach an even sadder fate.

I kept thinking of Terry when the Weinstein revelations came out, not just because she was brave in the story, but because she could be. Of course, Terry too is the object of male manipulation. The only reason she’s up for a part is her father’s secret meddling (He’s finagled her starring role so that she’ll fail and realize she should come home and marry a rich boy like a good little girl. Nice support, huh?) Although she does have a disgustingly condescending father, Terry is safe. That money gives her power of her own, and she can afford to confront the Anthony Powells of this world. It’s really the lesson of the Weinstein story, isn’t it? Predators go after those with no power, so those with it have to be the ones to stand up. And not just men, but female stars, the Meryl Streeps, who have status of their own and can be immune from predators’ hushing machinations. Several media outlets have justifiably called out the male actors and directors who did nothing about Weinstein, and the employees, like that pal in Stage Door, who abetted the behavior. But I’m disappointed too in the prominent women, those who weren’t personally affected, but could have done something…and didn’t. (Streep claims she didn’t know; even if she didn’t, others with star power did.)

At first I thought that the sexual predator storyline and feminist response to it were from Edna Ferber, a friend of Hepburn’s and the original play’s cowriter. Ferber may have been inspired by memories from childhood, I reasoned. According to Janet Burstein, Ferber learned about men’s less pleasant side in her youth, when everyday wants meant she “had to run a gauntlet of anti-Semitic abuse from adult male loungers, perched on the iron railing at the corner of Main Street, who spat, called her names, and mocked her in Yiddish accents.” That disgust on Jean’s face when she spots the way Powell looks at her? Yeah, that’s written by an author who knows. But the play Ferber cowrote was completely redone for the screen by Morrie Ryskind and Anthony Veiller. And according to some sources, the movie’s verisimilitude has less to do with the screenwriters than with Gregory La Cava, who sought the stories of and the funny dialogue of the women he directed, and encouraged improvisation. But then again, the stories of such men were everywhere, then and now, and needed no writer to reveal the behavior. Anyone watching and listening–as La Cava apparently did–could hear and expose them.

I hope one day this film–and La Cava–get more credit for the kind of heroic feminism we see so rarely on the screen or in life. Eighty years ago, this film exposed the terrible repercussions of sexual predation, and instead of suggesting that victims should be blamed for not standing up–as even current headlines do–put the responsibility squarely on the man at fault. More, it gave a path for correction, by showing who could do something to fight back, and revealing the privilege that might blind him/her to what was really going on. How many films in the decades since have done the same?

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Movies to Combat Moving Blues

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**Some spoilers, but then again, this is a comedy.***

I’ve been remiss in my blogging lately, due to my second move in a year. The last apartment resounded with construction noises next door, loud and consistent and close enough to drive me to repacking. So again I’ve been drowning in UHaul boxes, unsticking packing tape from my shoes, figuring out just how little I can get away with repurchasing, and wondering how few calls I can make changing my rental address.

Films about renting typically revolve around roommates, so to find characters to commiserate with (and limit the number of real-life sufferers from my complaints), I’ve turned to stories about much bigger headaches than mine: Walter’s (Tom Hanks) and Anna’s (Shelley Long) alternately endearing and hilarious breakdowns after they buy the lemon in The Money PIt (1986). The lovable Blandings (Cary Grant and Myrna Loy) as they sink their cash into first destroying one house, then building another in its place in Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House (1948).

I like both films so much, but today, I’m going to discuss the original: Tired of fighting over mirrors and closets and other ills of close apartment living with a spouse and two kids, Jim Blandings (Grant) convinces his wife, Muriel (Loy), to move to Connecticut with him, to a big shambling old relic that’s just about to crumble. Comedy ensues, especially when Jim’s jealousy over his lawyer (who once dated Muriel) surfaces while he’s trying to tackle falling parts and failed wells and bad bathroom locks. Of course, Jim and Muriel soon find the costs building up and the issues with first the old, then the replacement house mounting. So much to love about this film. Let’s begin with:

The Realistic Depiction of Marriage
The Blandings frequently squabble about everyday annoyances, but my favorite moments are those that display patience with one another’s faults, as when Jim refuses to believe Muriel knows the directions to their new place, and she patiently waits out his acknowledgment of her correctness through multiple wrong turns, a quiet smile and gaze toward the sky revealing her amusement at how it’s all going to turn out:


Unlike most films that depict a husband jealous of his wife’s affections, Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House does a subtle job conveying quietly brewing suspicions. While Jim’s jealous of his lawyer, Bill (Melyvn Douglas), throughout the film, the sentiment is understated, only boiling over when his stress level does, and therefore never failing to feel authentic. Weaker comedies play such weaknesses broadly instead; the sophisticated version of jealousy here matches that in so many more marriages, and therefore is funnier.

The (Meta) Supporting Actor Casting
The actor playing Grant’s object of jealousy is Melvyn Douglas, often viewed as a second-rate replacement for Grant in romantic comedies. He’s debonair and can be charming, but he’s no Grant.


But Douglas is always better as a supporting actor than as a hero, and does great work as the foil in this film. And some may say he did get the last laugh: he, unlike Grant, his romantic lead rival, would win not one, but two Oscars later in his career.

The Inspired Acting (and Chemistry) of Grant & Loy
Every frame of the film conveys the joy of home ownership and the stress of building and moving so well, thanks to the stellar performances. Honestly, as mobile as these two stars’ faces are, this film could have easily been a silent. Just take these shots of Grant in smirk and self-embarrassment mode, respectively.


Or Loy’s face as she expresses love, mockery, and shocked anger in turn:


The actors’ best scene is after Jim expresses jealousy over his wife’s past relationship with Bill. His expressions–one part suspicion, one part hope, one part shame–are so nuanced and real.

When he pouts, asking why she married him, she fires back in a brilliantly worded (thanks to the script) rebuttal:

“I’m beginning to wonder….” she says. “Maybe I knew you were going to bring me out to this $38,000 icebox, with a dried-up trout stream and no windows…Or maybe I just happened to fall in love with you, but for heaven’s sake, don’t ask me why.”

The scene is pitch-perfect Loy. Only she could be so angry and endearing simultaneously.

Quibbles
Luckily, the voiceover narration, which is occasionally grating, is in short supply. It is used to great effect in the opening, which depicts decidedly unidyllic city living.

I’m not a big fan of the scene in the film most love, when Muriel gives a comic level of detail about the wall colors she wants, and the painters reduce her requirements to red, yellow, etc. as soon as she turns her back. It’s just so sexist, so “oh that silly woman” in its approach. In contrast, her sink mistake, which is also depicted as foolhardy, is treated as if it’s on the same level as Jim’s errors. But Loy is fabulous in the painting scene, sure she’ll be taken seriously and oblivious to the painters’ condescension.


While Jim’s work stress during the building is a little undercooked plotwise, there are comic gems, as when Grant’s creative process is depicted:


But the joy of these brief work scenes is undermined by the portrayal of Gussy (Louise Beavers), the housekeeper, who will later be featured, Aunt Jemima style, in Jim’s ad about some Spam-like product. He does offer her a $10 raise for coming up with the ad idea that saves his job, and she doesn’t come across as stereotypically as some black actresses at the time did (Gussy does, after all, originate the ad). But it sure would be cool to see more for Beavers (and Gussy), especially given how progressive Loy was, and given Beavers’s earlier star-making turn in Imitation of Life.

Of course, the film’s legacy, despite these weaknesses, comes down to….

Its Comic Writing & Pacing
Wry humor sparkles throughout, especially when Grant has a breakdown near the film’s close. When the couple is first purchasing the old house, others observe that it’s junk, as when Bill looks at the Blandings and observes, “It’s a good thing there are two of you. One to love it, and one to hold it up,” or when Jim asks for a structural engineer’s analysis of the house, and the man succinctly replies, “Tear it down,” a caution two other engineers repeat, word for word.

The film is so efficiently edited, so quickly paced, that there’s little time to dwell on one change before another is brewing, accurately echoing the hectic pace of changing a home.

I love that so much goes wrong in the film that the move itself is briefly canvassed in order to get on to the bigger problems. Jim’s jealousy is also neatly addressed, without sidelining the story of the house. Unlike its indirect remake, Money Pit, the film doesn’t address the number of people swindling or lying to the Blandings (besides the house cost) so much, instead relying on ignorant decisions and accidents of nature. I love when the Blandings, with no knowledge of architecture, settle down to each add all their own cool features to the blueprints, as the architect looks on in dismay:


And yet, as unrealistic and financially reckless as the two prove to be, you also see why it’s worth it, to find the home they want, to set aside the troubles it took to get there. And in the moments they enjoy it, you’re proud of this idealistic couple. Proud that in spite of all their foolishness, they stubbornly hold on, and get what they wanted. It may not always be true, or even often be true, but sometimes, it’s just worth it to try for that dream home.

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Center Stage: Acting Misfire, Dancing Fun

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Center Stage is a blast: great dancing from real ballerinas, including a final performance I watch on repeat. A love triangle. And Donna Murphy and Peter Gallagher convincingly running the ballet company. We are rooting for heroine Jody (Amanda Schull), whose technique, feet, and turnout don’t measure up to those of her classmates,’ who have also won scholarships from the American Ballet Academy. But she’s an expressive dancer, and so dedicated. Will she make it, get kicked out, or get no show time in the final workshop, killing her chances for a ballet career? The actress who plays Jody was apparently handpicked from the San Francisco Ballet since she had the exact issues that she’s corrected for in the story, and while at best a decent actress, she convincingly plays up the vulnerability that makes you stay on her side.


The film is a fun watch. But make no mistake: I’m not saying this movie is good, not at all. The dialogue and some of the side plots are comically trite. You have to tune all that out, and focus on:

The Dancing
As Jody is trying to find her way in the academy, sweet fellow dancer Charlie (Sascha Radetsky) flirts with her, but she is drawn to the star of the company, aspiring choreographer Cooper (Ethan Stiefel). Cooper and she have a brief affair, which means something to her and nothing to him. Although it’s hard to imagine anyone mistaking Cooper’s shady selfish soul for anything like boyfriend material, she’s so clearly inexperienced you feel for her.

Luckily, this plot is just a set-up for the mesmerizing dance that ends the film, and Charlie and Cooper; played by American Ballet Theater’s soon-to-be-soloist Sascha Radetsky and then principal dancer, Ethan Stiefel, respectively; are beautiful in motion, even when their acting is stiff (Radetsky) or laughable (Stiefel). And given its progeny (choreographed by slimy Cooper), the narrative of the final dance is remarkably feminist as well: a woman torn by two overly grasping men discards both to fight for her own space.


You can see even from these scenes why I try to forget the….

Acting Dilemma
It’s the question of every dancing film, of course: cast actors, or cast dancers? With the former, you’ll need stand-ins for the harder dance moves; with the latter, you risk weak acting destroying the movie. That’s why Center Stage is such a curious film: there’s a mixture of dancers and actors, but inexpert as the dancer-actors are, the full-time actors are worse at acting than the dancers. Much worse. Zoë Saldana and Susan May Pratt were the “real” actors chosen to play Jody’s fellow dancers and friends/frenemies at the academy, and both excel at histrionics. As with Flashdance before it, Center Stage gives an unexpected answer to the actor/dancer dilemma: Why not choose someone who can’t do either?


While Saldana can at least move, Pratt displays a level of physical awkwardness that makes her casting baffling. Take this screen shot of the actress, who was presumably cast to lure in fans of 10 Things I Hate about You. Her character, Maureen, is supposed to have the best technique of anyone in the academy. Having spent seven years of my life in ballet studios, I remember what grace looks like, and believe me, it never looks like this:


In fact, this pose is remarkably reminiscent of my own awkward 19-year-own self, who was put into dancing as a kid to overcome a lack of coordination. Not exactly future prima ballerina material, my friends.

Saldana is at least fun to watch, even when she overplays her lines, but oh Pratt. Every scene is painful, and I tend to just fast forward through her parts (though the script is largely at fault too, her delivery is abominable). Luckily, the acting in the film is comic rather than annoying overall, and occasionally decent. And really, who cares? This is a dancing film, with great final performances, convincing practices, and a wonderful dance class at the Broadway Dance Studio in between. When Schull’s dancing, she’s a different actress than the passable one she is in the rest of film–lovely, riveting, fun. And given the choice between even good acting from poor dancers and some weak performances from people who can move? Give me the good dancers, every time.


This post is part of the En Pointe: The Ballet Blogathon, hosted by two marvelous sites: Christina Wehner‘s and Michaela’s of Love Letters to Old Hollywood. (As a sidenote to fellow Hoosier Michaela, Schull studied ballet at Indiana University.) Check out the other blogathon entries here!

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Eugene Pallette’s Birthday: All Hail His Froggy Voice

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I’m a sucker for a good voice, and no voice was as memorable and amusing as Eugene Pallette’s deep & froggy timbre. His is the kind of voice that startles you when he joins the national anthem/a church congregation’s chorus–the unmistakable, unbelievably harsh and scratchy wonder that we’d call awful if it didn’t make us laugh so much.

On others, perhaps, such a gift would be wasted, but Pallette had the impeccable comic timing and delivery to go with that glorious voice, making everything he did onscreen a wonder to behold.

I think the test of a good character actor is this: How big is your smile when he/she enters the room? Answer this: Can you watch Eugene’s mouth open without grinning?

I saw Pallette as Friar Tuck in The Adventures of Robin Hood and knew I’d love the flick. I didn’t care what happened afterward, how fun it was (and of course, it was) because once Pallette entered the picture, I was sold.

My favorite Pallette scenes are when his character is in tantrum mode. I’m not a fan of My Man Godfrey, but oh, to watch him rip on his entitled family in it! To watch him pouting for his breakfast by slamming tray lids together in The Lady Eve. To laugh over his immaturity as he battles his wife over comic strip ownership in Heaven Can Wait!

On Pallette’s birthday, I hope we’ll all celebrate the lovable curmudgeony men in our own lives. We all are the better for them.

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Crushing on The Cutting Edge’s Doug

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There’s a certain generation of women who still laugh when they hear “toe pick.”  Then they begin dreaming about a certain swoon-worthy character in the memorable scene when that line was first employed, and wonder why aren’t romantic leads like that now? Why can’t they all be like D.B. Sweeney’s Doug Dorsey: athletic, virile, funny, easygoing, ambitious, and more emotionally open than those traits might suggest?

The Cutting Edge (1992) never received the credit it deserved, but I hear the occasional reference to it in films and TV episodes, echoing the devoted following it obtained then and still now for its engaging sports narrative, its funny tone, and the sizzling chemistry between Sweeney and Moira Kelly.

In the story, Doug’s dreams of hockey stardom have been destroyed by an injury to his eye at the Olympics. Kate Moseley’s (Kelly’s) Olympic dreams have been dashed by a particularly ugly drop by her figure skating partner. The next Olympics is coming up, and no one wants to partner with the notoriously chilly Kate. Meanwhile, Doug has lost his scholarship and any chance at even a minor league hockey career. Then one day, Kate’s coach approaches Doug with some figure skates, and despite his (and her) hilariously expressed doubts, an unlikely professional pairing begins to form. Before long, Doug starts to realize he has feelings for her, and she, in spite of her engagement to another, begins to realize she is attracted to him too.

There are many differences between the two characters: he’s a stereotypical guy in many ways, and she’s a reserved, uptight, very wealthy and very feminine woman.


But you see the attraction too, especially their hyper-competitiveness and dedication. What I love so much about their union is that BOTH of them grow due to the influence of the other. It’s not just the punishment of the type A personality woman we so often see (though Kate is definitely–and deservedly–taken down a peg or two). (Actually, their dynamic is so similar to the one in It Happened One Night that I wrote about it in one of my earliest blog posts.)

My own love for Doug Dorsey was quite fervent. He was EVERYTHING I wanted in a partner in my late teens: Smart, relaxed, charismatic with an incredibly sexy smile. Confident but open, willing to admit mistakes. Promiscuous when he wasn’t in love, but when he was, not willing to go for Kate if she was still engaged or had too much to drink. Proud but mature enough to leave the pride behind when he had to. Ultimately willing to prioritize her even above his dreams. And, of course, there was his tolerance of her heinous (but enthusiastic) dance skills, which bore a strong resemblance to mine. His ability to throw a paper wad into a trashcan and make it. His skill with the cutting line, and reluctance to read Great Expectations (close to my least favorite book at the time).

My love for Doug Dorsey led me to seek D.B. Sweeney’s other work over the years, and believe me, it hasn’t been easy: Eight Men Out, a Leverage episode. Why his fully embodied, sensual, funny performance didn’t lead to stardom, I don’t know. But although he and I have aged, my opinion of Sweeney’s character hasn’t. What I realize now is that he was also what a teen’s heartthrob character so rarely is: an adult (with, admittedly, some rough edges). That’s why I can still enjoy the film now, when other teen loves have lost their allure. And besides all that? The Cutting Edge is such a fun sports film (another favorite genre of mine), and it’s full of comedy, especially when Doug confesses he’s become a figure skater to his working class, uber-masculine brother (and hometown).

When I heard Font and Frock & Silver Screenings were hosting a Reel Infatuation blogathon celebrating character crushes, I thought of others: obviously Nick of The Thin Man, Cary Grant’s hilarious The Awful Truth husband. But suddenly, D. B. Sweeney popped in my head, reminding me of Doug and the long-ago, but never-dead crush, and I figured some of the rest of you hadn’t had the joy of encountering him yet, and others would love the reminder. Hope if you haven’t seen the film yet, you’ll soon enjoy toe picks as much as I do.


For others’ wonderful posts on their film crushes, click here.

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What’s in a Name?: Together Again (1944)

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I have a sophisticated theory about why the Irene Dunne vehicle Together Again (1944) is never on any best-of, favorites, or romantic comedy lists despite the many joys of viewing it: the title sucks.

And when I say it sucks, I mean it’s the WORST TITLE I CAN IMAGINE. It’s so forgettable that every time I think of it, I have to look up Dunne’s IMDB site to find it. I cannot for the life of me remember it at all. And I’m a fan of the film! What does that say?

The title isn’t mysterious, as in The Natural, an aptly named, but box-office-ignorant choice. It’s not annoying, as in Mr. Deeds Goes to Town. It’s just so impossibly blah and vague. Together Again. As in a remarriage? As in partners who re-team? As in peanut butter and jelly? WHAT does it mean? I’ve seen the film and any possible answer to that question is not a good one.

Of course, if I’d had my druthers, I would have named it this way: Charles Coburn, Matchmaker. Because any classic movie fan familiar with his work would run to see it then. But as I don’t have naming rights, I can just tell you this: Ignore the title; watch the film.

Why? I’ve posted a longwinded tribute to it, with comparisons to Veep, should you have time to kill. But here, I’ll give you the brief but essential rundown of why so many of you will love it:

  1. It’s Such a Feminist Flick. A female mayor, people. Who rips on men who belittle her. Who makes fun of romance, and yet (despite herself) is itching for it after her husband’s death. Her father-in-law (Coburn) keeps trying to sway her to take things easier, to find a new man and stop worshipping his son. Hooked yet?
  2. Irene Dunne. Oh she’s great. That odd, fluttery voice dishes out sarcasm with verve. Her on-point timing and ease of movement make her mesmerizing to hear and watch.
  3. The Romance. I’m not a big fan of Charles Boyer’s, but the two actors have chemistry together. And I’ve always been a fan of the straightlaced gal and bohemian/relaxed guy meet-cute, probably because I was such a nerd as a kid.Unnecessary Aside and Spoiler of Other Films: I prefer Boyer’s & Dunne’s Love Affair (1939) to the more beloved An Affair to Remember (1957) remake, partially because Boyer & Dunne are more in sync and believable as a couple than Kerr and Grant, despite the latter’s extreme charm in his film. But mainly because Deborah Kerr seems such an inert actress to me, making the tragedy that befalls her less moving than that of the highly energetic Dunne. I mean, ask yourself: Which actress can you imagine in a gym? I rest my case. (The fact that I’m more like Kerr, gym-devotion wise, doesn’t alter my point narratively speaking.)
  4. Coburn-Dunne Magic. I love these two together. You could ditch the romance and just enjoy Dunne & Coburn sparring, and never miss a thing. These two are so witty, have such a great rhythm together. And his expression when he rips on her for a frivolous hat purchase is so good I’m going to have to post it again (I believe this is post 3):


Alas, the only reason I discovered this film at all is because it was paired with the more famous Theodora Goes Wild in a Netflix two-set; to my surprise, I was disappointed with the comparatively famous madcap film, and fell hard for Together Again. If only the smart folks who’d named the former had taken a crack at the latter.

This post is part of the Classic Movie Blog Association’s blogathon on Underseen and Underrated films. If you haven’t checked out the other entries yet, go see them now!

 

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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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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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