I’ve now watched the Jon Hamm-helmed remake of Fletch three times. This may surprise those of you who adored the original Fletch series–and Chevy Chase’s performance in it–as much as I did. But the film is a different animal and defies comparison; it also contains enough quirky humor to create nostalgia for those earlier films while making you eager for a new franchise with Hamm in the lead–one that would resemble the original novels more than Chase’s version did.
Jon Hamm is BRILLIANT in this new version of Fletch, and I will watch the film again. And again. And again. The opening–which begins with a shocking discovery of a dead body–is magic thanks to Hamm’s deadpan delivery. But it’s the scene with Annie Mumolo that I find myself watching on repeat.
You may not recall Mumolo’s name, but you’ll know you’ve seen her somewhere. You have. She’s the nervous plane passenger from Bridesmaids.
She’s also the co-screenwriter of that film with Kristin Wiig, and has a host of other credits. And as in that short but indelible plane scene, this woman cannot say an unfunny line.
In my favorite Confess, Fletch scene, former investigative reporter, now art-journalist Fletch is asking his neighbor, Eve (Mumolo), about her relationship with his landlord/a murder suspect. Standing in her kitchen, Eve proceeds to create a blizzard of poor hygiene, kitchen appliance hazards, and ill-advised confessions, all with zero awareness of the consequences of her actions. Fletch looks on and responds to Eve with various levels of repugnance, politeness, and shock.
The scene is a master class on comic delivery from both actors, and if you don’t watch it, you’re missing out.
That’s just one scene in SUCH a fun film, one that didn’t receive enough fanfare from its studio, and therefore escaped everyone’s notice. Cameos abound, including an appearance from Hamm’s former Mad Men buddy, John Slattery; Marcia Gay Harden in an unexpectedly daffy role; and the always game Lucy Punch as an influencer who could use a dictionary.
Spoil yourself; we could all use a little Confess, Fletch time right now.
The common line on Detour (1945) is that it features one of the nastiest of femme fatales—a fascinating, feral creature. It’s true that Ann Savage as Vera is a powerhouse, and I can’t stop watching her. But is she really all that bad?
**Some plot reveals.***
So many reviewers skim over the incident that made Vera so raw in the first place. Yet to me, her reaction to that incident is what makes this B film worth watching. Can anyone honestly say they root for the sad-sack, self-pitying musician, Al Roberts (Tom Neal)?
What a dud this hero is. The movie is nothing until Vera enters the screen, and it’s nothing after she’s gone.
As far as her dangerousness, let’s review, shall we? Vera is a hitchhiker picked up by Charles Haskell Jr (Edmund MacDonald). We learn about her secondhand from Charles, who is complaining to his current passenger, Al, about the deep scratches on his hand. Charles says an “animal” inflicted the wounds on his body. “You know there ought to be a law against dames with claws,” he complains.
The reason for their disagreement is soon clear: “Give a lift to a tomato, you expect her to be nice, don’t you?….After all, what kind of dames thumb rides, Sunday school teachers?”
In other words, he thought she should be forced into sex with him because she must be that kind of girl. This dude felt entitled to rape her because she’s a hitchhiker. He assumes all men will agree with him (as Al does) that she’s nasty because she hurt him defending herself.
What’s intriguing—and unusual—about Detour for its time is that it gives voice to this assaulted woman. As soon as we meet Vera, we know she’s suffering from PTSD and doesn’t know how to manage her pain. Even Al, hardly an empath, says, “Man, she looked as if she’d just been thrown off the crummiest freight train in the world.”
Her angry words soon reveal that Charles is hardly the first man who has felt entitled to mistreat her: “I’ve been around,” she tells Al, looking at him intently, “and I know a wrong guy when I see one.”
That she lashes out at Al might be because of what she thinks he’s done—but it’s not the only reason.
Now Al is not the smartest dude, as Vera quickly realizes: “…You don’t have any brains.” He picks up a stranger right after he accidentally killed Charles and exchanged identities with him. If he were a smooth-talking liar, you could see him getting away with this move. If he were quick, you could see it too. But Al is not smooth. He is not quick. He is not smart. And he lies with all the skill of a toddler. He’s also unlucky because whom should he invite for a ride, but the only one who knows his identity is false? While many of his grievances are self imposed, it’s hard to argue with him that when it comes to encounters like his with Vera, fate was putting “out a foot to trip you.”
Vera’s instantly brutal to Al, whom she thinks killed her attacker. But she feels kinship with him too. She’s aiming for connection, an us-against-the-rich plan. She’s Bonnie and this idiot won’t be her Clyde. It pisses her off.
She wants him to recognize that they’re both presumed bad, that they don’t have a chance, so why not go for a con? Why not enjoy the advantages they have before everything goes to hell, as it certainly will, for people the deck is stacked against, like themselves? And when he won’t give in, she tries blackmail.
Her plan is not nice. She’s not nice. But I don’t find her nasty—even if some of her actions (and plans) are cruel. I find her tragic. She believes Charles’s wealth is part of what made him feel entitled to rape a poor girl, like her. She’s met a lot of men who act that way. Unfortunately, she didn’t find a man who could empathize with her suffering, or even enjoy a drink with her. She looked for something approximating an ally, and all she got was Al.
Oh Al. What a worthless character. He is a homme fatale BY ACCIDENT. He falls to pieces when a woman yells at him. He breaks into hives when he tries to sell a stolen car. Some theorize that he’s an unreliable narrator, deluding himself that he didn’t kill. Personally, I think he’s just deluded himself that his girlfriend wants him back. I don’t find Al’s psychology complex enough for any more sophisticated delusions.
But Vera? We lose her far too soon. If this film were the revenge fantasy this character deserves, she’d be living it up in Charles’s family mansion, smiling archly at the family as they bemoaned the loss of their heir.
“Oh yes,” she’d say, holding up champagne and affecting a snooty tone, “Wasn’t it a shame for Charles, all those women who did him wrong?”
This post is part of the Movies are Murder! blogathon hosted by the Classic Movie Blog Association (CMBA). Go check out all of thegreat entries.
You have to hand it to Dan Stevens. Two years after his dramatic Downton Abbey exit, he starred in the camp treasure, The Guest, putting behind him one type of ponderous silliness for a decidedly lighter-weight version.
The Guest bears all the hallmarks of Lifetime fare in the first half: a mysterious, ridiculously attractive stranger. Hints that his motives—and past—might not be as innocent as his southern charm and “ma’am” courtesy would suggest.
A young woman who suspects him despite her parents’ trust (and her dad’s overeagerness to have a drinking buddy). And a young brother too pleased by the stranger’s help with his bullying problem to fear the degree of the man’s violence. Had that been all that The Guest was, I would have been happy enough.
But oh no, The Guest is much more. Because halfway through, it takes an abrupt 90 degree turn into campish horror/slapstick, without bothering to clarify basic character motives or anything else. In so doing, it gave me the best burst of unquenchable laughter I’ve experienced in some time.
Dan Stevens just OWNS this film, reveling in his goofy role as only an actor with a deep-seated love for black humor could do. His tiniest gesture is hilarious. The film even pays tribute to a famous scene in one of my favorite noirs from the 40s—which I’ll link to, but won’t reveal. Because to give anything away in the second half would be a mistake. Instead, I’ll just give you the basic premise:
David (Stevens) visits the parents of his dead army buddy. They ask him to stay. Because of course they do. The mother (Sheila Kelley) plays Debbie Hunt in Singles, and she has always expected the best.
Soon, David’s actions become suspicious, and then the plot turns downright bonkers. Because of course it does. The actor playing the father, Leland Jones Orser, starred in the (deeply dark) black comedy Very Bad Things, which should have foretold it for me.
The viewing pleasure isn’t hurt by just how sexy Dan Stevens is in the role. He has clearly spent a lot of gym time in preparation, and his lean, beautiful body is a nice complement to those riveting blue eyes. One can hardly blame the daughter/heroine (Maika Monroe) for waiting until his behavior goes truly off the rails to seek help.
And one can hardly blame you for enjoying every minute of this eye-candy-filled, ridiculous romp of a film.
Yes, this movie is a mess: confusing dialogue, incomprehensible character development, choppy plot development, and some truly unfortunate music choices. But there are three good reasons to still watch Jean Renoir’s curious noir, my choice for the Classic Movie Blog Association Fun in the Sun! blogathon
Robert Ryan’s performance as Scott. Can any man in noir perform intensity as well as Robert Ryan? I never feel any attraction or liking for Ryan’s characters in any film, but he certainly gets under my skin. Who better to play a Coast Guardsman with PTSD than Ryan? Scott is also impulsive, erratic, and passionate—and fully realized thanks to Ryan.
The complexity–and unpredictability–of the “love” triangle. Scott falls for Peggy (Joan Bennett), a woman collecting firewood next to an old shipwreck, because she’s haunted, like he is. It doesn’t hurt that Peggy looks like Joan Bennett. Unfortunately for Scott, Peggy is married to an artist, Tod (Charles Bickford), who is, if possible, even more intense than Scott. We learn soon that Peggy accidentally blinded Tod in a drunken squabble. Her husband is so awful–abusive and violent and creepy–that we understand her fling with Scott and desire to escape with him. But things aren’t quite what they seem. There is something still between Peggy and Tod, mysterious as that connection might be to viewers. It’s not exactly love; it’s not exactly hate. It may just be toxicity–but there’s something there all the same. How will it all turn out? The film keeps us guessing.
Jean Renoir. It’s odd to watch a film by such a famed director that is such an odd misfire. The story is that an advance viewing was a disaster for Renoir, and he was forced to make cuts and edits that didn’t serve the story. While that butchering IS clear, his original goal isn’t. But that’s what makes the film so intriguing. What did he want to say about these three tortured people, especially the original couple? What are we to make of how it starts, and how it ends? Why did he feel traditional noir tropes wouldn’t serve him, and yet set out to write (with Frank Davis) a noir anyway? And why choose this story to adapt? It’s hard to say, but the guesswork will keep you watching.
This review is part of the blogathon held by the Classic Movie Blog association, Fun in the Sun! Check out the excellent entries there, which are also mainly much happier viewings than this grim tale!
So the devious, sexy spy of North by Northwest, Eve Kendall (Eva Marie Saint), is trying to elude dupe Roger Thornhill (Cary Grant). She gets a secret call from her evil lover, Phillip Vandamm (James Mason), while she and Roger are together and writes down an address for their rendezvous.
She carefully tears off the paper with the address, places it in her purse, and then—ready for this?—walks away without the notepad.
There’s that notepad, just a pencil trick away from exposing that address. Will she remember to bring it with her? Roger is watching!
Alas. She walks away.
Will she remember before she sneaks away? Of course, right? It was just a momentary oversight, her wits clouded by the sexiness of her target, Roger.
We see her pick up several other things.
(Oh, that sly Hitchcock.)
Then she leaves the room, SANS NOTEPAD.
Roger, having watched five minutes of television/film in his life, of course knows the pencil trick. He holds the paper this way and that….(Why? What does he think he’ll see?)
He takes out his pencil. He does the trick pant-less (in a kind gesture of Hitchcock’s, who knows his female fans).
There the address is. The super-secret address Eve was so anxious to hide.
How long have you known this trick? Were you six? Maybe seven? I’m pretty sure Encyclopedia Brown taught me. It’s the kind of spy craft a child can understand and appears in every detective/noir/suspense film or TV episode that assumes its audience is young/dumb/abysmally ignorant of pop culture. Frankly, I would have thought such a plot device beneath Hitchcock. But he never did like giving his heroines much credit, so of course, this spy who has supposedly fooled JAMES MASON must be outsmarted by a different man. Who has a background in….advertising. And lives with his mother.
Yes, our sexy spy was outfoxed by a trick that Micky Mouse might have taught me in the 80s, back when Disney was hawking his image on magic trick books, and I thought that a wand that lifted a playing card with a hidden piece of string was really something.
True, the pencil maneuver wasn’t QUITE as old of a trick when Hitchcock used it, but it wasn’t exactly fresh in 1959. (Though, as my friend points out, today it might become new again, with so few people using pencils.)
I used to roll my eyes when I saw this pencil-and-notepad trick, annoyed by the lazy writing. But now I laugh. Because the Coens offered a send-up of this trite scenario in their—appropriately enough—satire of/tribute to TheBig Sleep, The Big Lebowski. The Dude tries to outsmart a villain using the pencil trick. His excitement is intense at his own cleverness. But alas for the Dude, the “secret” isn’t what he expected. If you are of delicate sensibility, I wouldn’t advise it, but if you don’t mind some crude humor, enjoy this film clip and Jeff Bridges’ brilliance in it. (Watch that loopy run of his! And his “just acting natural” look at the end!)
There are many, many jokes about detectives in The Big Lebowksi. One of the most evident is that unlike those brilliant sleuths who with scant clues manage to figure out everything, the Dude can’t figure out anything—the mystery, which people are manipulating him, where his rug is. And unlike the driven fictional detectives who will sacrifice anything for the job, the Dude is pathologically lazy, sharing with them only some loose sense of ethics, questionable associates, and a love for alcohol (but with the Dude, of course, it’s not a hardboiled choice like whisky, but instead White Russians).
Yes, the Dude is not a good detective, and would be an even worse spy. But guess what, Hitchcock?
Is there anything scarier than Bette Davis playing nice?
I see that sunny face, that sugary smile, and I’m just waiting for the other sledgehammer to drop. It’s unnerving in films like Three on a Match (1932) that she acts like a sweetheart throughout. It’s a terrible waste, of course. But early Hollywood didn’t know what they had in Bette. (Kind of like Amy Sherman-Palladino, who had Melissa McCarthy in her Gilmore Girls cast playing an annoying, bubbly local instead of, I dunno, someone funny. But I digress.)
Three on a Match is a peculiar, truly half-baked film in many ways. But it’s also a riveting one, and chock-full of stars. And its pace is breathless (it barely passes the hour mark). I’m not going to spoil the big plot developments near the end–too interesting–but I will spoil some of the earlier developments, so be warned.
First of all, when you have Edward Arnold and young Humphrey Bogart playing scary gangsters, you know you’re in for a good time.
(Not that their danger combined holds a candle to the terror that is sweet Bette, but….)
You have Joan Blondell, playing to type (which is always marvelous).
Warren William plays an unexpectedly bland part. And then there’s Ann Dvorak in a performance that should have secured her career, especially after her breakout in Scarface the same year.
The premise of the film is fascinating; it’s from an old WWI superstition about the danger of lighting three people’s cigarettes from the same match, an act said to doom one.
Three former schoolmates–played by Blondell, Dvorak, and Davis–get together to catch up on their lives and light that match, and soon one’s fate will rise, the other’s will fall, and the third’s (Davis) will be largely irrelevant, her presence simply for the sake of the film’s title.
The doomed character emerges early on because lovely Vivian (Dvorak) is unhappy despite a seemingly perfect husband, house, and kid, and while we modern viewers quickly identify her as depressed, no such word is uttered in the film. What’s fascinating is that though Vivian ditches her husband, starts sleeping with a gangster, neglects her child, and becomes a drug addict, the movie still extends sympathy for her, just as The Hours would do years later for women dissatisfied with their roles. “Pre-Code,” you remind yourself. “Pre-Code.” Vivian’s lust for the gangster is startlingly evident, as is her later addiction.
But where the film excels in a nuanced portrayal of a complicated woman, it stumbles with the supposed bond between the three schoolmates. When Vivian hooks up with the gangster, she hides from her husband, who is desperate to find her and their son. Mary (Blondell) gives her away. We understand that betrayal, given the squalor the son is living in. But then Mary takes Vivian’s place at her husband’s side. This is a pretty shady act, calling her motives into question. Yet we’re not asked to see it that way. It’s like the film is saying, “Well, Vivian wasn’t taking advantage of this wealthy dad, so someone should.” Vivian’s lack of anger for Mary could have been very interesting–if the film had suggested that there should have been any. And as for the third schoolmate, Ruth (Davis), why is she in the film at all? All Ruth does is read while babysitting Vivian’s child. And smile. And smile some more. It’s unnerving and unnecessary, and if you were as terrified as I was by What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? and The Little Foxes, you’ll find it downright creepy.
Just when you’re thinking this bizarre relationship between the women isn’t really working for you, the film turns sinister and you can’t turn away. Bogart gets his chance to shine in a truly evil role.
Vivian gets boxed into a hopeless situation, and you fear for her, wondering what she can do to retain some smidgen of the woman she was before addiction took hold.
Dvorak holds her own against Bogart in powerful scenes that make you wonder why you know so little of her.
Alas, it’s a familiar story: Dvorak ticked off the bosses. It turns out she objected to the studio’s choice to pay her the same amount as her (very forgettable) son in Three on a Match, but she did enjoy the year-long honeymoon she took with her husband instead of putting out films for them.
I like to imagine Dvorak taking off on that honeymoon, leaving behind the sexists who would soon censor sympathetic characterizations of complex women, like Vivian. It might not have been a long-lasting victory, but it makes me smile just the same. And if you watch her heartbreaking, memorable performance in Three on a Match, you’ll feel the same.
I had hopes for My Cousin Rachel (2017). I don’t know why. I’d already discovered–despite my enjoyment of the 50s version–that the book wouldn’t translate well to film without a big overhaul. I guess I hoped a director smart enough to cast Rachel Weisz in the key role would know to make such changes. (She had added complexity to Definitely, Maybe for crying out loud. Who better to take on the mysterious, unreadable Rachel?) But within minutes, it was evident this director of slight rom-coms lacked the imagination to even equal the previous film’s quality. The 2017 take is incomprehensible, just short of laughably bad. I had flashbacks of Season 3 of Bloodline. What the ksljfkjslkfj! is even going on?
***Mild spoilers–I won’t give away the end. Here’s the plot: a sheltered young man, Philip, is taught to hate women by his cousin/foster father Ambrose. He discovers his cousin has fallen in love with and married a woman while abroad in Italy. Philip’s jealous, angry, anxious. Then he receives strange letters indicating Ambrose is afraid of his wife and quite ill. On arriving in Italy to save his beloved cousin, Philip discovers him dead, with shady characters delivering the news.
Back home in England, he vows revenge on the widow, just on time for her arrival for a visit. The story takes off from there, as Philip falls for the widow and acts completely besotted right away.
Unfortunately, he can’t determine whether Ambrose died of a brain tumor (making his suspicions delusions) or by his wife’s hand. Is the widow just mercenary in this visit, trying to get her late husband’s estate by wooing Philip? Or is she an independent woman who means well but is reluctant to yoke herself to a silly boy who can’t distinguish between sex and marriage? And regardless of which she is, is that dreaded tea she’s making poisonous? And when he’s ill, will she help Philip get well, or attempt to slowly kill him off?
The lure of the book is the constant back and forth of the reader’s (and Philip’s) suspicions about whether she’s a killer. The did-she, didn’t she is brilliantly developed by Du Maurier. Philip, the narrator, is, by any definition, a dupe. Suspecting Rachel as he does, offering her all of his worldly possessions because she smiles at him isn’t exactly a bright move. What redeems the narrator for the reader is that he’s telling this story AFTER THE FACT, and we understand he’s not quite so foolhardy now. We also get inside his head, understanding why he trusts when he does. We also know more of the sheltered background that explains (as it turns out) his dangerous lack of experience with women. How else could we understand his dogged pursuit of a woman who is not attracted to him?
Without this context, the narrator comes across on film as not only unlikable, but unhinged. In the 1952 version, he acts like a dangerous stalker after Rachel stops allowing his seductions.
Luckily, the role is played with such relish by Richard Burton that you enjoy it even as you know the book’s intent has been completely overthrown. (Philip HAS to be the enemy, with behavior like this.) In the 2017 version, far less ably played by Sam Claflin, Philip is so pathological in his pursuit of Rachel that you see her possible poisoning of him as an act of self-defense. How else can she ensure he won’t kill her, he’s so obsessed? That attack on her throat is just the beginning!
With this upending of villain roles, the did-she, didn’t-she becomes, “Who cares what you did, lady. RUN!!” I don’t have a problem with changing a book’s focus, but as it turns out, that uncertainty about Rachel was also the narrative’s greatest appeal. Without it, we’re stuck watching an unlikable dupe turn into a psycho, which isn’t interesting viewing. I also don’t think voiceover from Philip would have worked; the story needs more nuance and he’s not intelligent enough to provide it.
As I see it, the only way of salvaging the story on film was to change the lead. What about his godfather’s daughter, who likes Philip for some unaccountable reason? We’d see Rachel’s behavior more clearly from her eyes; she may be biased, but she’s perceptive. Again, no need for voiceover, but she’d notice different details, like Rachel’s manipulative ways. (Though let’s stop the anachronisms, please, 2017 version; I can’t see this young lady frankly talking about homosexuality with Philip.) Or what about the godfather as the lead? He’s protective and smart.
Or you could go full-tilt into unreliable narrator mode, and make Rachel–the most interesting character–the lead. She could be like the riveting James Cain narrator in The Cocktail Waitress. With Rachel, I wouldn’t even mind a bit of voiceover.
It’s funny that the 2017 version completely dropped the notion that Rachel was foreign in her ways—and yet that foreignness helps explain her greater independence, her unknowability to Philip, and her tenuous status in the community (who, like Philip, are a bit entrenched in their xenophobia and rigid biases).
And it also helps show her confusion. She’s lived a cosmopolitan life in Italy, and Philip’s (and his community’s) rigid morals about sexuality don’t make sense to her. With more of her character unfiltered through Philip’s perspective, we viewers might come to understand her better.
As it is, the 1952 version is entertaining at least. The 2017 version, alas, is not, with Claflin making even histrionics dull to watch. Only some pretty cinematography redeems it at all. The 2017 version adds a dumb ending and strips away much of the questioning of Rachel’s motives. Rachel seems delicate rather than arch at all times and her character is so terribly underdeveloped that Weisz–for once–is tedious to watch. View the 1952 version for Burton’s high drama and Olivia de Havilland’s riveting confidence as Rachel. But if you love the book, be prepared for disappointment: your beloved psychological thriller is now a crush-gone-bad procedural.
My friend Grace Collins of True Stories of Tinseltown and I chat about women in peril in classic films, including the riveting thriller Gaslight; the Barbara Stanwyck showcase Sorry, Wrong Number; and the tonally inconsistent, oddball Nazi-hunter film, The Stranger. And of course, the weeper, Waterloo Bridge. We had so much fun talking about heroines who are having no fun at all–especially Mary (Loretta Young in The Stranger), whose affection for her mate is truly baffling.
Enjoy Grace’s other wonderful posts and podcasts on her sites or check out her Facebook page for more. Her summer series on famous blondes in film is fabulous, especially the one on Mae West.
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!
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.
