I read Of Human Bondage as a preteen/teen and was moved by the story of a would-be artist who eventually discovered that a simpler life of helping others was his route to happiness. As a wannabe artist myself, Philip’s journey was meaningful, even enlightening. His time practicing medicine for a poor community won the respect of his patients and his gruff superior—even crushed the snootiness that had marred the rest of his life. While Philip’s extreme sensitivity (related to his club foot) was what drew me as an angsty young girl, it wasn’t his only trait. He was funny, self-aware, compassionate—a fully rounded character.
What Hollywood would do to William Somerset Maugham’s reflective character I had a right to fear, especially since the 1934 version was known as Bette Davis’s breakout role. She played the extremely unlikable Mildred, a mean-spirited waitress who detours Philip on his journey. Mildred traps him in his lust for her, but never pretends to like or be faithful to him. She sucks away his time, energy, and money, and he’s too weak to resist.
She is, in short, one of Maugham’s complex female characters: fascinating, headstrong, real—the kind of role actresses are craving now, almost a hundred years later. And with an ambitious young Davis at the helm, sick of her milksop roles and ready for something meaty, what chance did Leslie Howard have for any attention (his starring role notwithstanding)?
No one can stand up to Davis in full chewing-the-scenery mode.
She doesn’t nail the accent, but Davis does fully personify this selfish woman, particularly her flirtatious nature and prickly pride. She shows how Mildred’s self-interest–her primary trait–can’t stand up to her destructive passions. Except for her trademark burning magnetism, Davis is nearly unrecognizable in the role: she BECOMES Mildred.
She famously only got a write-in nomination that year, but won the Oscar the next, most say in compensation for the MIldred loss. Bette’s (Cockney?) accent is regrettable, but everything else about her characterization is perfect.
I’m not sure if writer Lester Cohen decided the movie would be the Philip-Mildred show, given that part of the book’s high drama, or if director John Cromwell saw what he had in Davis and switched it accordingly. But poor Philip’s spiritual journey is reduced to a few scenes, with conversations with Mildred and his later love Sally (Frances Dee) meant to explain his transformation.
Basically, fans of the book can enjoy the fine sensitivity of Philip on screen, which Howard carries off. But Philip’s growing devotion to his career is off the screen. Somerset Maugham was a genius at empathy, and his semi-autobiographical masterpiece shows how Philip’s extreme sensitivity, such a burden as a child, led to his success and happiness as a humble doctor (just as Maugham’s sensitivity to his stutter may have made him a great writer). That theme is totally lost in the don’t-date-women-like-Mildred messaging of the film.
So as far as capturing the book, this film fails. But the movie does nail William Somerset Maugham’s trend of giving female characters their due. I’ve written before about how frequently actresses in his stories are nominated for (and often win) Oscars once his films are screened—including Annette Bening, who should have won for Being Julia.
Look at Davis: wins her Oscar for Dangerous because of her performance as Mildred, then gets nominated for The Letter, another of Maugham’s most famous stories, just six years later.
If that isn’t an advertisement for the continual reading of William Somerset Maugham’s body of work, I don’t know what is. And that–in my eyes–is what makes for a successful film adaptation.
Together Again (1944) is one of those curious rom-coms that’s so entertaining it’s hard to understand why it isn’t well known. It pits a wised-up, small-town, widowed mayor (Irene Dunne) against her crafty father-in-law (Charles Coburn). She is devoted to her town and to commemorating her beloved husband. He thinks she should ditch the politics and get some romance, and in typical bulldozing Coburn fashion (i.e., The More, the Merrier) will do anything to make that happen. The verbal fireworks between them owe much to screenplay writers Virginia Van Upp and F. Hugh Herbert. But they might owe even more to the magical combination of Coburn and Dunne.
Yes, this is a rom-com, and Charles Boyer, who plays the mayor’s romantic interest, has great chemistry with Dunne as well. (Witness Love Affair, the far superior predecessor to the anemic An Affair to Remember).
But sizzling as their reunion is (thus the otherwise baffling title of the film), you feel like shooing it away for more airtime with Dunne and Coburn and for more scenes between Mayor Crandall (Dunne) and her constituents.
I’ve chosen to write about Together Again as part of the Classic Movie Blog Association’s awesome political blogathon. Politics might not be the heart of this film, but Crandall’s job leads to some interesting feminist moments. Here are some of the ways the film was of—and ahead of—its time.
Of Its Time The Message that Romance Is Always More Important than A Woman’s Job Coburn’s character assumes that his daughter-in-law is just working because she can’t get over her husband’s death. That’s pretty insulting. The assumption that she can’t possibly be truly happy without a man in spite of a meaningful job? That’s even worse.
The Suggestion that Instantly Quitting a Job and Leaving Your Town in the Clutches of Your Jerky, Manipulative Opponent Is Just Fine…If You’re a Woman. Yeah, that’s messed up.
Ahead of Its Time A Female Mayor There wouldn’t be an ACTUAL Vermont mayor without a Y chromosome for almost 40 years after this film’s premiere.
A Woman Who Wins Sparring Matches with Everyone
Crandall might ditch it all for love in the end, but she’s the wittiest, smartest character in the film—and outmatches every man in it. It takes her own need for romance (and doubts about the town) to make her change course.
A Female Who Succeeds In Spite of the Whiff of Scandal Mayor Crandall wins the election even though there’s a rumor she’s involved in a sex scandal. True, the townspeople don’t think it’s even possible she could have been at a sexy nightclub—which in a way, is a kind of insult. But for a sex rumor to not end a woman’s political career? More than we might expect in a 1944 film. (And sometimes in real life today….)
A Leader Who Stands Up to Difficult Male Constituents
Crandall doesn’t take her townspeople’s complaints lying down. Here’s one of my favorite scenes (my long-time readers must forgive me for repeating this from a previous post): Mr. Witherspoon, who is in charge of the town’s sanitation, keeps leaving the south side blanketed in “a lot of old potato peelings” and is full of excuses for his neglect:
Witherspoon: “It’s the manpower, your honor.”
Crandall: “Manpower, my eye. Use womanpower then.”
Witherspoon: “Women? To collect garbage?”
Crandall: “Why not? Women see more garbage in their lives than men do, don’t they? They might as well get paid for it.”
As for the romantic plot between Crandall and George Corday (Boyer), it’s silly but fun, hinging on a statue, a hat, and some lightning.
Even if the mayor aspect of the film doesn’t interest you—even if you don’t like Boyer or Dunne—ask yourself a simple question: In this dispiriting time, don’t you think a healthy dose of Charles Coburn may be just what the pandemic ordered?
It’s always bothered me that Olivia de Havilland; the passionate, strong-minded, long-lived Hollywood star; is best known for a meek maternal role.
Did she perform it well? Oh yes. She imbued Melanie with incredible strength, empathy, and grit. But to be best known for Gone with the Wind in your obituary isn’t exactly a selling point in 2020. The mawkishness of the role has always annoyed me, especially because Olivia de Havilland is most riveting when she’s hard boiled. (She would have been great in noir.)
This was, after all, not a meek woman, convincingly as she nailed that famous steel magnolia part. This is the actress who sued her studio for extending her contract—and won. (A stupefying victory, given the long list of actresses whose studio fights got them nowhere and killed their careers.) And so I’d like to highlight a few of my favorite roles, which bear no resemblance to Melanie.
The Heiress (1949). I’m not alone here. This film won her an Oscar, an award she richly deserved. She plays a shy, undervalued, vulnerable “spinster” wooed by a handsome man (Montgomery Clift) who is likely after her wealth. Her growing strength as she begins to suspect him and question her father is something to see. Wow.
My Cousin Rachel (1952). A sexually and socially confident, cosmopolitan widow (de Havilland) meets the naïve young cousin/heir (Richard Burton) of her dead husband. At first, he suspects her of murdering her husband, then he falls for her, and then he suspects her again. Did she, or didn’t she? The book version leaves the answer open, the movies less so. The 1952 film itself is a mixed bag, but when it comes to embodying a fascinating heroine, de Havilland knows what she’s doing. (You know I think so when I say Rachel Weisz, whom I love in everything, couldn’t hold a candle to her in the remake.)
Hush … Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1964). I love some bonkers Bette Davis-de Havilland banter. Is it as fun as Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? No, what could be? But it’s still a blast to watch, thanks in large part to de Havilland’s scheming character.
The Adventures of Robinhood (1938). OK, this is a bit of a sentimental choice, but de Havilland doesn’t play a weakling version of Maid Marian. She’s got some serious spirit, especially for the time this film was made. de Havilland’s stunning beauty in it explains the string of hearts she left in her Hollywood wake. And Errol Flynn’s and her dazzling chemistry, not to mention their ridiculously good looks, reveal why they were paired together so frequently. Plus, the film is just a hoot, with the cast clearly having Ocean’s 11-level fun on the set.
There’s much more to say about de Havilland. This list alone shows her incredible range as an actress. I don’t have the expertise to discuss her recent lawsuit, sister feud, or any of the myriad other topics that make her a compelling subject. I strongly recommend you check out some of my peers’ posts on The Classic Movie Blog Association’s blog roll (see right column). de Havilland has never been one of the stars I follow. Frankly, I find her a bit scary. Intimidating. Hard to know. (About as far from Melanie as it’s possible to be.) But you can’t ever discount her. And when she’s on the screen, you don’t want to watch anyone else.
PBS produced a new documentary on my favorite movie wordsmith and feminist rebel, Mae West. Dirty Blonde is coming. Check out the preview to see the subjects talking about her (some welcome surprises), and to hear some of your favorite Mae West quips.
Its not surprising that the actress who made her mark as a partially nude Ziegfeld Follies girl would star in one of the most seductive films of the 20s.
That the great German director G. W. Pabst would find it worthwhile to draw this star from American isn’t surprising either. The heroine of his 1929 Pandora’s Box had to be sexy enough to lure everyone around her, and heedless enough to rebel against the powerful without considering consequences….and that was kind of Louise Brooks’s forte.
The Kansas-born actress would make a point of ticking people off, refusing to conform to Hollywood expectations of her—or follow the directions of her bosses. In terms of roles, she didn’t really make a big splash, with few starring roles and many bit ones. But that didn’t stop her from demanding her rights. She expected more of her parts. She asked for promotions. She wasn’t much for punctuality. Most damagingly, she refused to do retakes of The Canary Murder Case (1929) to convert it from a silent to a talkie. She DID enjoy Hollywood social life–she was a regular at William Randolph Hearst’s and Marion Davies’s San Simeon, even romancing the latter’s niece, Pepi Lederer.
Her independent spirit ensured Louise Brooks didn’t make it far in Hollywood, but it’s also why we know her name still today. We like that she was who she was, and she didn’t apologize. Louise Brooks’s authenticity comes through in everything she did, especially in her acting. Her naturalistic performances might not have impressed all viewers back in 1929, but today they make her acting accessible to modern viewers–much more so than her contemporaries who followed the day’s more stylized acting trend.
And don’t we all love her rebellious soul? That flapper haircut, the partying all night after days on the set, the love affairs with men and some women that cut short her success. (Who turns down The Public Enemy to be with a guy?) And without that rebellion, we wouldn’t have her tripping off to Germany to make Pandora’s Box or Diary of a Lost Girl with a man who turned out to be one of the most impressive German directors of his time, whose films are still powerful enough to survive on best-of lists while those silents that had far higher box office draw are forgotten.
Of course, her legacy might still have disappeared, but Louise Brooks, as it happened, wasn’t just a good actress; she was talented at telling her own stories as well. The witty book of her movie reviews/Hollywood history in later life, Lulu in Hollywood, gave her a second burst of fame–and ensured that fame would endure. For many of us, she and Clara Bow are the face of the flapper.
I found myself instantly mesmerized by her in Pandora’s Box. Not since Angelina Jolie in Mr. and Mrs. Smith and Marilyn Monroe in Niagara have I seen an actress in such full command of her sexuality.
The way Brooks moves from archness to innocence, from manipulation to fun as the character Lulu is a thrill to view. She seduces EVERYONE in Pandora’s Box. I mean, is this how you act with your lover’s son?
But the son, Alwa (Franz Lederer), is not alone. Every delivery person, businessman, and lawyer gets Lulu’s seductive treatment—most thrillingly, given the time period, Countess Anna Geschwitz (Alice Roberts), a rich lesbian friend, gets Lulu’s full-press sexy attack. Watch as Anna stares at Lulu with stark hunger….
….and dances with her in a sensual sequence….
and expresses her longing to do more at Lulu’s bedroom door….
Wow! I kept checking the date. Was this film really made in 1929? (Of course, the censors butchered it after its initial release, erasing this maybe-maybe-not consummated love affair entirely.)
I’m avoiding all but minor & very vague spoilers, so the plot summary that follows will not be precise, especially after the first acts.
The untampered-with version of the film begins with Lulu hanging out at the apartment where her lover, Dr. Ludwig Schön (Fritz Kortner), is putting her up. She’s flirting and drinking with a deliveryman/mailman when a friend arrives. Lulu calls the new arrival, Schigolch (Carl Goetz), her “patron,” but it will be unclear from later events whether he is her first john, pimp, or father. Whatever he is to her, Schigolch is clearly an unsavory type, so Lulu hides him on her balcony when Ludgwig comes home unexpectedly. Ludwig has bad news for Lulu: he has to marry a respectable girl, not her. Lulu comforts her despondent lover on her bed.
Of course, Ludwig discovers Schön on the balcony and takes off, but Lulu doesn’t seem concerned for long. Nevermind that her lover/income source has now disappeared. Schigolch has another offer for her, a chance to return to the stage. And after all, this woman will have NO issues getting a new lover. Just look at these typical reactions to a Lulu encounter:
Whether Lulu’s flirty nature is mainly a result of calculation, high spirits, or just innocent fun is always unclear. What IS clear is that she always must have everyone in her thrall. Her supposed nonchalance at Ludwig’s loss doesn’t keep her from getting him back when she gets the chance (and what a great scene it is when she does).
After she reunites with her lover, things will go horribly wrong for everyone in the story, justifying one prognosticator’s claim that Lulu is Pandora, the mythical character who unleashed society’s ills into the world. Of course, this pronouncement about her Pandora nature annoys a modern woman to no end, as it’s clear that the man who says so assumes the jealousy Lulu inspires and whatever results from it are all her fault. Forget that the men who surround her are (a) weak, (b) dark/controlling/abusive, (c) silly alcoholics, and/or (d) con men. Forget too that any man who spends five minutes with her knows that fidelity probably isn’t Lulu’s strong suit.
Of course, Lulu isn’t exactly an innocent. The way she repeatedly uses and betrays her lesbian friend is disturbing, and it doesn’t seem the result of any bigotry–just desperation and selfishness. Lulu’s lack of compassion about others’ suffering as she casually checks out magazine fashions is chilling. I like that we’re not merely asked to condemn her actions, but what we ARE to make of her isn’t entirely clear.
The production itself is sophisticated and effective, way ahead of its time. Her clothes are a joy to view. But the script is…odd. The first five acts are memorable, well-written, funny, and exciting, with clear plot development. But after the first five acts, I thought, “this is probably where the film ends.” And then another act would follow and I’d assume it was ending again, and another, and another. The story soon feels like a series of set pieces/vignettes pulled together rather than a coherent story, which is particularly evident in the last act. I guess I would have been OK with this if the story had been framed as a series of Lulu adventures, but there’s a morality play bent to it that just doesn’t work—because you can’t help but enjoy rather than judge Lulu thanks to her considerable charisma, and because you can’t really find a morality play effective without a clearer narrative arc/characterization.
For example, I think we’re meant to pity Ludgwig’s man-boy son, Alwa, for his hopeless passion for Lulu, but his actions throughout the narrative are weak, disloyal, and despicable, so I’m not sure why I’m meant to root for him. I mean, sure, he’s obsessed with Lulu, and Lulu, though she calls him her best friend, isn’t exactly empathetic toward him. But then again, she cheerfully puts up with his dour, leech-like company, and clearly could find a more congenial and ambitious companion. There has to be some strain of kindness and loyalty in Lulu to make her tolerance for him possible. (Think about the suitor she chooses over him/to help him late in the film, and you will see just how bad of company she considers Alwa.)
I also find it hard to understand why this woman, with such a magnetic personality and such great beauty, couldn’t find another well-heeled protector who would conceal her shady past AND help her support her two hangers-on. Her poverty late in the film–given her earlier adeptness with reinvention—isn’t well explained.
This film is often called a masterpiece, and in its first few acts, I think it is. After that, I’d argue that the film falls apart, though I know MANY would disagree with me.
But here’s the thing: It doesn’t matter. The first few acts have already seared into your memory. Your impression of Louise Brooks is already powerful given her electric performance and unforgettable beauty. And your admiration for Pabst’s technical proficiency and daring have already been won. What does it matter if the logic and narrative thread and even Lulu’s character are all a bit of a mystery to you in the end?
This film can be hard to track down at times, but luckily, it’s streaming on Kanopy, which is available for free to most library patrons. (Even if you don’t have a card, some temporary ones are being given during this pandemic.) You may not end up watching the whole thing, but don’t miss Acts 1-5! The court scene alone is worth the viewing.
Bombshell: The Hedy Lamarr Story (2017) is that rare documentary that is somehow uplifting–even when its tale is not. The fact that Bombshell is a story of triumph amidst adversity makes it a perfect film for our time.
I knew the bare outlines of Lamarr’s story: the scandalous film that began her rise to fame, her fraught history with her husband and his Nazi buddies in Austria, her tenure as a beauty in Hollywood, and her frequency hopping invention that eventually led to my sharing this post with you right now, on WiFi. Those details would be enough to make a decent film, I figured, even if it turned out to be–as many actress documentaries are–cookie cutter in style.
But the documentary is so much better than I thought it would be. It seeks to make sense of the elusive personality behind the thousands of lives the actress/inventor lived. The story is greatly enriched by interview tapes of Lamarr, letting viewers hear her story as she wanted to tell it.
It’s hard to picture Lamarr’s life, that brilliant woman who co-created an invention to save soldiers’ lives after long days on the set of (mostly) inane films…and then was patted on the back for her little invention by the military and sent off to sell war bonds with that pretty face instead….which she did.
Crazy as the outlines of the life I knew were, there was so much more, as this inventor was equally bold in other roles she took on–in movie production, in entrepreneurship, in everything really. In the film, she says she helped boyfriend Howard Hughes with airplane design; she even managed to squeeze a big initial salary out of Louis B. Mayer with no English. What an amazing feminist she was, not letting societal conventions for women dictate her moves, but plowing ahead, doing whatever she believed she could do.
Director/writer Alexandra Dean has chosen her sources well, particularly the young animator wowed by Lamarr’s accomplishments. A Mel Brooks cameo, with reference to his Blazing Saddles tribute to the actress through the character Hedley Lamarr, is an unexpected treat.
Lamarr’s personal life was largely tragic: bad marriages, the public’s focus on her looks instead of her mind, the cruelty as those looks faded, financial woes, and the failure of others to value or credit her patriotism since she was an immigrant. The film gives Lamar her proper place in history, but it’s clear to all the subjects in the documentary that they’re trying to reclaim for Lamarr a tribute (besides some very late awards) she never received herself.
But what’s more tragic than her treatment is that had Lamarr been taken seriously earlier, her invention might have saved American lives in WW II, which was her goal all along. The bigotry, greed, bureaucracy, and sexism that made her life so challenging and her invention so tardily applied aren’t exactly difficult to trace in our society or government today. That such obstacles can actually PREVENT heroism like hers is a sobering thought, and a dismayingly timely one.
But the film remains inspiring because we witness Lamar’s refusal to let poor treatment override her determination to act with courage and integrity. What you mainly feel in watching are awe and a profound wish to cheer, Rocky style. Lamarr was a complicated person, and not without flaws, but she was an AMAZING person, and your time with her is truly something to savor.
You can find the film on Netflix (while it’s still there!) or rent it on Amazon. Why are you waiting?
The Guardian‘s statistic about the lack of awards for female cinematographers was particularly illuminating.
In addition to showing what female-driven films could have been honored but weren’t over the years, Relatively Entertaining covers the diversity of voices in film, how we’ve regressed since a high point in the 40s in honoring women’s stories–even if told by men. The post also highlights how seldom black actresses are repeatedly honored for their work: “For that matter, it’s a strange quirk of Oscar that of the 35 times a black woman has received acting Oscar nomination, only three (Whoopi Goldberg, Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer) have been nominated more than once, and only Spencer has been nominated after winning her award.”
I wonder how long Academy voters could sustain the fiction that women’s films just haven’t been good enough yet to get awards after viewing the articles’ startling graphics. I wonder if the lack of repeat nominations for women (and women of color in particular) will finally bring home just how much has to change.
Of all the femme fatales on film and in print, Rebecca may top them all. The woman isn’t even alive at the start of the book or the Hitchcock film that resulted from it, yet the narrator of the story is so haunted by her husband’s previous wife (and Du Maurier is so skilled at freaking readers out) that Rebecca’s reputation as the evil femme fatale endures.
But when we look at Rebecca’s life a little closer, it’s hard to ignore just how much of our impressions of this woman are based on her former husband’s hatred and his second wife’s jealousy. Although I was totally with the narrator in fearing and loathing Rebecca on my first reading of Daphne Du Maurier’s classic gothic novel/thriller/mystery, my opinion of Rebecca has radically shifted in time, and the blame moved from her to the much more questionable Max de Winter.
Since the film sanitizes the hero due to the Production Code, I’m sticking with the book as I ask all of you Du Maurier lovers this question: Who is worse, Rebecca or her husband Max?
Let’s count it down trait by trait, shall we?
Behavior toward Friends & Acquaintances. Rebecca. Tries to suit others’ moods and appeal to their interests—this according to her detractor, Max. Everyone loves her, Maxim admits, including all of her employees. He claims she is fake, a backstabber. It’s easy to discount the tales of her insincerity altogether, given those blunt admissions to Max at the start of their marriage and his own dubious motives in smearing her. But we do hear Ben describing her cruelty toward him, a serious count against her.
Max: Rude to and arrogant toward: his sister, his brother-in-law, attorneys, party guests, servants, Mrs. Van Hopper, his second wife. He does seem to usually treat Frank well, and perhaps the dog. He expects to be thought above the law despite his suspicious actions and has no compunction about the boat maker’s profit losses thanks to his lies. Why? Presumably his class and status.
Personality Points: Rebecca 1; Max 0 Villain Points: Max 1; Rebecca 1
Social Skills. Max is the very definition of prim, spending his days abstaining from most people and food (while strangely expecting an untouched feast on a daily basis). And, there’s that slight issue with his temper and moods. Good company? I think not.
Rebecca’s style intimidates the narrator; she has garnered Manderley fame with her exquisite taste and the elegance, creativity, and humor she exhibits as a hostess. Even the “R” of her name is written with panache.
Personality Points: Rebecca: 1; Max: 0
Treatment of Spouse. Let’s admit from the start that these two are hardly an altruistic pair. A tight race! Max:Wife 1. Marries Rebecca without loving her but planning to be faithful. Keeps the secret of her affairs, but for his own pride. Does tolerate her behavior within limits. (It was a different age.) Seemingly polite to her in public but based on his general actions (see above), I’m guessing she needed to find affection elsewhere. Wife 2. Marries the narrator because she’s chaste and has no relatives (Mrs. Van Hopper isn’t far wrong there). Shows little passion for her, most of that passion being extended to his house. Treats her like a daughter/servant/enemy, depending on the day. Marries her knowing that his limelight-averse spouse will be destroyed if his crime is revealed and the scandal rags come a-knocking while her protector is in jail. Exposes her to Mrs. Danvers, the suicide pusher.
Rebecca: Marries Max for his money and status, planning to cheat on him from the start and admitting as much. Seemingly has multiple affairs. Apparently enjoys some “unspeakable” behavior (though given prim Max’s ways, I’m guessing we’re not talking Roman orgies). May, if the love of Mrs. Danvers is any indication, indulge in affairs with women as well as men, which in this time period would have harmed her husband’s reputation. Shaming her husband with alcohol and drug consumption? Perhaps in private. Meanwhile, spends her days being delightful to all and making his treasured house the talk of the country.
I’m going to leave out Max’s crime for this one, as it deserves its own category. But in terms of behavior up to their final night together, Rebecca’s is worse since Max’s biggest fear is public shame, and she doesn’t seem to care much that he’s a bore and has no fidelity impulses/regard for his pride whatsoever. However, his behavior to his second wife is appalling.
Villain Points: Rebecca 1; Max 1
The Murder. Max shot his wife because she suggested she might be pregnant with another man’s baby. Max demonizes her, calling her not even “human,” to (a) justify his action, (b) keep his wife’s love, and (c) be considered a civilized member of society. The narrator, so pleased he didn’t ever love Rebecca, actually goes along with his version of events, even though he’s not exactly trustworthy because he’s a killer who murdered his last wife, idiot. RUN!!!!
Rebecca. Enjoys her husband’s distress at her infidelity and taunts him. He now says she wanted him to kill her (given her health). Kinda convenient, right?
Personality Points: Rebecca, 1—some considerable moxie revealed in this last fight; Max, 0. Villain Points: Max, a gazillion; Rebecca, 0.
And the Verdict Is…. Personality Points: Rebecca 3; Max 0 Villain Points: Max, a gazillion and 2; Rebecca, 1.
Like I said, Rebecca might not be an angel,
but a femme fatale? Not so much. And is Max, the cold-blooded murderer and
awful husband a homme fatale? You better believe it.
This post is part of the Calls of Cornwall blogathon by Pale Writer on Du Maurier’s work. Check out the other entries!
Today a man I know well surprised me, and I could tell I had one of those hilariously odd expressions on my face in response. When I heard a couple hours later that Doris Day had died, it seemed to me that I’d inadvertently paid tribute to that marvelous, strong, very funny woman. There will never be anyone who has a more entertaining or endearing response to male oddities than Doris Day. So today I want to say how lucky we are–among many, many gifts she gave us–for the hilarious reaction shots only she could deliver. Whether disdainful, amused, outraged–or best of all, all three–Day’s expression just nailed a sentiment….And so today, Doris, this feminist sends her heartfelt thank you. I couldn’t have said it better.
I was wowed by Nicholas Ray’s In a Lonely Place. The film, it seemed to me, was ahead of its time in its powerful portrayal of domestic abuse. On the surface, the film explores whether the hero, Dix (Humphrey Bogart), murdered an innocent woman. His girlfriend, Laurel (Gloria Grahame), begins their relationship in romantic euphoria.
But, as in Suspicion, Laurel begins to suspect he might have done it.
The did-he, didn’t-he soon becomes a “Don’t worry which, Lady. Run.” After all, Dix likes to act out murder scenarios and then mimics the same movements when smoking with Laurel. He won’t allow her to receive a phone call or prescription he doesn’t monitor. He keeps her economically dependent on him. He justifies beating people up and actually considers bashing heads in with rocks.
And just in case she has any doubts about how this is all going to end for her, his former girlfriend reported Dix for breaking her bones.
The story is cast from Laurel’s (Gloria Grahame’s) point of view, and haunts the viewer because Dix can be charming, can be loving, can be apologetic. He does come back with “armloads of gifts” after his scary behavior, not just for her, but for victims of his violence. He is sweet to an alcoholic ex-actor, shows more compassion for him than anyone else. The film sympathizes rather than judges Laurel for staying, reminding audiences that an abuser can be contrite and thus leave the woman who loves him off-balance, uncertain whether to trust he’s changed. And though Laurel’s friend cautions her against him, his friends urge her to stay, to understand, to give him a chance. Meanwhile, we get glimpses of his mind: he can only see unquestioning faith in him–which would be difficult, given his actions–as acceptable. After a near-homicide, he coins a line for a screenplay describing his love for Laurel: “I was born when she kissed me, I died when she left me, I lived a few weeks while she loved me.”
Personally, I found this line chilling. Yet the director, Nicholas Ray–who was experiencing stresses in his marriage to Grahame at the time–gives a romantic packaging to not just that line, but to the final scenes of the film. He seems to imply–even after Dix strangles Laurel and nearly kills her–that this all would have turned out well had there not been that whole did-he-murder-the-woman doubts. And more disturbing yet, both current and contemporary reviewers frequently characterize this toxic relationship movie as a “tragic love story,” and certainly many scenes in the movie would seem to back up that assumption.
I turned to the source material to understand the confusion in tone, and was in for a shocker. Dorothy Hughes wrote In a Lonely Place as a kind of The Killer Inside Me of its time; we know from day 1 that Dix hates women, that he kills them regularly, that he thinks he’s justified because after he came back from the war, women saw through his hustling ways; they didn’t fall all over him, as they had when he was in uniform. His former Air Force friend is now a cop and has married a woman, Sylvia (Jeff Donnell), whom Dix distrusts and (we soon learn) underestimates.
She quickly sees through Dix’s veneer of humanity.
Dix hates her for it in the novel, and plots her death. Think of Dana Andrews in The Best Years of Our Lives, if on encountering his wife’s disappointment in him, he decided to go on a murderous vendetta against anyone who shared her gender.
The best scenes in Ray’s film are moments that capture the stark feminism in the book, in which only the women see Dix for who he is, and only they can succeed in stopping him. In a sharply rendered scene in the film, Laurel and Sylvia are honest with one another: Laurel in her doubts about Dix’s character, Sylvia, in confirming (reluctantly) that Laurel should have them.
In the book, Dix’s demeaning treatment of women–especially Laurel–is accompanied by a conviction that Laurel is taunting him, trying to make him jealous, when she’s simply putting the brakes on a relationship that he’s taken too seriously, too quickly. As writer Megan Abbott so brilliantly put it: “After reading In a Lonely Place, you find yourself looking, with a newly gimlet eye, at every purported femme fatale, every claim of female malignancy and the burning need of noir heroes to snuff that malignancy out.”
In Dix’s eyes in the book and film, Laurel is a femme fatale. She gave her love, then she took it away–all because she didn’t trust him enough. But in our eyes, she’s just fallen for the wrong guy; calling a man you love a “madman” doesn’t usually suggest a relationship is headed for sunshine and rainbows. Whether Dix killed a woman or not, Laurel isn’t wrong to ask, “There is something strange about Dix, isn’t there?” after he bloodies a fellow driver to a pulp or “What can I say to him–I love you but I’m afraid of you?” when he looks at her in the scary fashion Bogart had mastered since The Petrified Forest.
At some point you gotta ask, Is any guy you’re relieved and surprised didn’t kill someone worth sticking around for?
I admire both the book and film because they make me look back at so many of the noir novels and movies I’ve admired, and ask that question Abbott challenges me to consider: Was this woman a femme fatale? Or was she just an independent woman who didn’t say yes?
This is part of the Classic Movie Blog Association’s Femme/Homme Fatales of Film Noir blogathon. Check out so many great entries here.
