Drama (film) | Cary Grant Won't Eat You

Disney’s Tangled: Better as a Silent Film?

11/11/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 8 Comments

This post is part of the The Fairy Tale Blogathon hosted by Movies Silently. Check out the other entries!

I was hesitant to give Tangled a chance. I’ve always been bored by Rapunzel, who had little to recommend her but strong hair. Sure, she had beauty—yawn—and a pretty voice (What heroine doesn’t?) But she always seemed so idiotic to me. She had two tasks in her life—let down her hair, and conceal the prince’s visits, and she botched one of them, setting her love up for the witch’s wrath. And however her looks might have grown in all that tower time, isolation surely didn’t do much for the fair one’s people skills.

Disney’s 2010 version was much more entertaining than I thought it would be. Rapunzel is savvier and spunkier than in the original tale. And Tangled has some amusing theories on what she did all day, and how her upbringing by a witch might have affected her. Some wonderful side characters add to the energy, and the witch is a hoot. But there are some disappointments too.

First, the improvements on the fairy tale:

A Heroine Who Isn’t a Snooze
I’ve always pictured Rapunzel as a less interesting version of Lady Bertram, napping until the prince arrived and slowly making her way to the window, yawning as she helped him climb. Disney’s version (voiced by Mandy Moore) is full of projects: reading, painting murals, baking, doing papier-mâché and otherwise trying to fill the hours. She is obsessed with the lights unleashed on her birthday, actually lanterns from the queen and king to call her (their daughter) back from the witch, who stole Rapunzel to retain the Fountain-of-Youth properties of her magical long hair.

The unbelievable strength of Rapunzel’s hair in the fairy tale always puzzled me, so I was relieved to find the hair was magical, and Disney made it much more fun by turning it into an all-in-one lever-rope-weapon.

Rapunzel is also pretty handy with a frying pan, which she wields to defend herself against the thief (a prince replacement) who escapes into her tower. She bribes him to help her to the lighting ceremony, after which she plans to return meekly to her mother (aka, the witch). (I was concerned about the amount of head-pan contact though, convinced she’d kill/maim him sooner or later; the pan surely must have been made of weaker stuff than my iron skillet.)

An Equal Partnership
In most ways, the thief (Flynn Rider, voiced by Zachary Levi) is an everyday Disney hero, handsome and arrogant, proud of his “smolder” look. His backstory—an orphan craving riches—explains both his law-breaking ways and duplicitous behavior toward his partners. While he will obviously be reformed by the love of such a sweet, naïve girl, à la Lady and the Tramp, she will pick up his daring and inventiveness, needed qualities for a girl who is dangerously set in her ways thanks to eighteen years in a tower. Of course, she does have one advantage over him, with that magic, glowing hair.

I can’t say I was terribly interested, moved by, or invested in their union, but thought his altruism near the end was a nice touch. But no worries—I didn’t have to care much about them. Not with the mama witch to keep me interested.

A Worthy Villain
Now, I’m not going to claim this witch is as fearsome or powerful as Cruella de Vil. But it’s fascinating to watch Mother Gothel, perfectly voiced by Donna Murphy, manipulate her supposed daughter Rapunzel. This mother has Bette Davis flair as she pronounces the evils outside that Rapunzel must avoid. My favorite of the dangers she lists: men with pointy teeth.

“Skip the drama,” she advises in song. “Stay with Mama.” Murphy’s performance is simultaneously disturbing and hilarious.

Mother Gothel transitions from worldly dangers to a litany of Rapunzel’s weaknesses: her clumsiness, her naïveté, etc., which will supposedly make her easily fall prey to others.

Of course, Mother Gothel pretends love, not fear of loss, is what prompts her tower hiding of Rapunzel.

(And, of course, she does love her obsessively—at least, that magical hair.)

In terms of models, Mother Gothel is a twin of the monstrous parents in Like Water for Chocolate and Now, Voyager, mothers who think a daughter should exist solely to serve, and enjoy doing so.

Mother Gothel likes to point out her maternal virtues, such as providing such great paints and soup!

I’d always considered the father of the original tale weak for giving his child to the witch’s care (to avoid paying for stealing food for his pregnant wife with his life). But I’d never reflected on just how cruel it was to leave his child in such hands. The ill effects are briefly seen when Rapunzel escapes, as she veers between bursts of joy and energy…

…and periods of debilitating guilt:

While this back-and-forth moodiness is funny to watch due to Disney’s deft portrayal, I kept thinking of Davis’s twitchy, insecurity-infused performance in Now, Voyager, and just how much therapy it would cost Rapunzel before she attained the exuberance and lightheartedness she displayed in the very next scene. Truly, a witch who just threatens physical harm would be sweet by comparison.

Amazing Allies
I used to like the sidekicks in Disney flicks, but after one too many Sebastian types (of The Little Mermaid fame), I was relieved to find the most prominent sidekicks largely silent, including an Owl-like chameleon, Pascal, whose expressions and gestures provide sage advice (in tribute to his name, of course).

And there’s the glorious Maximus, a horse with amazing hunting skills and loyalty, who provides 90 percent of the comic relief of the film. As part of the royal guard, he tracks Flynn with Inspector Javert-like persistence after Flynn steals a crown from the palace.

Maximus falls for Rapunzel and reluctantly aids her beau, a reluctance that’s a joy to witness.

In fact, I was so enthralled by these animated allies that I found myself wishing the whole movie were silent, not just because these allies were the primary reward of watching the movie, but for the following additional reasons:

Utterly Forgettable Songs
Murphy (Mother Gothel) gets one good tune, and she’s a talented enough actress and singer to almost make the other songs worth hearing—almost. But with bland song after bland song, and the highly generic focus on dreams (seriously?), I was ready to return to the silent antics of Maximus. (If you can’t beat Kermit piping the lovely “Rainbow Connection” or the 1001 less compelling dreaming songs since, lay off of ’em.)

Scenery More Interesting than the Plot
A girl spends a lifetime in a tower, much of it reading, and the height of her ambition on escaping is to……see some lights. Umm, what? Couldn’t Disney have made her an artist—a writer or a painter (the murals!)? Or maybe an intellectual even? Surely Mother Gothel would have loved to provide the kinds of books that would turn Rapunzel into a scholar, as those might make her content to live a life of the mind, happy with her retreat. Turn the tower ivory, Mother Gothel! Come on! I’m not exactly talking about creativity here; I’m pronouncing the biggest cliché about towers ever. I know I’m supposed to believe Rapunzel has some spiritual connection with the lights, somehow understanding they’re for her, but if that’s the case, why didn’t Mother Gothel change the date of her birthday? The woman seems far too intelligent to have made such a dumb mistake.

The first big moment after Rapunzel’s re-entry to the world involves turning a bunch of thugs to her side because she asks if they have dreams, and they proceed to share them.

If I’d been in the theater, I’d have been tempted to throw popcorn at the screen. Even if this is a strange alternate universe where dreams aren’t discussed ad nauseam, neither this character, nor her own ambition, is at all inspiring. To see lights is not exactly the kind of dream to get criminals past their reluctance to open up. If the movie had played off her dream as comically stupid, what someone dozing in a tower would come up with, I’d have been all for it. But sigh. They played it as motivating.

In contrast to such clichéd scenes, all the details of the landscape sucked me in, especially the flood. In trying to get boys to watch the film, Disney really succeeded with the action shots.

How interesting it would have been, in contrast to that silly song about grass when the heroine hits the ground and the unnecessary (if occasionally amusing) scene with the tough types, to just witness Rapunzel quietly taking in the wonders around her, jumping at everyday noises, stumbling a bit at the unaccustomed exercise. What humor and pathos would have been possible! Disney gets this for a second, as Rapunzel is paralyzed after her tower retreat, unable to make the 12-inch drop to the ground.

That moment was worth the next hour.

In fact, the only truly moving scene in the film is the silent clip of the king and queen, hesitant to practice this lantern ritual yet again, to allow themselves to still hope.

I wish that Disney hadn’t been so cowed by Pixar successes into such a conventional retreat from what’s compelling about this movie. They give Rapunzel a Barbie-sized waist. They back off from the interesting mother-daughter dynamic.

They don’t realize Maximus is the star. They have this supposedly feminist heroine spend her time on indisputably female-associated crafts instead of developing some kind of true ambition. And at the end of the movie she’s—surprise! A bride.

Disney had the potential for some Fantasia creativity, with silence used to beautiful effect, and the glimpses of the story’s potential still make this a fun movie. But how great it could have been.

Don’t forget to check out the other entries in the blogathon!

Confession: Four Great Movies I’ve Never Seen, with Excuses

11/07/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 8 Comments

I am unashamed of my pathetic store of musical knowledge. I actually listen to—and like–the radio. And not the satellite kind. Frankly, if I can’t sing or dance to a song, I’m not interested. Riffs, jamming, orchestras, Bonnaroo—not for me. A Pat Benatar singalong? Sign me up.

It’s also rare for me to confess any embarrassment about novels I haven’t read, probably because I’m enough of a bookworm that gaps in my education are just opportunities for more fun, not sources of embarrassment.

But movies? I feel squeamish when I’ve missed the greats, and tend to dodge discovery. I’m not sure why.

Today, therefore, I’m going to be brave and confess to four very big omissions from my film education. I may turn red as I write, but you won’t have to see it. Here we go….

Lawrence of Arabia (1962)

My excuse is the obvious one—too long. Over 3 ½ hours? Who has the time?

Umm, I do. I managed to watch a season of The Wire in a weekend, all episodes of the new Arrested Development in a day. The BBC Pride and Prejudice miniseries I practically have memorized, and it’s almost 100 minutes longer than this apparent masterpiece. I even own the film in VHS format (still in cellophane). That’s how long I’ve been peddling this rationalization to myself.

The Godfather: Part II (1974)

I saw The Godfather at a movie party many years ago. It was in my early days at a new job, and I remember being embarrassed that I was the only one there watching it for the first time. I left before the second movie, shy about my older peers’ superior knowledge and my general lack of proficiency at small talk of any kind. (It really sucks sometimes to be twenty-three.) I kept feeling afterward like I’d somehow missed the window for seeing this movie, much as I still do about reading Jack Kerouac’s On the Road (who wants to read about youthful angst and self-importance past their early twenties?)

The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948)

I love Humphrey Bogart. I’m intrigued by gold mining, have read numerous novels about the Gold Rush. Films and novels about breakdowns due to avarice fascinate me. I have put this film into my VCR multiple times, and then not played it. Why? I guess it’s mood. I never seem to think to myself, “Yes, today, let’s watch a movie about people turning into monsters for money.”

Duck Soup (1933)

I taught a humor class last semester. I have read Irving Brecher’s account of writing for the Marx brothers in And Here’s the Kicker. I’ve seen—and liked—clips of these siblings in action. I have spotted this movie on Netflix streaming. Yet I have never hit play. My only explanation is that I’m saving it; it’s a big source of relief I’m anxious about spending prematurely. I am reserving the film for a particularly grim day, the day I screw up at work, wreck my car, and make my husband, friends, and family cry. Then, then I’ll need some Marx brothers. Why just waste the film on a day it’s raining?

Perhaps now that I’ve made my confession, I’ll finally view three of these films, but I think I will save the Marx brothers. A present like that shouldn’t be squandered, right?

Three Reasons to Watch The Uninvited (1944) This Halloween

10/16/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 8 Comments

The Uninvited begins simply: Siblings Rick and Pamela (Ray Milland and Ruth Hussey) come upon a lovely oceanfront house on their vacation and buy it to escape the demands of London life. It even has a charming name, Windward, and a quaint touch: no electricity. Of course, things go awry from there, slowly but surely: a dog that won’t climb the stairs, strange weeping sounds, a room that depresses anyone who enters. This film is an eerie, perfect choice for Halloween, not just because of its pleasures as a ghost story, but because it has these three added delights:

1. Candy—the Visual Kind
You spend most of the film gazing at these attractive siblings:

Ray Milland and Ruth Hussey as the Fitzgeralds

One would think that pleasure would be enough to satisfy your sweet tooth, but this is Halloween, and it’s all about gorging. No worries. The Uninvited delivers: just wait till this knockout fills the screen:

Gail Russell

The beauty, Stella (Gail Russell), is the granddaughter of the owner; she disapproves of the home purchase since she believes her mother, who died in a cliff fall, haunts it. But she warms to the couple, especially to Rick, who quickly sets about flirting with her. (Who wouldn’t?)

2. Genuinely Likeable Characters
Most scary stories feature interchangeable victims. If we know their names—Sarah, Dan, Rob, Susan—we don’t know them for long, and the characters quickly become The Screaming Guy or The Girl Pushed Down the Stairs or the Cheerleader Covered in Blood. While we may not wish them ill, we certainly don’t know them well enough to worry when Casper turns out to be a not-so-friendly ghost.

Rick and Pamela, in contrast to these stick-figure characters, are laid back, witty, fun. They are a gutsy pair, unlikely to fall prey to fears or believe in haunted happenings. After being told former tenants complained of “disturbances,” Rick quips, “What was the trouble…Ladies carrying their heads under their arms?”

The two like to tease each other, like most siblings. To convince her brother they should take the house, Pamela points out that if they live there instead of the city, he could work on his composing. He protests, of course, “My poor lunatic sister. I happen to have a job.” She replies in equally supportive sibling fashion: “Yes, and what a job. Going to concerts and telling your readers how bad the music was….Chuck it…It isn’t as if you’re even a good music critic.”

3. A Human Conspirator: A Haunted House with an Ally?
It’s clear the ghostly house has it in for Stella, and much of the film portrays the siblings’ efforts to discover the story behind the hauntings, the reason for all the eerie sounds, dying flowers, dog phobias, temperature shifts, and occasional apparitions (the special effects are surprisingly good). Once they understand the story, the siblings believe they can save the girl from the increasingly hostile house—and, of course, make it a bit more hospitable for themselves. (After all, it’s putting a great dent in their parties, making it highly unlikely they’ll be the popular pair they were back home.)

A ghostly party crasher

Soon the siblings suspect there may be a live human abetting the house’s murderous impulses, and among all the shifty possibilities, the person who begins to emerge as the frontrunner seems disturbingly sane—except for his/her desire to help the house kill Stella, of course.

If you’re not yet convinced by my reasons, read the excellent review that led me to buy the film in the first place. The author, the blogger Self-Styled Siren, even draws a cool parallel between the film’s apparitions and the terrifying ones in Raiders of the Lost Ark. What could be a better recommendation?

The Moment I Fell for Van Heflin

09/23/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 13 Comments

I didn’t know a thing about Van Heflin when I saw The Strange Love of Martha Ivers (1946). I picked the movie because of my love for Barbara Stanwyck, whom I assumed from the title would be the star of the film; I didn’t realize she wouldn’t appear until half an hour into it.

Stanwyck in The Strange Love of Martha Ivers

The story begins in 1928. Young Sam Masterson (Darryl Hickman) is trying to convince his crush, Martha Ivers (Janis Wilson), to run off to the circus with him. Sam is always evading the police thanks to Martha’s aunt (Judith Anderson), Mrs. Ivers, the wealthy woman who owns the town. Only if they run away can they be together. Unfortunately, their initial efforts are foiled by tattletale Walter, who likes Martha too.

Sam does run away, but just before Martha flees to join him, Mrs. Ivers beats her beloved cat to death, and Martha retaliates by striking her aunt with the same cane. We see Sam riding a train just as his crush is concealing the murder with the aid of her greedy tutor and Walter, his son.

The film jumps to 1946. Sam has grown up to become an easygoing professional gambler (Van Heflin). In his car with a hitchhiking sailor, Sam catches sight of a “Welcome to Iverstown” sign.

“Well, whaddya know?” he says. “….Leave a place when you’re a kid, maybe seventeen, eighteen years ago, and you forget all about it, and all of a sudden you’re driving along and smacko, your own hometown up and hits you right in the face.”

He’s so surprised that he turns around to see the sign again and crashes his car.

Laughing at himself, he explains to his befuddled companion, “The road curved, but I didn’t.”

“Welcome to Iverstown,” he says to himself as he heads there for repairs. “Well, maybe this time, they mean it.”

I had expected to be disappointed by Stanwyck’s costar, as I usually am. Even actors good in other films come across as flat or artificial next to an actress this natural, and as downright stilted if unskilled to begin with (i.e., Herbert Marshall).

Captivated by the self-deprecation of Heflin’s character and his unexpectedly casual responses to conflicts, I soon forgot Stanwyck was even in the movie. I think I’d fallen for Van Heflin before he got out of the car.

Discovering that “scared little boy,” Walter, is now a DA

Heflin is an excellent foil for the scheming adult Martha (Stanwyck) and her alcoholic, tortured husband, Walter (Kirk Douglas). Sam’s relaxed, freewheeling persona acts as a kind of tonic to his tightly wound former love and a poison to her jealous and fearful husband, who assumes this childhood friend is back to blackmail them. Like Mrs. Ivers before him, Walter tries to drive Sam away. But Sam is no longer as powerless as he once was.

Heflin is every bit as comfortable in his role as Stanwyck is in hers, and the naturalness I would soon discover to be a hallmark of his acting works perfectly here, contrasting with the duplicitous couple’s double dealing. What makes Heflin so attractive as an actor is that same ease of movement Stanwyck possesses; it wasn’t surprising to discover this man spent much of his life as a sailor. Clearly, he finds his sea legs in every part quickly, and that comfort in his skin and in his environment is seductive to watch. By the time he meets Martha again, even the usually compelling Kirk Douglas is hopeless against him (Douglas plays an atypical part here, and is wonderful in it).

Seeing Martha again

Heflin was not a traditionally attractive man, and famously remarked that “Louis B. Mayer once looked at me and said, ‘You will never get the girl at the end.’ So I worked on my acting.” Whatever he did worked: He’s so riveting to watch that I never questioned any woman Heflin won, even one as jaw-droppingly sexy as parolee Tony (Lizabeth Scott), who falls for Sam as he’s wandering around Iverstown.

Gorgeous Scott as Tony

Flirting with Walter’s secretary

In fact, I’m more likely to question when Heflin doesn’t get the girl, as when Jean Arthur starts to fall for pretty-boy Alan Ladd in Shane over her tough husband (Heflin), or when Lana Turner prefers boring Richard Hart in Green Dolphin Street (to be fair, the character’s choices were just as baffling in the book). Even when Heflin plays a less courageous part than he usually does, as in 3:10 to Yuma, he’s always got some kind of hard, immovable core of strength to him. In The Strange Love of Martha Ivers, where I saw it first, this mental and physical strength appears when Walter starts to mess with him—and worse, with Tony.

Fighting the detectives who stooge for Walter

Fighting Walter’s detectives

Yet Heflin is just as adept at playing kindness as brawn, as when Tony (Scott) betrays Sam out of weakness and then asks him to hit her because of it. Of course, he refuses to hurt her, but he does more than that: he shows compassion for her behavior. “The only thing you got coming, kid, is a break,” Sam says, the simplicity of his delivery conveying his conviction.

And it is a joy to see Heflin in scenes with Stanwyck. Sam suspects he’s in love with Martha, and even though the audience knows he should steer clear, it’s hard not to root for them, since it means more scenes with these two brilliant actors, and fewer with the less talented Scott.

The chemistry between the two is strong. It’s wonderful to witness Stanwyck unable to dominate an actor, to see in him an equal.

Aware that she can’t manipulate Sam, Martha panics after she reveals her secret to him. Of course, Stanwyck conveys that fear in one look, as only she can:

And Heflin’s understated response portrays his excitement about her honesty, his understanding of her distress, and his disgust at what’s happened:

Before long, of course, Sam must confront Walter about his feelings for Martha:

And Martha must stop characterizing herself as a victim, instead seducing Sam with money, power, and lust:

The role of Sam Masterson requires that Van Heflin have a great deal of range—that he express assurance, wonder, sympathy, violence, love, anger, fear, revulsion. Heflin’s performance carries the film, and he plays each emotion so perfectly that you feel like you know this man, and wish him far away from his destructive former playmates. I won’t spoil what happens, as the movie is well worth viewing, with excellent acting, an intriguing story, and a great script. But be warned: Heflin’ll get to you, just as he did to me.

This is the fourth in a monthly series of The Moment I Fell for posts…Hope you’ll share some of the moments that drew you to your favorite actors and actresses….

From Poem to Boxing Ring: The Set-Up

09/13/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 8 Comments

An enthusiastic Rocky fan, I was curious how the classic films on boxing would measure up. The Set-Up sounded intriguing because it was about the underworld attached to the sport, and shockingly, was based on a poem.

Let’s sit here and think about that for moment. A poem. Say it to yourself. Boxing. Poem. Can you put the two together? I sure couldn’t. But once I viewed the film, I did see a kind of poetry in it, and thought I’d say a few words about why this film is so moving and—yes, poetic. The Set-Up is about weighing choices, each of which shapes the film. The fact that the movie plays in the exact running time of the prep for and fight itself emphasizes the crucial timing of each decision…

Should a Manager Tell His Boxer He’s Fixed a Fight?
Manager Tiny (George Tobias) believes boxer Stoker Thompson will blow his match, satisfying mobster Little Boy (Alan Baxter), who has paid Tiny to fix the fight between Stoker and his favorite, Tiger Nelson (Hal Baylor). After all, Stoker is past his prime, and hasn’t been on a winning streak in quite some time.

If Tiny informs Stoker (Robert Ryan) about the fix, he will lose some of his cut. On the other hand, if Stoker doesn’t perform as expected, Tiny is in trouble with a mobster. Certain of his boxer’s ineptitude, Tiny considers neither the justice of his action, nor the danger it poses to Stoker. Only when his boxer shows spirit during the fight does Tiny begin to sweat—for himself.

Should An Aging Boxer Give Up The Sport To Please His Wife?
Stoker’s wife, Julie (Audrey Totter), proclaims her resolution to stop attending her husband’s fights. She wants him to quit. Stoker tries to convince her he’s almost done with the sport, but urges her to wait longer, until he can make a greater success. At the start of the movie, he keeps looking to her window and the chair he’s reserved for her at the fight; she wanders around the city trying to decide whether to go.

Clearly, Julie hates watching her husband get hurt, and worries about his survival. His love for her is painful to watch, as is hers for him. The problem is, all ambitions notwithstanding, Stoker also loves to fight. He enjoys the company of his fellow boxers, who thrive on hope, and rejuvenate his (comparatively) aging body and more resigned disposition with their energy and dreams.

Julie has put up with a lot to support him in this profession. How long should he ask it of her? Will she leave him if he doesn’t let it go?

How Long Should a Fighter Wait Before Abandoning that One Chance to Make It Big?
In the locker room, Stoker acts as a kind of patriarch to his peers, easing their nerves and encouraging their bravado. When a first-time boxer vomits before his first round, a trainer asks Stoker to admit it happens to everyone.

Yes, Stoker agrees aloud, recalling his own first bout, when he did the same: Trenton, NJ, 20 years before. Stoker’s face is poignant at the memory, back when he was as jubilant as the young men around him.

Among the many wonderful moments in the locker room, the best is perhaps the encounter between Gunboat and Stoker. Both aging fighters, both still trying to maintain ambition. Gunboat is inspired by a former middleweight champion who was beat 21 times before winning, a statistic he repeats to all who will listen, hoping his own record will soon resemble it.

“Can’t you see me, Stoke,” says Gunboat. “First I win the title, and then the exhibition tour, that’s where the easy dough is. I’ll be in the movie, Stokes, with a line of dames waiting for me a block long…”

When Gunboat returns from his fight unconscious, the camera pans over each fighter and trainer in turn, the fear and pain in all of their faces perfectly capturing the guts it takes to move from this moment, as several must do, to their own matches. And, of course, it presents Stoker with the inevitable question: Has he waited too long to quit?

What Spells the Difference Between Enjoying a Dangerous Sport, and Craving the Carnage?
The movie focuses in on just a few spectators the whole film, letting us see the fight between Stoker and Nelson through their often disturbing reactions. There’s the woman in the crowd who claims to hate matches, but reacts with glee when the fighting is most brutal, and grumbles when it’s not….

There’s the blind man relying on his friend for the play-by-play. “Nelson (Hal Baylor) opened up his left eye. He’s bleeding!” says the friend.

“Good,” his companion answers, and later yells at Nelson for not going for the eye again.

Then there’s the man who eats everything in the place, his appetite undisturbed by the blood, pain, or cries around him.

No wonder Julie doesn’t want to come. No wonder Stoker flinches before his fight at a spectator’s cries: “Kill ’im!”

What Should a Man Do When He Discovers Betrayal, But Payback Could Be Fatal?

Stoker begins to suspect foul play when his manager keeps trying to convince him to ease up once he begins to win. The bout itself is riveting, moving from the match to those few members of the crowd we’re tracking.

Ryan boxed in college, which explains why his moves are so convincing onscreen, unlike those of many actors in boxing films since. The confusion, anger, betrayal, and uncertainty of how to handle this fix play on this talented actor’s face. Given his pride, his conflict over Julie, and his disillusionment, we aren’t sure just what Stoker will do….

How Faithful Should Filmmakers Be to the Source Material?
The Set-Up has been criticized for changing the race of the poem’s hero from black to white, and among the harshest detractors were the poem’s author, Joseph Moncure March. It’s easy to dismiss the director’s claim that this change was because RKO didn’t have an African-American star then. The date alone (1949) suggests less elevated motives, and the black fighter in the movie, Luther, is played by James Edwards, who starred in the award-winning Home of the Brave that very same year.

Luther is portrayed sympathetically, which suggests the same could have happened with a black leading man, and the kind of treatment Tiny doles out to his boxer would have darkened and deepened the meaning of the movie had they not shared the same race (not to mention more faithfully reflecting the boxing world at the time).

However, the poem’s author, Joseph Moncure March, according to scholar Jefferson Hunter, “attacks an injustice without fully understanding his own involvement in it” and “is more a denizen of his time and place than he knows.” That is, March referred to his hero as a “jungle jinx” and saddled him with bigamy and a prison record. Therefore, some changes needed to be made to the story, and given its audience’s likely prejudices, perhaps some might even have been a good idea. But what a film it would have been with a morally questionable fighter, and an exploration of race politics in the ring….

M: A Serial Killer’s Story about Us

08/27/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 2 Comments

I’ve always been puzzled by The Silence of the Lambs becoming more successful than Manhunter. The latter’s subtlety, especially Brian Cox’s portrayal of Hannibal Lecter, was far more alarming to me than the campy style of Anthony Hopkins. The former I could mistake for a normal human being, making his monstrosity all the more terrifying. Yes, I might jump out of my seat during The Silence of the Lambs, but Manhunter is the stuff of lasting nightmares.

The story is better too, as the deeper fear is not of the serial killer, but of being like him. Mann (and novelist Thomas Harris) question whether investigator Will Graham’s (William Petersen’s) uncanny understanding of psychopaths’ minds means that he has the same dark passions. And of course, that leads to us: Does it make us somehow sick to be interested in a killer’s psychology or his/her capture, to read the stories and watch the films? And if that doesn’t mean we share his/her pursuits, what form does our sickness take?

Perhaps that’s why I think Michael Mann fans would be drawn to M, the 1931 film that begins with a frightening depiction of a child killer, but ends by questioning the wider society that is hunting him. Like Mann, director Fritz Lang did not employ every bell and whistle at his disposal, did not play melodramatic music in the background or make us witness gore or the frightened faces or cries of children. Instead, this director in his first talkie displayed a restrained artistry: an image here, a sound there—just enough, and never more. The result is a haunting film that lingers long after its conclusion.

M begins simply, with a disturbing children’s game about a murderer. A woman tries to shush the kids because what’s going on in Berlin is too similar to their words: a child killer is at large in the city. The camera then narrows in on mother Frau Beckmann (Ellen Widmann), who displays her love for her child, Elsie, through her loving arrangements for the child’s return from school: washing the clothes, preparing a meal with care, peering up at the time with a smile.

The film cuts to Elsie (Inge Landgut), the only sound her ball hitting the pavement. The almost complete silence of these scenes is paralytic to the viewer. We don’t see the killer, just a posting about children’s disappearances obscured by the girl’s ball and a man’s shadow. The man praises the ball; he asks Elsie her name.

As the time passes when Elsie should have arrived, Frau Beckmann looks at the clock. She asks returning kids whether Elsie was with them. They say no.

We see the murderer buy Elsie a balloon from a blind man (Georg John). We hear very little but Elsie’s thanks as the killer whistles Edvard Grieg’s “In the Hall of the Mountain King,” which will later have us jumping, like we did in hearing the arrival of Jaws.

Meanwhile, the mother smiles when a salesmen stops by her door, thinking him Elsie, and can barely attend to his words before she questions him about her daughter. She calls down the stairs to her.

Now overcome with worry, she opens the window.

As she calls, “Elsie!!” the first of several silent shots tells viewers that Elsie will not be coming home.

The quiet street; the untouched place setting for Elsie

The quiet street; Elsie’s place setting

Elsie’s ball coming to rest; her balloon stuck in the wires

Elsie’s ball; her balloon caught in the wires

The images are harrowing; the viewer feels horror: at the child’s death, and the mother’s loss. The ethics are simple: the killer is evil, the mom and child good. The spare use of sound and imagery contribute to this clear-cut moral universe, which Lang is about to disrupt, for this film, we soon discover, is not about the murderer: it’s about the citizens, criminals, and police who pursue him.

Next, we hear a newspaper hawker talking about the crimes, as the murderer (Hans Beckert, played by Peter Lorre) whistles his tune and writes a letter to the paper explaining that his spree is not finished. As friends around a table discuss the murders, they are soon viewing each other with suspicion, one even accusing another of being the man in question.

A mob mistakes an innocent elderly man for the predator, simply because he answered a young girl’s question.

The shouts of the crowd are then cut short, as the words of the murderer’s letter appear on the screen in absolute silence. When the commissioner begins to discuss his investigation on the phone, we see the police in action: tracing the fingerprints on that letter, investigating the handwriting, scanning the crime scene, interviewing confectioners due to a wrapper that’s been found.

As the killer’s pathology is explained, we see him closely for the first time; he makes faces in the mirror, as if trying to see himself as others do. The film’s writers, Lang and spouse Thea von Harbou, achieve a high level of verisimilitude that makes the film resemble today’s police procedurals. (Some say, despite Lang’s denials, that this was due to their attention to the extensive media coverage of serial killer Peter Kürten.)

But all of the police’s efforts prove fruitless. Desperate, they soon resort to frequent raids to catch the child murderer. Lang covers these raids beautifully, beginning with a silent scene of a prostitute soliciting, and segueing into the police marching down the streets en route to the bars to demand papers. The sound finally returns in the form of a whistle to warn customers the police are arriving, after which we hear the uproar of the crowd’s dismay as they try to escape.

A bar owner explains that this treatment of customers is unfair to them and to her, and unlikely to result in an arrest.

“I know a lot of toughs who get all teary-eyed just seein’ the little ones at play,” she explains to a police sergeant, warning, “If they ever get their hands on that monster, they’ll make toothpicks out of him.”

This Cassandra leads us to the next scene: Upset with the disruption to their business, the criminal underworld, led by Safecracker (Gustaf Gründgens), decides they’ve had enough. They’ll find the killer themselves. These mob leaders have a conference to plan their strategy, much like in The Godfather.

Lang cuts back and forth between this conference and a similar one the police are holding about the case, causing the viewer to confuse the two, and then start to wonder whether there is any difference between them.

The police decide that they’ll go the mental health route, finding patients who’ve been dismissed as harmless but have suspicious tendencies. The criminals decide they’ll organize a league of beggars, who, as unnoticed observers of their surroundings, can spot the predator without scaring him. Both groups succeed in narrowing in on Hans Beckert through these means, even as the latter follows a new girl, his silent contemplation of her soon erupting into his signature whistle.

Among the beggars is the blind balloon seller, who, upon recognizing the whistle, sets the alarm, leading to the killer being chased into an office building, a chalked M mark from a beggar having pegged him as the one to follow. The longer the hunt continues, the more the viewers’ allegiance shifts. We don’t want Beckert to go free, but there’s something sadistic about this manhunt, perfectly captured in the large eyes of the predator who has suddenly become prey.

We know now that these criminals are no longer just out to save their business; something more primitive is at play. What happens next is too fascinating for me to give away. But I will say that the film’s treatment of the child killer is surprising; he’s even given a chance to explain his affliction: “Can I do anything about it? Don’t I have this cursed thing inside me? This fire, this voice, this agony?”

Nazi leader Joseph Goebbels, who later offered Lang a job, obviously interpreted the film as less complex in its sympathies than I have. Certainly, there is room for dispute about what Lang was trying to say. But with the Third Reich imminent, Lang (who had Jewish heritage) was about to skip town, job offers notwithstanding. It’s hard not to see in the film’s conflation of police and criminal, citizen and predator, an indictment of the authoritarian regime, especially since Lang’s next film more explicitly attacked it (though, interestingly, facts apparently don’t bear out Lang’s account of his own precipitous escape).

Regardless of his initial motives, by giving the murderer voice at all, Lang questions whether this man might be more than the “rapid dog” he is accused of being, might be in need of a doctor’s care, not a hangman’s noose, as a reluctant defender in the film claims. And since we know the killer is not the subject of this story, we viewers soon turn to the crowd condemning him. Just as there is within this man, Lang seems to imply, there’s a sickness within society. After all, normal German citizens will come to support the Nazi party, including his wife and cowriter. Who is to say any culture isn’t vulnerable to the same manipulation, the same results, given the right fears to make them operate? Whether or not that sickness and those who’ve let it spread are capable of redemption or not, he leaves it to his audience to determine.

The Moment I Fell for Robin Williams

08/20/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 4 Comments

Last week, while I was seeking Lauren Bacall tributes online, I avoided my TV because I didn’t want to see any Robin Williams ones. The loss was simply too raw, too big for me to watch some summary of a man who slipped through any easy definitions. After all, it was this breathtaking versatility; best demonstrated in Good Morning, Vietnam; that I couldn’t face losing.

While I’m usually quick to attack the Academy for their humorlessness, I agreed with them that dramas displayed Williams’s most remarkable work. Who else could be so manic in humor, and then so quiet in pathos? So riveting in his energy, and even more so (perhaps because of it) in his stillness?

The actor’s sad scenes were the more so because you could feel the good humor bubbling beneath, the fact that this man was capable of very great joy. The first word that comes to mind with Williams is not funny, but empathetic. This man understood human nature like no comic I’ve ever witnessed, and any humor writer will tell you that truth is at the root of all good comedy.

The surprise of finally seeing the actor win an Oscar for Good Will Hunting was not at the Academy having snored through Good Morning, Vietnam (how else to explain Michael Douglas winning instead for his one-dimensional performance in Wall Street?). The shock was in recognizing that this guy should have been playing therapists all along.

My favorite Williams performance was probably in Awakenings. But I fell for him much, much earlier. It wasn’t in Mork & Mindy, in which his fevered acting was exhausting to watch, even for a little kid. I couldn’t take the show very often, even though I always did laugh. No. I fell for Williams in Popeye, the first film he starred in.

Now hear me out. I am not going to argue that this flop is a good film, that it’s under-appreciated or even tolerable. Oh no. It’s so much worse than you remember.

Paul L. Smith as villain Bluto

Williams is not very good in it either. But I fell hard for him for agreeing to take the role at all, and for having so much fun with it once he did. This spinach-eating cartoon character was always my favorite, and though I’ll admit to a vague horror on first hearing a human would be playing it, and in a musical, I was impressed with how completely Williams embraced the role. Such an unsuccessful campy movie I could easily dismiss, but for Williams as Popeye, even in a shaky performance, I felt a kind of awe.

Olive Oyl (Shelley Duvall) with Popeye

One could argue that the actor was just beginning, that this was a role he could get. But that wouldn’t explain all of Williams’s baffling choices over the years, that sense that he sometimes took parts simply to avoid taking his career, or himself, too seriously. How else can anyone explain Hook? And as I mourn Williams, I don’t want to see his best work; it’s too easy to imagine in his depiction of every emotion the darkness that would take him from us. So instead, I’m gonna stick with his silliness for a while. I’ll rewatch The World according to Garp, perhaps The Birdcage, maybe even the batshit-crazy Shakes the Clown. And yes, I’m going to spend some time with the ever-mumbling, ever-smiling, greens-loving sailor man.

The Novels? No. But Still Worth Viewing: Outlander (2014) and Portrait of Jennie (1948)

08/13/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 1 Comment

I’ve always been a sucker for time-travel narratives, from Somewhere in Time and Back to the Future to 2012’s Looper and Safety Not Guaranteed. Not surprisingly, I quickly devoured Diana Gabaldon’s first four Outlander novels, and was excited to hear that Starz had picked up the series. One episode into the network’s translation of the books may be too early to compare the series to its source. But given how few of us subscribe to Starz, the question must be an early one: is the TV show playing it close enough to Diana Gabaldon’s beloved novels to be worth the investment?

For those who haven’t read it, the first Outlander book’s premise is this: Swept from the 1940s to the 1740s through a magical stone circle, nurse Claire Randall keeps attempting to return to her husband Frank.

As she plots her homecoming, Claire becomes increasingly caught up in the lives of the MacKenzie clan.

The book is an impressive amalgam of sci-fi, fantasy, romance, and Scottish historical and medical history, with Claire’s role as a healer contributing to her being mistaken for a witch and a spy by Scots and Brits alike. Unfortunately, Claire soon forms an enemy she can’t harm, Frank’s ancestor.

And she runs into a complication she can’t resolve, an increasing attraction and debt to protector Jamie Fraser.

Like any reader, I watched the pilot of Outlander expecting to be disappointed by the casting. But Starz has done an astonishingly good job with its selections, particularly of lead Jamie (Sam Heughan). I still remain skeptical about actress Caitriona Balfe as Claire, but my doubts may be the result of the exposition she was forced to relay in voiceover, probably a necessity due to the complicated plot.

What surprised me is how nostalgic the pilot made me for a movie from my childhood, Portrait of Jennie (1948), and how much my concerns about Claire’s casting echoed my irritation with the choice of Jennifer Jones (the future wife of its producer, David O. Selznick) for its heroine.

To compare the complex story of Outlander to this simple romance might be a stretch, but hear me out. Both productions began with well-regarded novels. (Admittedly, Gabaldon has a substantial following, while enough time has passed since Robert Nathan’s glory days that his 1940 book now sits in that Kindle-Nook limbo, with new paperbacks less easy to come by.)

Nathan’s bittersweet fantasy is fairly simple, and the film follows it somewhat closely: Struggling painter Eben Adams (Joseph Cotten) runs into a girl in the park. She is dressed in old-fashioned clothes and has a timeless quality about her. He doesn’t know yet that she’s from the past.

Only when she continues to visit him, having aged considerably each time, does he discover that her time is out of joint with his. Mysteriously (we never learn how), she’s able to slowly catch up with his age, hopeful that if she does, they can be together.

In the meantime, Eben begins to sketch Jennie, and his portrait of her soon leads him to the success his landscapes never afforded him.

A sketch and a later portrait of Jennie (the latter by artist Robert Brackman)

Eben’s professional life is on the rise, but his future with Jennie is uncertain: will she be able to make it to and stay in his future, or will time/the elements pull these lovers apart?

The book is so whimsical, yet so straightforwardly written, that it has a charm and mystery about it that the less subtle film never manages to master. My bias against Jones, which had its root in having only seen her as a saint, may have tainted my first evaluation of the movie (as did my childhood skepticism about classic film). But I think it didn’t help that, as in The Major and the Minor, the film tried to pass off an adult woman as a girl instead of hiring a child who resembled Jones.

While I may nitpick about details still, I neglected to consider as a kid just how much the camera work DID capture the lovely, haunting mood of the book; how perfectly Ethel Barrymore (grand-aunt to Drew) portrays Eben’s patron; and how beautifully Jones expresses the terror and pathos of this young woman, who has lost her family in a tragic accident, and longs for a man she may never attain. It may be true, as one could easily charge, that Selznick was too enamored with his love (Jones) to judge the film clearly, but after all, she was his muse in the same way Jennie was Eben’s, and the soft focus on Jones’ features does convey the level of obsession and love Eben feels for this timeslipping girl. I find myself liking it more every time I see it. (Warning: Do not read about it online before viewing it; spoilers abound.)

The fear Jennie faces is what The Outlander pilot gets so right about Claire. The show will inevitably have to reduce and simplify some of that book’s (and its sequels’) rich complexity, and will lose much in the process. But it will gain in shots of the landscape, in period details the reader can’t quite imagine, and most of all, in helping us experience the terror of being lost in time, and not sure, as with Jennie, of ever getting to the moment where we feel we belong.

The Red Shoes, Pied Piper to Aspiring Ballerinas

08/03/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 14 Comments

This post is part of A Shroud of Thoughts’ The British Invaders Blogathon. Check out all the great entries!

Why did this film about the terrible choices a woman must make for her art inspire generations of ballerinas? Every little girl raised on Hans Christian Anderson knows that Karen, the red shoe-shod girl, doesn’t fare well: as punishment for her vanity in choosing red shoes for her confirmation (and similar sins), Karen can’t stop the shoes from dancing, can’t take them off, can’t go to church, can’t even prevent her detached legs from dancing when they’re cut off and replaced with wooden ones. Only when she truly feels remorse does she find peace—in death.

Surely then, a film about these shoes won’t bode well for the heroine, Vicky Page (Moira Shearer), as indeed, proves to be the case. The aspiring ballerina’s fierce impresario, Boris Lermontov (Anton Walbrook), expects unwavering commitment to dance. Vicky arrests his attention and is allowed into his troupe mainly because she seems to possess it:

“Why do you want to dance?” Lermontov asks when he meets her.

“Why do you want to live?” Vicky answers.

“I don’t know exactly why, but I must,” he admits.

“That’s my answer too,” Vicky answers.

His prima ballerina’s nuptials lead the fiery director to boot her out, and usher Vicky in. He’s not interested in any dancer “imbecile enough to get married.” “You cannot have it both ways,” he explains to his choreographer. “A dancer who relies upon the doubtful comforts of human love will never be a great dancer, never.” Vicky is soon in training for Lermontov’s new ballet, which is based on the Hans Christian Anderson tale, with a company skeptical about her abilities and self-doubt growing under everyone’s exacting standards.

She relaxes when The Red Shoes becomes a spectacular smash, but conflict soon arises in the form of the ballet’s young composer, Julian Craster (Marius Goring), who has fallen for Vicky, and she for him. At this point, we viewers are still happy: she’s gotten her role, as has Julian, whom we’re also rooting for; she’s a hit, as is he; they’re in love, and have earned the respect and affection of the rest of the troupe. But then Lermontov finds out, and she has to choose: greatness with him, or mediocrity with Julian (only minor roles, minor ballets for her). And like every woman before her, this choice between love and ambition will not be an easy one, and she will be tortured either way.

Why then, did this tragic film result in so many enthusiastic young ballerinas? I have a few theories on that, having been in ballet from ages 5-12 myself, and seen this movie when I was gobbling up Noel Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes series.

For Young Girls, It Wouldn’t Have Been a Tough Choice
Julian is a likeable guy (for most of the film). He’s ambitious, cocky, devoted to his art, smart. He stands up for himself when he’s cheated; he’s supportive, sweet, and appreciative of Vicky as an artist, as he demonstrates during their loveliest moment together, when he envisions a time when a child will ask him as an old man where he was most happy, and he’ll answer this moment with Vicky: “‘What?’ [the girl] will say. ‘Do you mean the famous dancer?’ I will nod. ‘Yes, my dear, I do….We were, I remember, very much in love.’”

But let’s be frank here: Aside from the romantic streak, these are the types of traits women long on the dating scene may appreciate, but are not the type to win over pre-pubescent girls. This is not the kind of face girls’ dreams are made of:

Without the conflict, no tragedy. And after all, even those girls who dream of perfect love and great achievement know a ballerina’s career is short. Their gossiping friends in the dance company will tell them so (if they’ve made it that far). And if they’re still beginning, well, they will learn as much after a day with some dance flicks: The Turning Point, Center Stage. Is it so impossible for the young dreamer to think she’ll simply fall in love later, as the actress (Moira Shearer) herself did in her mid-twenties after her greatest dancing successes?

The Caliber of the Dancing
The pet peeve of dancing enthusiasts is when films substitute allegedly good actors for good dancers—because Jennifer Beals, my friends, sure did have acting chops. Perhaps I would understand this choice if any of the actors and actresses selected were talented.

Take, for example, Center Stage (2000), which played it both ways, inserting a few actors among real-life ballet dancers to elevate the film’s quality. While the result is good dancing, but an array of poor acting performances, the worst among the bunch are Zoe Saldana and Susan May Pratt, who were chosen for their supposed dramatic skills; the latter can’t even manage graceful walking. People, no dancer has ever regretted watching a Fred Astaire film, and the man was at best a passable actor. No dancer says, “I would have enjoyed that movie if he could act,” even if an occasional person among the general audience does.

The Red Shoes, like the Rogers-Astaire films before it, did something more than highlight amateur beginners. It featured world-renowned ballet dancers and choreographers. Léonide Massine, who plays the choreographer (Ljubov) in the film, was a choreographer of nearly the status as George Balanchine. He created and acted the part of the shoemaker in the ballet. The replaced prima ballerina, Boronskaja (Ludmilla Tcherina), was in real life a prima ballerina in France.

And Moira Shearer? She danced for both Balanchine and Massine as a principal in the Sadler’s Wells (later the Royal Ballet), along with, you guessed it, that little-known ballerina Margot Fonteyn, whose costar in the company choreographed and played the male lead in the ballet within the film, Robert Helpmann.

Helpmann, Shearer, and Massine

Choosing such ballet luminaries didn’t hurt directors/writers Emeric Pressburger and Michael Powell’s movie; they were even lucky enough to find in these stars acting skills as well (which we rather expect in our greatest ballet dancers).

The Red Shoes’ most famous ballet itself is stunning, surreal, inventive and truly impossible to put into words, capturing the darkness of the fairy tale and all of its creepy, moralistic, vaguely misogynistic undertones, and giving Shearer the chance to demonstrate just why she was considered by some to be Fonteyn’s equal. It probably didn’t hurt that the film was scored by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra.

The Realism
The movie is known for its surreal use of color and special effects and for a riveting performance by Walbrook as Lermontov.

It’s recognized now as ridiculously ahead of its time; one shivers to think what an American studio would have done with the same material in 1948: the starlets they would have chosen, the bizarre beauty they would have stamped out.

But by any standards, this film captures ballet as it is lived as well: the punishing practices, the demand for perfection, the colorful personalities, the scary choreographers and directors. I didn’t even make it into the company in my school, but I was terrified of the man who was our head. I’ll never forget his sharp eyes on me when I missed a move in The Nutcracker, nor his poise, which was every bit as still and intimidating as Lermontov’s. And this was a director of a small company in a minor city.

Vicky (Shearer) rebuffed by Ljubov (Massine)

The film, however, captures more than the tribulations of a dancer’s life. It conveys too the joy of the right move, of building toward something creative together, of earning not just the admiration of a crowd, but of those whose judgment you know to value.

Vicky (Shearer) with her fellow lead (Helpmann) and choreographer (Massine); all three were involved with Sadler's Wells ballets.

Colleagues in film and on the stage: Helpmann, Massine, and Shearer

And it portrays the thrill of those impossibly lovely gestures, pirouettes, and leaps too, which no other experience can quite replicate.

Shearer believed the film injured her classical dance career because critics assumed she was riding on her fame from it rather than technical talent. If that’s true, I want to thank her for the sacrifice (admittedly too late). For it meant many young aspiring ballerinas like me, who would never go very far in dance, would understand in watching and re-watching The Red Shoes just what had made those hours in the studio worth it for us. Yes, it was literally a pain to practice (I feel a cramp in the arch of my foot just remembering those pointe shoes). And it hurt even more when it was time to let ballet go. But look! Just watch Vicky.

Why wouldn’t you want to be a part of that, even for a little while?

The Public Enemy*: the Crime Flick with No Glamour?

07/31/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 4 Comments

Having attacked James Cagney in a previous post, but seen few of his films, I thought I owed it to him to watch one of his hits. I found The Public Enemy on a streaming site and rec list (thanks, John!) and was instantly sucked into this understated gem.

The hyperbolic title of the film suggests it will glamorize crime, much like films of my generation. (It’s disturbing when I scan through the films produced not long before my birth–Bonnie and Clyde, the Godfather series—and those popular during my childhood and early adulthood— Pulp Fiction, Goodfellas, Natural Born Killers—and find it hard to remember many that didn’t glamorize crime.) The Public Enemy does not glorify crime, despite some contemporary detractors’ claims. Neither, in spite of the PSA-style opening and closing of the film, does it truly condemn it. Instead, in The Wire-like fashion, the film simply shows you the life the main character leads, and lets you decide for yourself whether that life is worth emulating.

James Cagney as Tom

Tom Powers (James Cagney), the film’s antihero, is a small-time thug, not the leader of the underworld. Even in the glamorous gangster films of today, the small-timers don’t fare well. Tom may be a public enemy, but he’s hardly deserving of a “the.” It’s rare and satisfying to see a film highlight such a character, to show his humble beginnings without a big rise. The plot gives us enough of Depression-era Chicago to explain why crime might have attracted Tom and his buddy Matt (Edward Woods), who move from watch thefts to beer heists. The naturalistic tone of the film is likely due to its Oscar-nominated screenwriters, Kubec Glasmon and John Bright, whose story was supposedly based on real criminals’ accounts.

Tom’s unsavory allies

Of course, I must admit that the laughter the movie’s famous misogynistic scene produced (spoiler here) and Cagney’s star status as a result of it might have undercut the serious tone of the film, and explain some audience’s admiration for a character as pathetic as Tom. This is, after all, a guy who takes pride in intimidating others as a small-time mobster, and extends that bullying to his romantic relationships with Kitty (Mae Clark) and Gwen (Jean Harlow in an uncharacteristically tone-deaf performance).

An unromantic fling (with Clark)

But Cagney is such a compelling presence that you can’t help but admire Tom just a little. His fiercely controlled energy and easygoing, natural style in spite of (or because of) his outsized personality make Cagney riveting to watch, much like Goodfellas standout Joe Pesci. Tom’s a terrible person, but thanks to Cagney, he’s an entertaining terrible person.

Cagney and Pesci: unkind to necks

Even before Cagney shows up on the screen, the kids playing the young versions of him (Frank Coghlan Jr.) and his friend Matt (Frankie Darro) hooked me with their toughness and swagger, bravado that is hopelessly poignant in clothes like these:

Tom and Matt

Tom sneaking from the family beer bucket

Young Matt has a rather exaggerated way of swiping his arm across his nose, which Woods (as adult Matt) adopts to show viewers that the men we’re seeing in 1915, six years after the film’s start, are the same people we’ve been watching.

This simple transition is followed by a silent scene in which the adult hoodlums affirm with a guy at the bar that the boss is available through small movements.

It’s all about the gestures: Pacino & De Niro anyone?

The plot is fairly simple too—about friendship and betrayal, allies and enemies, as most mob stories are. But because the narrative is so minimalistic, the revenge is more difficult to watch, and more personal when it comes. We know the characters who end well—and those who don’t. Tom’s coldness is difficult to witness, especially when Matt, who is comparatively softhearted, can’t bring himself to stop his friend’s violence. I won’t spoil what happens, instead hoping you’ll give the film a try. If my review hasn’t convinced you, perhaps the framing of this shot will:

*Not to be confused with the Johnny Depp vehicle, which was generous with glamour but frugal with character development.