FX is bringing classic movie buffs’ favorite sparring partners, Bette and Joan, to the screen. And the leads for the pair? Susan Sarandon and Jessica Lange. How lucky are we? The show, aptly titled Feud, will also feature some amazing costars. The only downside? We have to wait until 2017.
Join me as I watch What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? on repeat to rev up excitement for its debut!
This is my contribution to the Classic Movie Blog Association‘s Words! Words! Words! blogathon. Some of the entries have been collected into an eBook, which is free on Smashwords or .99 on Amazon, with all proceeds going to the National Film Preservation Fund. I hope you’ll get the book or go here to read the words of my talented peers.
When I learned that CMBA’s spring blogathon would be devoted to writing and film, I decided to tackle one of my oldest literary phobias (of twenty years duration): watching The Razor’s Edge, an adaptation of one of my favorite novels. W. Somerset Maugham’s cynicism and lack of judgment about human behavior have always won me, and his Larry is a fascinating hero: elusive and religious, known for his evasions, gentle but of strong will, a scholar without pretension.
I’ve always loved how the story is told. The narrator, an unveiled W. Somerset Maugham, simply ties together a series of Larry encounters (both his own and others’), trying to explain why someone he barely knew had such an impact. Many believe Larry was someone the author actually knew, and have speculated on his identity.
Larry is an unusual character.
He is disillusioned after his time in WWI, looking for something to believe in, and wanders around Paris, through Europe, and eventually to India to find it, a quest he calls “loafing,” which actually means intense intellectual pursuits. He decides to let go of his love, Isabel, when she won’t join in his journey, and she never gets over him. While he finds what he needs (faith), Isabel pines for him even after her marriage to a millionaire (Gray Maturin). I shuddered at what Hollywood would do with such a religious quest–probably turn it into a romance.
Alternatively, the movie could focus on Isabel’s uncle, Elliott, and his high society ambitions–a better option, given how delightful that character is, but still not the story I knew.
I wanted to give the screenwriter some slack, since creating a good movie from such a story was a pretty tough aim. Lamar Trotti managed better than I would have thought, and has moments of real mastery. But alas, much of the film tips toward tedium. I’ll start with what works, and lead into the atrocious.
The Good.
Elliott (Clifton Webb).
A lot of the credit for the characterization of literature’s most endearing snob goes to the actor. (After all, he excelled at this role in Laura and Titanic.) But much goes to Trotti too: he retains great lines from the novel, which capture the snobbery and yet the sweetness of the man. I like how occasionally Trotti uses him as a stand-in for the narrator, as when Isabel (Gene Tierney) thinks of luring Larry (Tyrone Power) to bed to trap him with a pregnancy, and her uncle rips on her for it.
This moment was much livelier than the narrator’s conversation with her in the novel. Maugham and Elliott share a sardonic humor and lack of pretense about human behavior; it’s not at all surprising that they’re friends (in Elliott’s case, of course, he is quite blind about his own). This switch works much better than (oh horror!) when the writer exchanges the narrator and Larry later (see “The Ugly.”)
Isabel’s Selfishness. I was afraid the writer would take the cruelty out of Isabel, soften her up to earn sympathy. High marks to Lamar Trotti for letting her be who she is; her self-centered behavior is one of the highlights of the novel and the film.
She comes across as real, like Maugham’s other fascinating heroines: charming and fun, but judgmental, conniving, and occasionally ruthless. As the narrator says of her, “You only lack one thing to make you completely enchanting…tenderness.”
Montages of Larry’s Actions. What a stroke of brilliance to pair Elliott’s guesses about Larry’s likely debauchery and high-class life in Paris with scenes of his real actions (hanging out on a steamer with a bunch of guys rather than the glamorous voyage Elliott would have booked, reading books rather than finding a mistress).
The juxtaposition made me laugh aloud. Beautifully done.
The Narrator. While his absence in much of the first half makes little sense, when he appears, Maugham is quite similar to his character in the book, though (thanks to the casting of Herbert Marshall) less animated.
The Bad
The Strange Opening about Larry. The writer falters with his introduction. Instead of trusting his scenes to show Larry’s originality and holiness, he preaches it to us by lifting a whole passage from the book. Since we don’t see the many encounters between Larry and the narrator or the narrator and Isabel that appear in the novel, this knowledge of and admiration for Larry are puzzling, as is Maugham’s later intimacy with the Maturin family.
Sophie (Anne Baxter).
True, the girl had her romantic side, but what happened to the dry cynic we saw in those early scenes in the book? The cool-headed observer of her peers? She was passionate about her husband, yes, but theirs was a kind of exclusive love; they weren’t exactly the social butterflies we get in the film. Nor was she ever a fan of Isabel’s. She was an outsider from the start, which made her tragedy all the more acute. Baxter does a good job (though her Oscar was a stretch), but she’s given a far less interesting character to work with than in the novel; the character’s lack of boldness in the film also took away the dark humor of her reactions to Isabel’s superficiality.
The Absence of Suzanne Rouvier. What this film really needs is some comic relief, and the sensual artist offered a trove of it in the novel. A one-time lover of Larry, she is an unapologetic, sensual woman who made a career of being an artist’s model/mistress. Her frankness about her life is hilarious, and her insights about Larry’s kindness (he only took her in because she was sick and destitute) fascinating. True, the majority of her words and actions wouldn’t make it through the censors. But surely a toned-down version could have been attempted?
The Ugly
When Larry Talks about His Faith. Those ponderous religious speeches!
So much more could have been accomplished with wit, with expressions, and with Larry’s dodges when asked direct questions (which we see frequently in the book). In fact, his mystery was one of Larry’s biggest appeals, and is utterly absent from this characterization. He also took himself far less seriously than we see here, and only rarely talked about his beliefs.
Instead, the camera freezes on Power’s intense expressions; we hear his words about doubts and faith. The melodramatic music and shots of clouds don’t help, but I doubt those are the fault of the screenwriter. I know some will blame the boredom of these speeches on Power, but honestly, he does seem like the joyful Larry when in motion. Just when he’s still do I roll my eyes and try to avoid drifting off to sleep.
Larry’s Sanctimony. What happened to his “aloof” quality, which is mentioned in the movie? His lack of judgment? His desire not to have a hold on others–or to let them have a hold on him? Now he’s lecturing Isabel about Sophie? What? By taking the narrator’s scenes and putting Larry in his place, the writer has turned Larry into a stuffy character I’ve no interest in knowing. And this is one of my favorite characters in literature.
The Holy Man. Until this man said, “We Indians,” I wasn’t sure if this was the Benedictine monk from earlier in the book, or the Hindu who helps Larry find his faith. After all, the latter was described in the book as someone who “didn’t talk very much” and mainly meditated.
This strange bearded guy is the chattiest of yogis ever seen on film and perhaps the most European looking. He also is guilty of some serious close talking. Come on. I know this wasn’t exactly a racially/ethnically enlightened time in American film, but surely some understanding of the faith being displayed was required? In a film about faith?
I can’t decide if I’m happy I saw the film or not. It certainly didn’t ruin the book for me, and I enjoyed the scenes with Isabel when Larry wasn’t present, and Elliott with everyone. I’m curious what others think who haven’t read the novel. Did you just fast forward through Larry’s religious scenes to get to the juicy ones, as I wished I had? Now that I’ve gotten over my phobia, maybe I can give Bill Murray’s version a chance; he’s a softer presence than Power, and supposedly really fought for the role. Maybe it’s a bit closer to the novel, and at the very least, it’s more time with Murray….
**Warning: Some spoilers (though I don’t reveal the mastermind in the novel; Hitchcock alters the story enough for it still to be a mystery).
I just finished watching Breaking Bad, and was struck by the thematic similarities between it and Jamaica Inn, one of my favorite novels as a teen. Both involve major characters refusing to own the horrific nature of what they’ve set in motion, both include a slow-burning menace that frequently breaks into sudden violence, and both demonstrate the moral costs of greed–and the many innocent victims left in its wake.
While Walter White is the leader of a meth empire, the villain of Jamaica Inn is the mastermind behind a group of wreckers, who lure ships with false lights and then kill everyone aboard to get the loot without hanging for their crimes. While Joss, the rough-talking inn owner, initially seems to be the head of the operation, we soon learn that there’s a much colder and smarter man working above him.
Joss (Leslie Banks)
And though Joss has sympathetic qualities and weaknesses, the mastermind–whose identity we don’t learn until late in the story–cares for no one. Joss is terrified of him.
The heroine of the story is Mary (Maureen O’Hara in the film), who comes to Jamaica Inn completely unaware of the criminality of its keeper, her uncle.
She soon discovers that something is off. The coachman doesn’t want to drop her off there. The inn doesn’t have any inhabitants besides the owners. The bar is full of shady characters.
Bar inhabitants
There are odd noises at night. And then there’s her uncle’s warning: “There’ll be nights sometimes when you’ll hear wheels on the road…and those wheels will not pass on, but they’ll stop outside Jamaica Inn. And you’ll hear footsteps in the yard, and voices beneath your window. When that happens, you’ll stay in your bed, Mary Yellan, and cover your head with the blankets. Do you understand?”
Our fear as readers is slowly discovering what is going on. That mixture of unease and hope that things will improve keeps us engaged. And yet in the film adaptation, the director cuts that fear instantly by starting with the wreckers destroying a ship. Who, you ask, would make such a critical error? Ummm. Hitchcock?
Two of Alfred Hitchcock’s best known films–Rebecca and The Birds–originated in the writing of Daphne Du Maurier. In both cases, he displayed a sharp understanding of her intent, carefully reproducing the psychology of the narrator in the former and quietly building on the creepiness of the birds in the latter. That’s why his failure with Jamaica Inn (1939) is so baffling. The book is brilliant, the movie mediocre. The master of suspense completely botches the book’s beautifully crafted, slow-burning sense of menace with his timeline. He gives away Jamaica Inn’s mystery in the first scene. He reveals the mastermind (whose identity is uncovered late in the novel, when Mary mistakenly runs to him for help) within the first twenty-five minutes. As a result, I found the movie full of some nicely done set pieces, but very little suspense.
Similarly, Hitchcock just doesn’t get the characters. Jamaica Inn is terrifying because the characters feel powerless. Patience (Marie Ney) may love her husband, Joss (Leslie Banks), but it’s her fear that keeps her submissive to him–her fear of his violence toward her, of the violence he inflicts on others, and worst of all, of her moral corruption in enabling him.
Patience (Marie Ney)
She has become a flitting, barely there woman, purposely dwelling in a fantasy world to avoid facing what he and she have become. She can’t leave him because she’s been beaten down by psychological abuse. Mary (Maureen O’Hara) is terrified for her, must stay with her, because Patience’s utterly unable to act for herself. Basically, Patience is Season 5’s Skyler White without the will or resilience. The stand-by-her-man character Hitchcock has given her instead makes no sense (though Skyler White haters might have approved).
Even odder is the characterization of Mary. In the novel, she’s independent, sassy, and quick tempered, particularly when it comes to male arrogance and unwelcome handling. Yet there she is in the film, letting Sir Humphrey (Charles Laughton) paw her as he did his horse. She smiles; she claims he’s a gentleman. WHAT? Mary is no fan of the upper classes in the novel, nor is she easily charmed or manipulated.
Her enforced trip with the wreckers is terrifying in the book because she keeps witnessing–and is unable to prevent–the murders that enfold in front of her. What we witness in the novel is the annihilation of what was left of her innocence, and we feel how we do when we watch Breaking Bad‘s Jesse’s wrenching reactions to a child’s death. Yet in the movie version of Jamaica Inn, there Mary is, conveniently preventing the wreck, as if one woman could accomplish that when surrounded by men trying to force themselves on her. This is the work of a cheap action director, not a Hitchcock.
Clearly, the director got carried away by his desire to let Charles Laughton, a minor character in the book, dominate the film.
The eyebrows alone are unforgivable
Laughton also co-produced, so his elevation isn’t surprising. Because he is Laughton, mugging and having a field day with the material, the movie contains a number of funny moments, and a picturesque conclusion. Much can be forgiven, of course, since the film debuted O’Hara, gave us striking action scenes, and included understated humor (via the servants of Sir Humphrey). But so much is missed by turning this film into camp: that suspicion Mary feels when she hears but never sees a man alone in a room in the inn (the mastermind), or finds the rope hanging from a beam but can’t be certain it implies a hanging.
What a film it would have been with just a few glimpses into Patience’s fear, or her equally frightening resignation: “…if you came to guess but half of what I know, your hair would go grey, Mary, as mine has done, and you would tremble in your speech and weep by night, and all that lovely careless youth of yours would die, Mary, as mine has died.” Or for one scene like Mary’s eerie walk into her uncle’s house after an absence, when she sees the collapsed clock, hears the silence, and senses what’s happened. A fragment of fear, a suspicion, is so much more sinister than outright knowledge. Hitchcock knew this. As a New York Times reviewer wisely put it, “Having set his own standards, Alfred Hitchcock must be judged by them….” And by Hitchcock standards, Jamaica Inn is a failure. Too bad he chose such an excellent book to butcher. I see that just a few years ago, a miniseries attempted the story. I’m sure it’s better. But wouldn’t you like to see what Vince Gilligan could do with it?
This post is part of the Beyond the Covers blogathon, hosted by Speakeasy and Now Voyaging. Check out the wonderful entries here.
Thanks to the stunning turns of Leonard DiCaprio, Alec Baldwin, Cate Blanchett, and Alan Alda, The Aviator (2004) was nominated for a SAG award, Outstanding Performance by a Cast in a Motion Picture. Unfortunately, this meant Razzie-nominated Kate Beckinsale was included in the honor for portraying Ava Gardner in the biopic. Unfortunately because I’ve seen better acting from beauty contestants in Toddlers and Tiaras. Watch the film on Netflix this month, and see if you can disagree.
Embarrassing Poses Do Not Equal Sensuality
Let’s try to forget that this lean actress only resembles the curvaceous screen siren in terms of hair coloring. But any frustration at the lack of resemblance is soon lost in concern over Beckinsale’s acting. Have you ever seen a little girl posing as a sexy movie star for the camera? Yeah? Does it look kind of like this?
Perhaps Beckinsale prepared for her performance by watching Showgirls’ Elizabeth Berkley, who also mistook exaggerated gestures for seduction. Look, I understand that it’s intimidating to play one of the sexiest women of all time. How do you live up to a woman with that form?
And that face?
And how do you convey her magnetism, especially when your biggest role is in Underworld and your only good performances are as a no-nonsense matchmaker in Cold Comfort Farm and a scheming wannabe in The Last Days of Disco?
Beckinsale’s challenge was a big one, I admit. But her solution was so embarrassing. Could anyone find the self-conscious poses the actress adopts in The Aviator alluring? Past the age of 11, I mean, when tweens believe their primping a match for that of Britney Spears or Beyoncé or Margot Robbie or the current siren of the month?
Whatever Beckinsale was thinking, the result for viewers is painful; there’s such a jarring contrast between Leonardo DiCaprio’s honest, Oscar-worthy portrayal and her amateurism. Gardner might not have been a great actress, but she was riveting onscreen, with the kind of sensuality that simply can’t be faked. Was it really so hard for Martin Scorsese to find a sexually exciting, competent actress—in Hollywood?
Marilyn Monroe’s Purr + WHAT?
No one who has actually listened to Ava Gardner’s deep tones could mistake them for Marilyn Monroe’s kittenish simpering. But Beckinsale does–for a few minutes. Then she suddenly drops this girly inflection–for no apparent reason–and takes on a Southern drawl for a word or two. She then moves on to a highly affected faux-voice that has only been heard in bad screen tests. I’m not sure if Beckinsale’s ability to drop her British accent only takes her so far, or if she actually thinks this is how people talked in the old days. Most alarmingly, she apparently did listen to Gardner’s real voice, so perhaps her hearing should have been checked.
Does Gardner’s voice occasionally seem affected onscreen? Oh yes. Gardner herself admitted she could come across as unconvincing (though never close to as wretched as her 21st century imitator). But this is supposed to be Beckinsale playing Gardner in her real life. The fun-loving, broad, frank, boozing, matador-seducing Gardner was reckless in love, and careless with her career. But she was–if nothing else–authentic and funny and bawdy, not stilted and fake.
You might ask why I still care 12 years after the film’s premiere. Maybe because it’s difficult to witness such a bad misstep in an otherwise impressive film. Maybe because I’ve always admired Ava Gardner for her spirit, for a brand of feminism and bold living that wasn’t easy to sustain in the sexist age in which she lived. Maybe because in her rawest roles, as in The Night of the Iguana, there’s something breathtakingly real and honest about Gardner onscreen that seems to echo the kind of life she lived. Maybe because Scorsese himself, an appreciator of the classics, should have known better than to portray one of its legends so poorly. But I think my biggest irritation is this: Beckinsale’s tepid, false performance may mean that moviegoers first exposed to Gardner in this movie had no desire to look further. And that is something worth griping about.
“In surveys asking what one book every civilized person should read, Mockingbird routinely finishes second to the Bible, and in one (if I may go a bit Maycomb on you here) it up and finished first.” —Smithsonian
I don’t know how to put into words how thankful I feel to Harper Lee, the day after learning of her death. I doubt many of us can. But I want to express my quieter gratitude for the film. When I first saw it, I was disappointed it didn’t capture as much of the novel as I’d hoped. But I’ve grown increasingly impressed with it in time; not just because it is, indeed, a very good movie; but because it popularized a novel most of us agree “every civilized person should read.” Three Oscars, a mostly faithful rendering of the moving story and a beautifully understated turn by Gregory Peck can do that.
I recognize that the price for the book’s popularity (in part due to that film) was the shy Harper Lee’s withering under our gaze (I once read she compared herself to Boo, rather than Scout). And it’s hard to believe, given the timing of her newest novel’s emergence, right after her sister-protector’s death, that she wanted what was an early draft printed–or the subsequent attention it aroused.
No, Lee wasn’t ready for the degree of our attention, 54 years ago, or today. But she approved the movie anyway, helping so many more of us learn of and then be haunted and changed by her novel. Lee was delighted with Peck’s performance, according to his biographer, even made sure he met her father. So in the beginning of expressing my gratitude to Lee, let me just thank her for approving the film, for putting us all before her own needs, and helping make possible the saving of many other mockingbirds, just as fragile, but likely far less brave than she.
Director Tim Burton’s beautiful Big Fish was shut out of all Oscar nominations in 2004 but for original score (which it didn’t win). The director’s work is often dismissed as creative, but too weird, or lovely, but lacking in feeling. The same critiques, by the way, the Coen brothers and Wes Anderson hear often. Yet in Big Fish, Burton vividly renders the elusive, big-hearted whimsy of Daniel Wallace’s book, telling a father-son story that is sad, wise, and funny all at once.
Let’s discuss the many nominations it should have received, starting with the most egregious omission:
Best Actor in a Supporting Role
Billy Crudup, not Albert Finney, is the star of the film. Will (Crudup) resents his father, Edward (Finney), for always traveling away from home while he was a kid, even suspects he had a second family. The yarn-telling skills that endear others to Edward annoy his son, who considers his father a liar. “You’re like Santa Claus and the Easter bunny combined,” Will says, “just as charming and just as fake.” The two haven’t spoken in several years, until Edward’s final illness draws his son home to resolve their issues. Edward prickles at his son’s anger: “I’ve been nothing but myself since the day I was born, and if you can’t see that, it’s your failing, not mine.”
Finney’s performance is magical. There’s no other word for it. How much personality and spirit he’s able to convey, even though he spends most of the film in bed! And Ewan McGregor exudes his usual charm, as he captures Edward as a youth, full of outsized ambition and enthusiasm. Burton lets us see Edward’s young adulthood not through the actual events, but through the imaginative way he recounts them: the boy spits out of his mother’s body like a cannonball when born, he sees his death in a witch’s eye, saves his town from a giant. When Edward leaves home and travels down a forsaken road, he spots a sign: Warning: Jumping Spiders. Edward’s description of this obstacle illustrates both the amusing cadence of his language, and his indomitable spirit: “Now there comes a point when a reasonable man will swallow his pride and admit that he’s made a terrible mistake,” narrates McGregor. “The truth is, I was never a reasonable man.”
In 2004’s Academy Awards, the supporting actors were Benicio Del Toro (21 Grams), Alec Baldwin (The Cooler), Djimon Hounsou (In America), Ken Watanabe (The Last Samurai), and Tim Robbins (Mystic River). I admire all of these actors, and have seen all but 21 Grams. I’d put Finney over them all, and Ewan McGregor (also supporting) over most. Baldwin was very good, but it’s not his most nuanced performance. Hounsou played a very one-dimensional role (as he typically does despite his skills), and I barely recall either Ken Watanabe’s or Tim Robbins’ performances.
But Finney’s? I’ve never been able to get it out of my head. As Edward, he is haunting and lovable, resentful and stubborn and inexpressibly sweet.
Had he been mistakenly chosen for a Best Actor nomination, Finney still should have been in the list, which included Sean Penn (Mystic River), Jude Law (Cold Mountain), Ben Kingsley (House of Sand and Fog), Bill Murray (Lost in Translation), and Johnny Depp (Pirates of the Caribbean). I would have been torn between him and Murray as deserving of the win.
By the way, Jessica Lange plays Edward’s wife. She wasn’t in the film enough to earn a nomination, I suspect, but what an impact she makes in her few lovely moments, capturing the endurance of the love affair that is at the root of 90 percent of his stories. (No wonder she doesn’t share her son’s anger.) Here are the sweethearts in a tub together, fully clothed:
Best Director, Best Picture
Nominees, Best Picture: The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (winner), Lost in Translation, Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World, Mystic River, and Seabiscuit.
Nominees, Best Director: Winner Peter Jackson (The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King), Fernando Meirelles (City of God), Sofia Coppola (Lost in Translation), Peter Weir (Master and Commander), and Clint Eastwood (Mystic River)
Jackson and his film probably deserved the win among those nominees, as the weight of translating Tolkien to film was so daunting that the man deserved a medal simply for attempting it, much less succeeding. And Meirelles created one of the most riveting and best edited films I’ve ever seen. It must be the foreign language that knocked it out of best-pic contention, to the Academy’s shame (as it definitely deserved the win).
But I do quibble with the other best picture and director nominees. Lost in Translation was a creative film, but without Bill Murray at the helm, would have been forgettable. The unspeakably dull Master and Commander proved to me once and for all that male voters dominate the Academy. If “chick flicks” can’t be nominated, why do I have to put up with something that’s one step up from a video game? Seabiscuit was a winning story, but a bit too saccharine, and Mystic River, like everything Eastwood does, was overwrought and completely lacking in subtlety.
It’s hard to imagine many of the voters bothered to watch Big Fish, as surely it outranks Seabiscuit in sentiment, and manages to say something meaningful about the power of story, its capacity to help us not only overcome obstacles, but survive loss. Surely storytellers—i.e., those involved in film—would have gravitated to such a theme?
Best Writing, Adapted Screenplay
Nominees: The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (Fran Walsh, Philippa Boyens, Peter Jackson, winners), American Splendor (Shari Springer Berman, Robert Pulcini), City of God (Bráulio Mantovani), Mystic River (Brian Helgeland), and Seabiscuit (Gary Ross)
This category was tough in 2004, but it’s clear that few voters read the novel, understood the challenge of translating it to film. Unlike Seabiscuit, for example, this was not a traditional narrative. It’s a recursive, poetic recounting of moments. It’s even divided into fragments rather than chapters. The book intentionally circles, the author explaining in interviews that myth does as well. And in truth, so do our lives: so many moments in our existence recall others. Our bodies may decline in a chronological fashion, but our minds, our experiences, don’t work that way at all. As the film’s script explains, “Fate has a way of circling back on a man, and taking him by surprise.”
The scene of Edward’s death, for example, is repeated multiple times throughout the book, each version telling readers something different. John August distilled the story, threaded enough of the moments together to form a comprehensible narrative, and yet retained the recursive, fanciful spirit of the original. His achievement, quite simply, is a triumph. And though I would leave those first three films on the list, I think Mystic River or Seabiscuit should have been bumped to include August’s work.
Best Art Direction-Set Decoration; Best Cinematography
I’ll confess that I feel in deepest water when I discuss the visuals of a film. I don’t think, however, that many would dispute that the enchantment of Big Fish is largely a result of its execution of Burton’s vision; it’s rare that I am so enthralled by what I see that I long to take a snapshot of every moment. I’m curious why this film wasn’t considered worthy of awards based on artistic merit, if nothing else for the images’ perfect cohesiveness with the storytelling. Edward complains that his son doesn’t tell stories well, that he gives “all of the facts, none of the flavor.” That certainly cannot be said of the art direction of this film. In parting, I’ll just leave you with a few of my favorite visuals:
This post is part of The 31 Days of Oscar blogathon, hosted by Aurora of Once Upon a Screen (@CitizenScreen), Kellee (@IrishJayHawk66) of Outspoken & Freckled, and Paula (@Paula_Guthat) of Paula’s Cinema Club. Visit their sites for all of the wonderful entries. Kellee is hosting the snubs.
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.
This essay is part of Cinema Maven’s Symbiotic Collaborations blogathon, featuring wonderful director/star pairings. Click here for all the great entries.
When I was a kid, my sisters and I used to play with the record player. We loved to speed it up to make it sound like Mickey Mouse. I mention it because when I watch Preston Sturges’ films, I feel like the record player has become stuck on Mickey Mouse mode: everyone is running, shouting, falling, frantic. There are actors whose characteristics are uniquely suited to Sturges’ pace: Eddie Bracken’s exaggerated physicality, for example. Barbara Stanywck’s rapid speech.
Much of the humor of writer/director Sturges’ worlds is when someone slower enters the stage, and can’t keep up. Henry Fonda in The Lady Eve is so out of place that Sturges felt the need to underline it by having him reach the ship full of con artists and gold diggers in a small boat that’s been “up the Amazon.”
But certain actors do more than act as foils to Sturges’ frantic pace. They change the terms, slow things down, act as resistors to his electric current. They are part of the Sturges world, and wise about their companions, not naive, like Fonda’s Charles. We don’t laugh at them, but with them as they, like older siblings, view The Miracle of Morgan’s Creek-type mania around them, and urge everyone to settle down. Joel McCrea was the perfect Sturges resistor.
In The Palm Beach Story, he arrives in Florida to discover his wife Gerry (Claudette Colbert) flirting with J.D. Hackensacker III (Rudy Valee), scheming to apply the millionaire’s funds to her husband’s projects. As he tries to reason with her, Tom (McCrea) finds the dizzy chatterbox The Princess Centimillia (Mary Astor) flitting about his handsome form, and his own competition so woefully naive that he serenades Gerry. On McCrea’s face you can see as well as hear the sigh, the “Now this,” the years of putting up with his wife’s silliness, and now these idiots, and you can’t help but laugh.
Without grandstanding, without chewing the scenery, McCrea has stolen our attention from the mesmerizing Colbert with a few perfect expressions and the solidity of his presence. Suddenly, we’re rooting for him, for them, not for her success. Given the amount of his screen time, it’s a remarkable achievement, and makes you realize why Sturges would nab him for three of his films.
McCrea was even more essential, of course, to Sullivan’s Travels, which came out the year before. Consider the challenge: The lead must act as a stand-in for Sturges, pronouncing the need for comedy in times of trouble. Sullivan (McCrea) is, like Sturges, a director, who thinks he should experience poverty so that he can direct meaningful dramas instead of his usual farces. If the star of Sullivan’s Travels preaches the final lines or overplays his insights (in the theater with the convicts) about the value of comedy, the film becomes hokey. If the character comes across as stupid in not realizing humor’s importance earlier, the ending will feel forced. The actor must, in short, act naive/be deluded at the start of the film, but not be naive. An intelligent, understated performance is essential to delivering Sturges’ message, which is really an endorsement of his entire career (and thus not something he could have taken lightly). And so Sturges chose McCrea.
When we talk about comic timing, we often think of rapidity. But McCrea’s calming presence is part of what makes him so funny. While others around him continue their frantic scrambling, he walks and talks fairly slowly, his deliberation in sharp contrast to their quicker motions and thoughts. He underscores their rush, and makes us laugh. As Sullivan, he is very observant, as a comedic director should be, and gives us just enough of a pause to witness, to understand as he does. As in The More the Merrier, a brilliant comedy Sturges didn’t direct, McCrea gives us the space to recognize the layers of his personality, with Sturges’ regular troop (in this case, following their director in a motor home) left to be the screwball types who summon the simpler laughs.
Although I think most would call Sullivan’s Travels the perfect Sturges-McCrea pairing, I wish fewer people would dismiss The Great Moment. Because it’s not a comedy, of course, it flopped. (A drama? From Sturges?) But it’s truly a remarkable biopic. A dentist, Dr. W. T. Morgan (McCrea), publicly demonstrated the use of ether in an operation in 1846, and therefore helped make all of our surgeries since less painful. But it seems Morgan displayed less admirable behavior afterward, was more intent on getting credit than in the useful application of his discovery. Sturges highlights something beautiful about the man’s life by beginning after his death (after a short scene celebrating his biggest success), and ending the movie with Morgan’s decision to expose his discovery in this public demonstration (thus making unlikely his success in patenting).
The movie isn’t about the main character at all, but instead about an idea: Does an “incandescent” moment, a moment of self-sacrifice for others, make up for the pettiness of one’s life? It’s this rising above the history of events that I so rarely see in biopics, this understanding that recording events isn’t enough; you have to be saying something about them. McCrea’s measured timing lends a kind of gravity and dignity to the role, lets us see the heaviness and pain of Morgan’s decision to sacrifice for others.
And because McCrea is so likeable, we’re able to acknowledge the character’s usual selfishness (at least as Sturges saw it), and understand it too. I can’t say it’s my favorite film of Sturges’, but it has stuck with me; I find it haunting, which is surprising given Sturges’ light touch. I wish more aspiring directors would learn from it.
Joel McCrea was in three of Preston Sturges’ films, two of his most famous. I know I should be grateful to have that many, but oh! How I wish there were more.
Don’t forget to check out the other entries in the blogathon!
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!
5. The Meal Scars Your Company: Better Off Dead (1985)
Take comfort in the quality of your cooking after watching (a) Lane’s (John Cusack’s) mother boil bacon just days before her holiday feast and (b) Lane accidentally passing a guest primer instead of liquor.
4. Your Guests Never Show: Dinner at 8 (1933)
Your guests will never be as distracted as those invited to Millicent’s (Billie Burke’s) pretentious dinner party. Watching their disastrous lives unfold the day of the event makes you question (a) why she’d want to see them and (b) what could make all this stress worthwhile. It’s not a holiday film, but Burke’s nervous fluttering and what-was-I-thinking speech reminded me of all the times I unwisely agreed to plan a social event.
3. The Oven/Power Goes Out: Pieces of April (2003)
I live in New England, where power is never a certainty, so watching April (Katie Holmes) improvise when her oven fails her is inspiring in this sweet, funny, and frequently heartbreaking film with Holmes as a sweet daughter who can never satisfy her mom (Patricia Clarkson).
(In fact, my power went out yesterday, and last year at Thanksgiving too, in a cruel joke against my neighbors with stacked fridges and visitors en route.)
2. Old Family Wounds Fester: Home for the Holidays (1995)
Three siblings squabble in this hilarious Thanksgiving delight. Holly Hunter is charming; Robert Downey, Jr. hilarious, moving, and annoying in equal measures; and Cynthia Stevenson both cruel and empathetic in her disconnection to her more lighthearted siblings. Add Anne Bancroft as the mother and Henry Larson as the father, and you’ll wonder how you missed this howlingly funny, yet poignant tribute to family.
1. The Mother from Hell Arrives: The Ref (1994)
In my favorite holiday movie, thief Denis Leary runs interference with a divorce-bound couple, played by Judy Davis and Kevin Spacey, in performances that rival those in War of the Roses (1989). You will think no two people can be more comically cruel to one another, until Spacey’s mother (Glynis Johns) arrives.
There you have it: Cinematic proof that no matter how awful your Thanksgiving turns out, it could have been much, much worse.
