TV & Pop Culture | Cary Grant Won't Eat You

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 Moment I Fell for Thelma Ritter

06/12/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 6 Comments

I feel comfortable with those who are generous with sarcasm. My dad is a smartass, my sisters, my aunts, my best friend, my husband. Not surprisingly, most of my favorite female performers share this trait in their films, including flawless character actress Thelma Ritter.

Ritter was nominated for six supporting actress Oscars, four of which were in succession; she elevated the quality of any film she was in with her seemingly effortless realism and deadpan humor. She reminds me, in fact, of an old favorite of mine, Rhea Perlman, aka Carla in Cheers, who shares Ritter’s understated style and tendency of deflating the egos and pretensions of the characters around her.

Perlman as Carla

Once I fell for Ritter, I picked out films just because she was in them, including Pickup on South Street, in which she plays the finest of the roles I’ve managed to catch: a haunting turn as lovable police informant Moe Williams.

Moe Williams (Ritter)

But it’s Ritter’s more lighthearted role as Birdie in All about Eve that first captivated me. Stage star Margo Channing (Bette Davis) has just met her biggest fan, Eve Harrington (Anne Baxter). Asked to share her story, Eve gives a litany of sad, intimate details about her life. Baxter’s delivery is stagey, and I find myself flinching every time I see the scene. The actress’s melodramatic style throughout the film is what my sisters always accuse classic film stars of practicing, and while theatrics make sense for her character, that doesn’t mean they’re easy to witness.

But it’s not just Baxter’s acting that makes me uncomfortable. While I know not everyone would find Eve’s hard-luck tale emotionally manipulative, I tend to believe one’s biggest traumas should not be shared on first acquaintance. (Don’t believe me? How much did you enjoy that oversharer on your first date with him/her?)

The usually cynical Margo (Davis) feels differently. She’s moved in spite of herself by Eve’s narrative, and pulls out a handkerchief to wipe tears away. Her assistant, Birdie (Ritter) looks pensive, seemingly ready to utter sympathy as well. “What a story,” she says. “Everything but the bloodhounds snapping at her rear end.”

Ritter draws out the line rather than expressing it as a quick rejoinder, as other comedians/comediennes would have. The result is that Birdie seems to be thinking through her slam as she says it. Hysterical. This unexpected but natural delivery is typical of every performance of Ritter’s I’ve seen.

Her character’s no-nonsense approach to life in the film makes viewers suspect that her instincts are the ones to trust. Everyone else loves Eve. Everyone else trusts Eve. But we audience members have already seen that the other characters are taken in by flattery, and thus are more gullible than they initially seem.

But Birdie? Birdie we can trust.

And that’s how I feel about Ritter, why I fell so hard for her after this line delivery, and in every movie I’ve seen her in since. I don’t know in advance how other actors/actresses will perform in films with her. I can’t be certain whether they’ll impress or disappoint. But Ritter’s is the kind of excellence I can always expect.

(This is part of my series on moments that led me to fall for a performer. I hope you’ll share some of yours!)

The Moment I Fell for Humphrey Bogart

05/14/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 6 Comments

I was contemplating that moment in a film when an actor wows me, when I realize I need to see all of his/her work and possibly start decorating my rooms in fan posters à la a kid with a Teen Beat subscription. And the first actor to come to mind was Humphrey Bogart.

Bogart in The Maltese Falcon

I was unmoved initially by Casablanca, arguably Bogart’s most famous film. A friend and I had decided we needed to acquire some culture and had learned in When Harry Met Sally that this was a love story for the ages. We were confused as we watched. What was all of this stuff about war? Where the hell was Casablanca? Why waste time with all of these confusing minor characters, especially that weird dude (Peter Lorre), when we could be watching Wings or Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman? Was I seriously supposed to think this Rick guy was attractive? He looked nothing like my high school crushes, Alec Baldwin and Kevin Bacon.

My teenage heartthrobs

Due to this uninspiring beginning, it was years before I watched another Bogie flick, this time The Maltese Falcon, the mystery about a private detective, Sam Spade (Bogart), investigating the murder of his partner. I was enthralled. The script was breathtaking: “My guess might be excellent or it might be crummy, but Mrs. Spade didn’t raise any children dippy enough to make guesses in front of a district attorney, an assistant district attorney, and a stenographer.”

Spade, his partner, and the mysterious client

My favorite moment (the moment) occurs shortly after Spade meets Kasper Gutman (Sydney Greenstreet), the ringleader behind the crimes in the film. Spade has found him by confronting his gunsel (Elisha Cook Jr.), the lackey who has been trailing him. Spade asks about the “black bird” that has caused a killing spree, with his partner among the victims. “You know what it is,” he tells Gutman. “I know where it is, that’s why I’m here.”

Gutman assessing Spade

Gutman’s wordy style contrasts with Spade’s brevity. Right away, the former admits he’s a chatterbox: “I’m a man who likes talking to a man who likes to talk.” He stalls when Spade tries to make a deal for the bird, causing Spade to hurl the cigar and glass he’s holding and shout at Gutman: “What are you wasting my time for? I can get along without you. And another thing. Keep that gunsel out of my way while you’re making up your mind. I’ll kill ’im if you don’t, I’ll kill ’im.”

Spade throwing his cigar

Spade’s passion shocks the viewer. Since he’s remained so calm the entire film, the burst of violence alerts the audience to a fact that should have been obvious all along: the hero is fully as dangerous as his foes. I have always been in awe of the kind of efficiency of movement Bogart displays in this scene, something I admire in the dancing of Fred Astaire and brutal fights of Daniel Craig as 007 and Matt Damon as Jason Bourne.

But as the camera follows Spade charging out of the room, yelling about a 5:00 deadline, we witness his anger swiftly transform into an engaging grin.

Spade’s trick

That’s what did it for me—that quick, convincing rage, followed by a satisfied smile that reveals his action to be a ploy. In a moment, Bogart had excited me, fooled me, made me laugh. He had drawn me in with that seductive confidence, and thus sold me on his role as a leading man and sex symbol. I soon gobbled up The Big Sleep and so many of his other brilliant films. (Casablanca on a second viewing appeared to be a masterpiece.)

Bogart’s skill with The Maltese Falcon’s dialogue also steered me toward the beautifully written detective fiction of the 1930s-50s, to Dashiell Hammett’s dialogue, Raymond Chandler’s metaphors, and Ross Macdonald’s character development. And, of course, it led me to the amazing world of film noir.

So many thrilling performances. So much good writing. So much wonderful viewing. And all thanks to that 15-second shot of Humphrey Bogart’s grin.

I’m planning to do a The Moment I Fell for…blog once a month, with Thelma Ritter up next. I’d love to hear some of yours…..

Veep & Together Again: Hollywood & Female Leadership

05/08/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 10 Comments

Sometimes the stars align, and you can convert hours of procrastination into productivity. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself about this week’s blog post, which is the result of a Veep marathon and viewing of two Irene Dunne films in a row. Call it a stretch or serendipity, but I keep observing similarities between the Julia Louis-Dreyfus-helmed TV show about a vice president and Together Again (1944), a film about a small-town mayor. Both keep returning to some of the same themes for humor, and both succeed.

Fairy Tale Romance? Not for Them
In Together Again, Irene Dunne (as Anne Crandall) plays a widow who takes over as mayor after her husband dies. The film begins with a shot of a statue created in her husband Jonathan’s honor. The unlikely Cupid of the film, Crandall’s father-in-law (Charles Coburn), is disgusted by this hero worship, which he considers against his son’s wishes. He tries to convince his daughter-in-law to find a man.

I can’t decide what’s more delightful: Crandall’s response, or her amusement in expressing it: “You can’t bear to see a woman living alone and liking it. No man can. Instinctively, it terrifies them. You’re a vanishing race and you know it. And the minute you lose your hold over us emotionally, wow. So naturally, your platform must be husbands are necessary. And they’re not really.”

His rebuttal, refreshingly, is not that singlehood is wrong; he just believes the state is not for her: “You talk like a free soul, but you’re the most manacled creature I’ve ever seen…Everything you do, everything you say, everything you breathe is the way Jonathan did it, said it, and breathed it. Why don’t you stop living his life and live your own?”

Veep’s heroine too is annoyed by others’ desire to fit her into a typical female role–in her case, as a happy wife and mother. At the start of Season 2, Julia Louis-Dreyfus attacks her former strategist (Gary Cole) for trying to force an image of the perfect family on her, which led to an uncomfortable river rafting trip with her daughter, her estranged husband, and his mistress. Their spat takes place in the Oval Office, and hilarity ensues when her lipstick marks up the sacred carpet.

The Nonsense of Politics
Since Together Again is a romantic comedy, its primary interest, unlike Veep‘s, is not politics, but it has its moments, as in this great exchange between Randall and Mr. Witherspoon, who is in charge of the town’s sanitation and keeps leaving the south side blanketed in “a lot of old potato peelings.” His sorry excuses echo those that flood Veep:

Mr. Witherspoon: “It’s the manpower, your honor.”

Crandall: “Manpower, my eye. Use womanpower then.”

Mr. 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.”

The scene highlights Randall’s power in the town. The joy of Veep, in contrast, is witnessing Meyer’s pathetic attempts to muster up the illusion of power she doesn’t have. And since we’re talking about D.C., the whole city is doing the same. After watching the jockeying for position among staffers, Congress members, and the administration, one wonders whether anything but ego is at stake for them. My favorite moment in the first season may be when the president’s lackey forbids the VP to adopt a dog because it’ll distract from the White House’s new pup: “Ma’am, you need to kill the dog. Not literally, but yeah, if it comes to it, yeah literally.”

Female Power: Is It All about the Hat?
Much of the plot of Together Again hinges on Crandall’s choice of a flirtatious hat over her usual professional attire when she goes to meet Corday (Charles Boyer), a sculptor in New York. The hat acts as a stand-in for the sexuality she’s been repressing as a widow. She’s bought it upon her father-in-law’s recommendation; he advised her when she departed their town to replace her functional one.

“When women starting wearing hats that look like hats,” he says, “they’re on the way out. At your age, you ought to be on the way in.”

When Corday sees her in it, he assumes her a model rather than the mayor. Of course, no powerful woman could wear something so becoming, right? She hides the hat—and the nightclub raid she later gets involved in because of it—as soon as she returns home. But the hat keeps turning up again. My favorite moment is when her father-in-law walks in wearing it.

Written seven decades later, HBO’s Veep focuses on a woman who is next in line to the president; it seems, on television at least, women have come a long way. But have they? Yes, the mayor of a tiny town is a far cry from the vice president of the United States, but perhaps not as far of a cry as we might wish. When Meyer asks why her presidential bid failed, her press secretary, Mike (Matt Walsh), responds, “You looked tired a lot and the hat….The hat hurt us. Your head looked weird in the hat; that’s all I’m gonna say.”

Convictions? What Convictions?
In Veep, it’s clear where Meyer’s convictions lie: she doesn’t have any. She puts an oil lobbyist on her clean jobs task force without hesitation. She tries to repress delight when a shipyard accident takes away her bad press. “Well, I think that worked out pretty good,” she says to her staff with a big smile.

(Of course, she tries to take it back when she discovers there were fatalities.) Self-interest trumps her idealism every time, which makes her a blast to watch.

**Spoiler ahead**

While Crandall’s political beliefs are only briefly sketched, her devotion to her dead husband and to the town he once led clearly dictates her behavior. She seems to be a very moral woman, bound by duty. Curiously, though, she seems content to leave the town she’s worked so hard to serve in the hands of her unscrupulous rival once she decides (as we know she will) to go after Corday.

The More, the Merrier
It’s refreshing to find in Veep a female led-show so entirely unconcerned with romance. But while her romantic interludes are brief and mildly funny, Meyer’s interactions with her staffers are fantastic. As a long-time Arrested Development fan, I was pleased to see Tony Hale (aka Buster) in another meaty role, treating Meyer’s various failures with compliments and tea and going to ridiculous lengths to satisfy her needs, as when he draws her chief of staff from her father’s bedside: “Something has happened to the vice president. I know your dad is dying and I’m really, really sorry, Amy, but I think Dana took Selina’s lipstick. It’s the one thing Selina asked for, and I don’t have it, and it’s ruining her night.”

I’ve left out much of the plot of Together Again in this review. The romance is fine, and Boyer a convincing lead. But it’s the Coburn-Dunne chemistry that kept me watching, especially when late in the film the two start riffing on youths’ views of aging. Coburn makes such a perfect Cupid that I can’t wait to see him play it in The More the Merrier.

Of course, there are other films and shows that tackle this same political ground. Parks and Recreation takes on the small-town concerns Crandall struggles with and makes them fresh and hilarious. But I could see little of Leslie Knope in Crandall or Meyer. Knope worships her town; Crandall belittles hers. And Meyer looks like a Knope foe: world-weary, cynical, and always out for herself.

Crandall and Meyer are alike, even if Meyer is looser ethically than her predecessor: both are hyper-aware of their public images and frustrated with the bureaucracy politics brings, but nevertheless, they manage to survive politics’ worst ravages, and in Crandall’s case, even find love along the way. And neither can resist a good hat.

The Sadistic Spouse: Charles Boyer in Gaslight

04/23/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 22 Comments

This post is part of the Great Villain Blogathon cohosted by Speakeasy, Shadows and Satin, and Silver Screenings. Check out other entries on one of their sites!

When it comes to villains, Gregory Anton in Gaslight lacks the theatricality of The Joker or Lecter. He wants the presence of Harry Lime or the narcissism of Ellen Harland. He doesn’t chill the viewer as do Maleficent and Mrs. Danvers. On the surface, therefore, Gregory might not seem a villain worthy of comment. As played by Charles Boyer, the role is so two-dimensional as to approach camp. You can almost hear Boyer saying to himself, “Time for the faux-loving face—wait, too long on that one, stern face time.”

Boyer’s stern face

Yes, Gregory seems as commonplace a villain as his name would suggest. But in terms of his effect on his victim, Gregory is a master among villains. Having convinced his new wife, Paula (Ingrid Bergman), to move back to the house where her aunt was murdered, he creates a series of sounds and sights he pretends not to notice. He expresses concern at Paula’s supposedly imaginary observations; he chides her for forgetfulness when items disappear (due to his own actions). She believes him because she loves him. The term “gaslighting,” which originated with this story, refers to Gregory’s sinister brand of psychological abuse: trying to convince his wife she’s going insane. While the motives of his actions are not immediately apparent, he clearly feels no remorse for his cruelty.

Gregory, celebrating his victory over his wife

So often, we side with the criminal in a plot like this one: with a wife this gullible, it’s easy to go for the laugh rather than the shiver. It would be common too to dismiss Paula as stupid, to fail to sympathize due to her blindness and fragility. But the nineteenth-century timeline of the story counters our usual impulses, making us uneasy and fearful from the start. (Just what were those stories about men committing their wives to asylums on questionable grounds again?) And Paula is not just any victim: She is a victim played by Ingrid Bergman.

Bergman beautifully illustrates the extent of her heroine’s downfall at Gregory’s hands. She is incandescent as a woman in love before his plot takes off.

Paula in love

Her fears about her sanity, which first dim, and then blot out any semblance of happiness or reason, are terrifying to watch. Just when she thinks she can trust in his love for her and have faith in herself again, Gregory cuts off her giddiness with a chilling expression, claims she’s unwell, forgetful, unworthy, childish. Her jealousy of a cruel maid (Angela Lansbury) he flirts with in her own home is nothing, he suggests, but a sign of her sickness.

Using the maid to torture his wife

Think of Betty Draper in the first season of Mad Men, then quadruple the vulnerability, make Don evil rather than sick, take away his love, and remove any right Betty has to defend herself against his duplicity, and you have poor Paula in Gaslight.

Season 1 Betty Draper a powerhouse compared to Paula

Paula’s weakness is her love for her husband; without it to prey upon, Gregory would have no chance of winning this psychological battle against her. And it’s just this level of cruelty she can’t accept. Of course she finds her own forgetfulness more believable. Not content with the damage he’s done, Gregory shuts her away from others, guaranteeing she spends most of her time obsessing over whether she’s mad–hardly a healthy pastime. How long, we wonder, CAN Paula stay sane, trapped in a loveless marriage, a frightening house, and fears she can no longer control? While there’s hope in the form of a suspicious detective (Joseph Cotten), even if Paula escapes, can anyone recover from this kind of treatment?

Despite a largely passive performance, Bergman is stunning to watch in Gaslight. I can think of no actress but Meryl Streep who could accomplish so much with just expressions, who could deliver enough pain and fear to carry the film and beat out Barbara Stanwyck, Bette Davis, Claudette Colbert, and Greer Garson for the Oscar.

Paula as her situation worsens

Just a few years after Gaslight, Bergman would fall for Roberto Rossellini and become involved in an affair with him so scandalous Congress and many of her American fans would condemn her. But she would make a Hollywood comeback less than a decade later, and her union with the famous director would result in a daughter, Isabella, who, in a curious twist, would make a splash of her own as a victim in another famous film, Blue Velvet. Who could forget torch singer Dorothy Vallens, the target of creepy villain Frank Booth (Dennis Hopper)?

Like mother, like daughter

Be sure to check out the other villains in the blogathon!

Like Liz Lemon’s Sugarbaker Meltdown? See Bette Davis in All about Eve

03/20/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com Leave a Comment

I always love a comedic meltdown, and 30 Rock‘s Liz Lemon (Tina Fey) is brilliant at them. In one of my favorite episodes, The C Word (Season 1, Episode 14), Lemon tries to earn a reputation as a nice boss by spoiling her staff. Of course, her subordinates quickly exploit her kindness, resulting in an all-nighter to finish their work and one of my favorite breakdowns of all time: Lemon forces her employees to watch a Designing Women episode she taped at 5:30 a.m., hoping to channel Julia Sugarbaker’s (Dixie Carter’s) strong-willed feminism, but succeeding only in destroying the tape and breaking into hysterics.

Like in a later episode’s meltdown (Season 1, Episode 17), when Jack Donaghy (Alec Baldwin) says Lemon has “gone chicken killer” on him, Fey plays the moment perfectly. I am a Designing Women fan as well, but if Lemon really wanted to see histrionics for the ages, she should have put All about Eve into her VCR instead.

In the film, theater star Margo Channing (Davis) has been generous to her one-time fan, now employee, Eve (Anne Baxter), whom she finds destitute at the start of the story. But slowly, Margo begins to question Eve’s loyalty. Once she suspects Eve of flirting with her boyfriend, Bill (Gary Merrill), Margo begins insulting everyone, essentially sabotaging her own party for him, and it’s hilarious to watch. Early in the night, her friend (the gifted Thelma Ritter) asks, “And there’s a message from the bartender. Does Miss Channing know that she ordered domestic gin by mistake?”

“The only thing I ordered by mistake is the guests,” answers Margo.

And the party’s just the beginning.

If you want to see rage done right, you can’t do better than Bette Davis, and with a script this perfect, there’s no holding her back. As Addison DeWitt (George Sanders), the drama critic, says about Margo’s increasingly bad behavior as the party progresses, but could just as easily have characterized Davis’s entire performance in the film, “You’re maudlin and full of self-pity. You’re magnificent!”

No Oscar Love for Harold Ramis: The Academy, as Humorless as Ever

02/27/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 6 Comments

Harold Ramis, whom President Obama labeled “one of America’s greatest satirists,” died this week shortly before this Sunday’s Oscars. His list of co-writing credits is astonishing: Animal House, Stripes, Caddyshack, Ghostbusters, Groundhog Day. He also directed the latter, Caddyshack, and Vacation. I’m sure the Academy will clap enthusiastically this weekend when his face appears in the “In Memoriam” tribute, but they won’t express what they should: regret. Ramis never won an Oscar; in fact, he was never even nominated.

Harold Ramis: won A BAFTA, but no Oscar

In the years the Academy snubbed Ramis, comedies did make appearances in the original screenplay category, including Private Benjamin, Splash, Beverly Hills Cop, Sleepless in Seattle, and Dave. But many of the nominations were of grim films you didn’t know then, much less now. The following were the original screenplay winners the years Ramis could have been nominated:

Coming Home (Animal House), Melvin and Howard (Caddyshack), Places in the Heart (Ghostbusters), and The Piano (Groundhog Day).

Most Oscar nominees for original screenplay are not bad movies; the Academy saves their embarrassing choices for the best film category (Crash, anyone?) But have these screenplay winners stood the test of time? Have they influenced you—or anyone you know—in any way?

Here’s a test for you:

Can you quote from it?

Do you adopt cultural affectations from it (perhaps Roman)?
Have you sung along with it?
Does it give you more understanding for the weak kid or the outsider, perhaps make you feel more comfortable challenging authority? (See this great Ramis bio.)

Does it bring back childhood memories that make you grin, maybe your best Halloween costume ever?

Have you lost count of how many times you’ve seen it?
Do you (be honest) feel tempted to dance with a certain character’s nemesis during the closing scene?

Of course, the Academy—and critics in general—have long shown more appreciation for drama than comedy, failing to see in it the far subtler, and often more trenchant and artful cultural critique it can provide. In 1941, Preston Sturges, a writer/director who, like Ramis, was fond of what’s often dismissed as “adolescent” humor, wrote an entire film addressing the greater appreciation given to drama, Sullivan’s Travels. But unlike with the usual Oscar winners, this time, the case for comedies is much more persuasive.

It begins with a scene between a director (Sullivan, played by Joel McCrea) and his bosses (Mr. LeBrand and Mr. Hadrian). Sullivan has decided to write a serious film, which his bosses fear will be less profitable than his usual comedies. Why not do a sequel to your Ants in Your Plants of 1939 instead? they ask him. His movies are inspiring, they tell him. They don’t, as Hadrian puts it, “stink with messages.”

Sullivan (Joel McCrea in the middle) with his bosses

Mr. LeBland, Sullivan (Joel McCrea) and Mr. Hadrian

Sullivan tries to argue them into supporting his new effort, showing them a scene from his O Brother, Where Art Thou? (yes, Coen fans, that’s where they got it)

Sullivan: “You see the symbolism of it?….It teaches a lesson, a moral lesson, it has social significance.”

Hadrian: “Who wants to see that kind of stuff? It gives me the creeps.”

….

Sullivan: “I want this picture to be a commentary on modern conditions, stark realism, the problems that confront the average man.”

LeBrand: “But with a little sex.”

….

Hadrian: “How about a nice musical?”

Sullivan: “How can you talk about musicals in a time like this, with the world committing suicide, with corpses piling up in the streets?…..”

Hadrian: “Maybe they’d like to forget that.”

After Hadrian convinces Sullivan he’s too inexperienced with suffering to direct movies about it, the latter decides to go on a quest to learn about poverty firsthand. A despondent LeBrand barks at his assistant, “Get me a copy of that O Brother, Where Art Thou? I guess I’ll have to read it now. Make that two copies. Why should I suffer alone?”

By the end of the movie, Sullivan agrees with his bosses that he should keep directing comedies. He discovers that his movies, silly as they may be, have something to offer that dramas never will: “There’s a lot to be said for making people laugh. Did you know that’s all some people have?”

In fact, Sturges begins the movie with a dedication that could have been written for Ramis: “To the memory of those who made us laugh….in all times and in all nations, whose efforts have lightened our burden a little….” Not a bad epitaph, from one comedic genius to another.

Incidentally, Sullivan’s Travels (1941) ranked on the AFI’s top 100. But you guessed it: Not a single Oscar nomination.

The Anti-House of Cards: Mr. Smith Goes to Washington

02/20/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 1 Comment

I had been looking forward to the return of House of Cards for months. Frank Underwood’s (Kevin Spacey’s) skewering of his opponents is almost as fascinating to watch as his wife Claire’s (Robin Wright’s) icy machinations.

Frank and Claire Underwood, the creepy power couple

The Underwoods, DC’s creepiest power couple

But something about the nonstop snow, ice, and wind this winter has made me too blue to compound my already too cynical view of Congress. In months like these, I need to let some spring-tasting idealism in the room. In other words, I’m craving some Capra.

Many have seen It’s a Wonderful Life, and if so, they already have a feel for director Frank Capra’s conviction that the little guy/gal can make a difference. Capra clearly relished films that breathed hope, like those optimists who would follow him, Ron Howard and Steven Spielberg.

When I stared at a pile of snow two feet high today and knew my shovel was buried somewhere within it, a dose of hope was required, and few films can refresh mine as thoroughly as Capra’s brilliant Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939).

Smith (Stewart) inspired by the Lincoln Memorial

Smith inspired by the Lincoln Memorial

The beauty of the movie is that it lets us see the world—and its hero—through the eyes of world-weary Saunders (Jean Arthur). Tasked to assist Jefferson Smith (Jimmy Stewart), she can’t decide if he’s full of it or dim-witted. This guy insists on going to see the Lincoln Memorial when he arrives for his senatorial post, for crying out loud. He claims his primary goal is creating a boys’ camp for his state. Could anything be more suspicious to a DC insider?

Saunders’ reaction to Smith’s tourist plans.

Saunders begins by undermining him, inviting a bunch of photographers to capture him at his most foolish.

Smith inadvisedly demonstrating a bird call for the press

But as she slowly begins to reassess him, we find ourselves losing our cynicism about his dogged honesty and downhome goodness along with her. Of course, poor Smith encounters his share of Frank Underwoods, especially crafty Jim Taylor (Edward Arnold), who calls him a “drooling infant.” Interactions with Taylor and his cronies will lead Smith to lose a lot of his innocence but help him develop some much-needed spunk.

Underwood (Spacey) and Taylor (Arnold)

The powerful filibuster scene at the center of the movie is so moving that reporters still reference it today as justification for allowing that congressional maneuver. The film came up as recently as the Affordable Care Act battle last September, when writers claimed Ted Cruz’s was a “faux filibuster,” and last summer, when Wendy Davis pulled the famous Jimmy Stewart move at the Texas state house for eleven hours straight.

Smith (Stewart) in the midst of his filibuster

Most days, the news convinces me that idealists like Smith will always be crushed by the powerful jaws of the Frank Underwoods among us. But somehow, I don’t feel that way today: I’ve been watching Capra.

3 Classic Anti-Valentine’s Films for Sex and the City Fans

02/13/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 6 Comments

Single or attached, I’ve always loathed Valentine’s Day. When single, I’ve wondered why our couples-obsessed culture needs a day devoted to twosomes. When attached, I’ve pondered why I should celebrate en masse what’s supposed to be intimate. Therefore, my three recs today are for those who share my distaste for the day:

Female Bonding: Stage Door
For those who’d rather split a few bottles of wine with pals than brave pink-and-red-bedecked nightclubs this Friday, I recommend Stage Door, a film centered on women who live in an all-female boarding house as they try to make their big breaks on the stage.

The heroines’ choice to remain single (and have casual boyfriends only) is celebrated rather than reviled by the film. If anything, the film mocks marriage. But don’t just view Stage Door (1937) for its politics; watch it to see the phenomenal cast interact: Ginger Rogers, Katharine Hepburn, Lucille Ball, Eve Arden. (The latter you may recognize as the principal in Grease; in her youth, she was always the smart-talking sidekick.)

Rogers, Arden, Ball, and Hepburn

The dialogue is so slick and cynical and quick that you’ll have a hard time keeping up with the one-liners, as when wealthy Terry’s (Katharine Hepburn’s) haughty tone annoys her impoverished fellow residents. Jean (Ginger Rogers) is not one to let an insult slide. When Terry snootily states, “Unfortunately, I learned to speak English correctly,” Jean fires back, “That won’t be of much use to you here. We all talk pig Latin.”

While the more famous classic movie about female friendships, The Women (1939), favors marriage with unfaithful partners over relationships with backbiting friends, this feminist flick celebrates the humor and loyalty between single women. In fact, I would argue that Stage Door’s women are in some ways more liberated than those in Sex and the City. Watch and see if you agree.

More of a feminist: Jean Maitland or Carrie Bradshaw? (Ginger Rogers & Sarah Jessica Parker)

More of a feminist: Jean or Carrie?

Revenge as Art: Gilda
I enjoyed Samantha Jones’s (Kim Cattrall’s) revenge on boyfriend Richard Wright for his infidelity in Sex and the City: the dirty martini in his face, the papering of the city with posters describing his behavior.

Samantha in revenge mode

But this kind of takedown is kitten play compared to the work of Rita Hayworth in Gilda.

Gilda, who calls herself the "Bar Nothing," and her spiritual descendant, Samantha Jones

Gilda, the “Bar Nothing,” and her spiritual descendant, Sam

Like Samantha, Gilda (Hayworth) is in full command of her sexuality; it’s not difficult to discover why this WW II pinup was dubbed “The Love Goddess.” But her treatment of her ex, Johnny, is far more ruthless than her modern counterpart’s. First, she marries Johnny’s boss; then, she flaunts her affairs with other men to torment him further.

Gilda (Hayworth) torturing her ex

Gilda is so skillful a manipulator that you root for her to get what she wants, even if the ex she desires is no prize (and no mean manipulator himself).

Here’s an anti-Valentine’s Day conversation if ever there were one:

Gilda: “Would it interest you to know how much I hate you, Johnny?”
Johnny: “Very much.”
Gilda: “I hate you so much I would destroy myself to take you down with me.”

I think Samantha would be impressed.

Exploiting Men: Baby Face
In an early episode of Sex and the City, “The Power of Female Sex,” Carrie’s fling has left a tip on her bedside table and she’s feeling ill at ease with the implications. The four friends discuss whether it’s ever acceptable to use your sexuality to get ahead. Barbara Stanwyck’s character in Baby Face (1933) has no such qualms: She leaves her hometown for NYC with the aim of doing just that.

The shocks accumulate quickly as you watch Baby Face: Lily’s (Stanwyck’s) father has been prostituting her since she was fourteen. A grandfatherly figure in her dad’s speakeasy recommends she leave home to sexually exploit men for personal gain, quoting Nietzsche to back his case. Once in New York, Lily takes quick steps to follow his advice, seducing the HR assistant in a bank to get a job, and then sleeping her way floor by floor to the top. (The camera helpfully pans up to highlight each floor as she ascends.)

Lily (Stanwyck) on the make

You might expect the movie to make the heroine suffer for her behavior, given the date of this film, but she is unmoved by the heartbreak and eventual tragedy she leaves in her wake (among her victims is a smitten John Wayne). Men have used her all her life. Lily figures it’s her turn, and the film clearly sympathizes with her reasoning. She calmly goes about her business of seducing men, accumulating jewels and bonds, and sharing her successes with her best friend, Chico (Theresa Harris).

Chico and Lily admiring another woman’s wealth before Lily starts to advance

Chico and Lily scheming

Here’s a typical exchange with a discarded lover who stops by Lily’s apartment:

Ex-Lover: “It’s been brutal not seeing you.”
Lily: “Yeah, well you better get used to it.”

When he returns and offers marriage, Lily answers, “So you want to marry me, huh? Isn’t that beautiful. Get out of here….”

Lily’s reaction to a marriage proposal from a discarded lover

This is a strange film with a number of flaws, but you won’t care; it’s too much fun to watch this predator in action. (Be sure to watch the pre-release version; it’s much better.)

What are your favorite anti-Valentine’s films?

Slacker Detectives: Psych and The Thin Man

01/30/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 1 Comment

Years ago, I tried without success to get my sisters into the TV show Psych.

“The mysteries are stupid,” they said.

“The mysteries aren’t the point,” I replied.

“You can’t ignore them!” they claimed.

But I have, and I do, and so did the viewers of The Thin Man series starring William Powell and Myrna Loy, in which the detective always has to be forced onto a case because he’d rather be partying or vegging out. Sound familiar, Psych fans?

The witty repartee between the starring couple, Nick and Nora Charles, is what so many writers have tried to imitate since—not the mysteries’ quality, or the sometimes painfully melodramatic performances of the minor characters. Likewise, the interaction between the detective pair on Psych is so much the focus that commercials give no hint about the actual content of the episodes, as in the characters’ classic Hall & Oates spoof.

Compare:

Psych episode (“Let’s Get Hairy,” Season 4, Episode 8): Partners Shawn and Gus are dressing dolls up as their favorite 1980s WWF wrestlers before a match rather than drumming up detecting business.

Gus and Shawn (Dulé Hill and James Roday) playing before the rumble

The first Thin Man: Nora is trying to convince Nick into taking a case as he shoots balloons (and eventually a window) with a play gun she gave him for Christmas.

“Aw Nicky, take the case,” she says.

“You take it,” he answers. “I’m too busy.”

Nick and Nora (Powell and Loy) bantering in The Thin Man

Pleasure before business? Check.
Adults acting like kids? Check.
Clever references? Check.
Perfect repartee? Check.

Nick proud of a bull’s eye; Shawn feeling suave thanks to his Miami Vice poster

I know some classic movie fans will find my comparison insulting to the more sophisticated films and the brilliant book that inspired them. But such critics should give more credit to Psych’s dialogue, such as this exchange, which captures the show’s attitude toward the mysteries:

Shawn: “We came to investigate, catch bad guys and eat pie.”

Gus: “Not necessarily in that order.”

Shawn: “And it hasn’t been.”

Gus: “No.”

Shawn: “We started with the pie.”

Gus: “Always.” (Season 5, Episode 12, “Dual Spires”)

Even if you dislike Psych, don’t miss out on Nick and Nora. Eighty years of fans. Five sequels (the last over a decade after the first). Scores of imitators. Observe the publication date on this NPR story discussing upcoming novellas of The Thin Man sequels. Sequels, mind you, which most of us try to forget, not commemorate decades later.

What are your thoughts on Psych and The Thin Man? Would you rather party with Nick and Nora, or Shawn and Gus? Did you like the first Thin Man best, or did the scene with Nick and the snoozers in the second make it your favorite? What other Nick and Shawn similarities have you noticed?