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Could Silent Films Woo Non-Classic Movie Fans?

05/22/2015 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 6 Comments

I recently caught It at a theater with live music, and am still buzzing from it. I liked the film before. With live music, it was a revelation. The talented composer, Jeff Rapsis, used the term “moving picture” rather than film to discuss silents. This term and my exposure to multimedia this year have me thinking: Could silents reach otherwise classic movie-averse folks like my sister?

Could Silents Silence Typical Classic Film Objections?
Resistance to classic film, especially black and whites, comes in the form of comparison: The production values are better now. The acting is better now. Directors have learned from their predecessors, so why go back? We classic film enthusiasts may scoff at these claims, offering as Exhibit A Michael Bay, but the fact remains that the films of the 30s-50s and today are considered similar enough to be directly compared. Yet silent film is a different art form than the movies we know, with different restrictions, different demands. We can no more compare the two than we could stage and television productions.

My mother has been studying art, and keeps referring to the departure from representational art once photography advanced. Movies took the opposite route: moving from figurative (silent) to representational (today). There are exceptions, of course–Terrence Malick comes to mind. But just as we can’t compare Vermeer to Picasso, we can’t go point for point with Metropolis and Star Wars. Avoiding comparisons is crucial since we’re all guilty of using the worst example from the opponent’s camp (i.e., Bay), and the best from our own. With no comparisons, with fewer best-of lists, perhaps there can be less quickness to judgment.

Could Instagram Pave the Way to Silents?
For a culture obsessed with Instagram, silents seem a natural. Incredible concision? Check. A story delivered with visuals rather than sound/many words? Check. Silent film directors didn’t have the luxury of lengthy speeches; they had to distill emotion to a few gestures, drama to a few actions. What could be more compelling to our tweet-obsessed, quick-pic world? And as for our love for cat videos, also sans words, could a Buster Keaton action shot resemble a cat video more? The silliness, the athleticism, the grace–all without special effects? His DNA was clearly more feline than human.

Will Our Media-Savvy Youth Prove Less Resistant to Classics?
This year my students produced radio and visual essays for a creative nonfiction class. They were nervous about unfamiliar technology, just as we older folks are. But they were never resistant to other art forms, as we can be. When I showed them silent film sequences, they didn’t complain. They took ideas from them. When a guest speaker demonstrated his digital memoir, which included silent film clips, they expressed admiration. One student started adding black and white footage to his profile. Another used images of classic film stars primping and mooning to illustrate her preparations for a date. And lest you think they were budding film directors, I should point out that most were science majors.

Perhaps this flexibility bodes well for classic movie fans. When I entered the theater to watch It, I noticed an older audience, as expected. But back in the corner was a line of twenty-somethings, looking vaguely hipsterish and far too serious. Afterward, they were grinning, just like I was. Is it silly of me, to find this hopeful?

Of course, anyone watching a silent with live music would more fully appreciate the art form as it was meant to be experienced. (For those of you with sisters like mine, who rant about classic film sucking, see if you can find a silent with a composer. My husband, who dragged me to Transformers 2, agreed to a romantic comedy once he heard the details.)

But even in a room, on the computer screen, perhaps a silent can reach our resistant friends if a 30s or 40s masterpiece does not. It’s worth a try.

*For anyone interested, my bet with Rachel is ongoing. She’s using her new job, home, and move as excuses for the delay in her fulfillment of the deal. I will keep you posted on developments.

Go West Young Man: Mae West’s Censorship Satire

04/30/2015 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 10 Comments

This post is part of The Fabulous Films of the 30s blogathon hosted by the Classic Movie Blog Association. Click here to see the many wonderful entries! For an eBook collection of blogathon entries, click eBook on the menu above.

It’s easy to dismiss Go West Young Man (1936) as an inferior Mae West film. It doesn’t contain her best double entendres, and features much less screen time with her than in earlier pictures. The actress didn’t even originate the story; she adapted it from Lawrence Riley’s hit play, Personal Appearance. How could the film measure up to its hilarious predecessors, which West developed to highlight her own sexuality?

It doesn’t, but that’s part of the point—and the fun. The panning of Hollywood in the play must have appealed to West. But I think she saw something else in the story too: by converting the play to film, she could mock the Production Code itself. After all, West’s raunchy scripts and uninhibited performances from the early 30s have been cited as reasons for the Code’s enforcement. She must have laughed to discover the following opportunities to satirize her nemesis:

The Opening
We begin the story at a premiere of actress Mavis Arden’s (West’s) film, Drifting Lady. The camera darts back and forth between the screen and the crowd in the theater viewing it. All of the men in Drifting Lady are pining for Mavis’s character, a nightclub singer with multiple lovers.

Mavis plays the role in a comfortable, bawdy style, and then abruptly regrets her cheating ways and loses her man. An artificial chill settles over Drifting Lady when she does. This would never happen in a pre-Code West film, we viewers remind ourselves. West is supposed to get all of the guys, and celebrate every sexual conquest with a one liner.

Mavis’s acting has been natural (or at least, natural for West) up to this point. But when her lover is about to depart, the star holds out her arm in a stagey gesture and sputters sentimental bilge about April and blue skies and fond memories.

The actress adopts the same stagey line and tone when she talks to the crowd after her film.

She claims to be an “unaffected girl,” not the siren she plays in film. She then proceeds to share peculiar details about her life. Even if we hadn’t noticed Mavis’s fake tone, her press agent, Morgan (Warren William), rolling his eyes in the background would confirm our suspicions: she’s exactly like the character in the film. The studio might try to make her seem pristine, but we know she’s far from it. Don’t blame me, West’s deliberate hamming reminds us. This censorship nonsense isn’t my call.

Blaming the Studio
After Mavis leaves the stage, Morgan selects a few token men to greet her, all of them homely. When a spectator challenges the lack of handsome men, we learn that Mavis isn’t allowed to marry for five years, with Morgan acting as her watchdog. “Why make the job tough for her?” he adds.

We suddenly understand that strange speech after the film, when Mavis not only felt the need to pronounce her purity, but kept repeating her producer’s and studio’s names, AK of Superfine Pictures, Incorporated. She wasn’t sharing her everyday life with her audience; she was spelling out the terms of her contract. Clearly, this scene ridicules the studios’ tight control over stars’ personal lives. But it does much more: It satirizes limitations on believable behavior onscreen thanks to the Production Code. West, who had attracted censors from the start of her film career, must have relished each “incorporated” she uttered.

Marriage as a Substitute for Sex
West could no longer pen scenes of women seducing men without repercussions. In Go West Yong Man, she resolves this problem by referencing marriage when she means sex. By following the letter, but not the spirit of the Code, West emphasizes the ludicrous nature of censorship.

The plot of the film is fairly simple. Morgan foils any romance Mavis attempts. (My favorite brush off: “We handle Ms. Arden’s admirers alphabetically; I’m just now getting into the Bs.”) She’s planning to join a former lover, a politician, after her film premiere. Morgan invites the press to her date, causing the lover to panic and giving Mavis the chance to express her true nature.

“Have you any particular platform?” the press asks her.

“The one I ain’t done,” she quips.

She soon departs, with the two planning to meet again in Harrisburg. En route, her car breaks down, and Mavis is stuck in a rural boardinghouse with her assistant and Morgan until it’s repaired. The delay annoys her until she spots a handsome young mechanic (Randolph Scott). Her suggestive look at his body and enthusiasm about his “sinewy muscles” say it all: We’re not talking about marriage, folks.

The Supporting Players
William is brilliant as Morgan. A New York Times reviewer described him as “the only player who has ever come close to stealing a picture from Mae West.” But he’s not alone. The boardinghouse proprietor is played by Alice Brady, and while the actress’s comedic chops aren’t fully exploited, the talents of those who play her employee Gladys (Isabel Jewell) and Aunt Kate (Elizabeth Patterson) are. The latter is an aging single woman, who makes knowing remarks about Mavis’s sexual attraction (i.e., “It”), her public relations, and her shade of hair, a color that did not appear in daylight in Aunt Kate’s youth.

Patterson, Jewell, and Brady

Gladys, an aspiring actress, attempts to impress Morgan by mimicking Marlene Dietrich. Morgan’s dismayed reactions are hilarious.

While her Dietrich attempt flops, Gladys’s imitation of Mae West’s walk is something to behold. As the innocent in the film, Gladys illustrates the futility of censoring West’s words when that body does so much of the talking.

Unfortunately, the one black character in the film is a fool, or appears to be at first. Halfway through the movie, I became convinced he had just been smoking a lot of weed. It may be wishful thinking on my part, but could it be another snide jab at the censors, who would be unlikely to examine such a minor role closely?

Scenes with Mr. Oblivious
The funniest moments in the Go West Young Man are when Mavis tries to seduce the handsome mechanic, who completely misreads her blatant moves on him.

Busy displaying his invention, he misses the meaning of such subtle lines as these:

“Modesty never gets you anything, I know.”
“I’d just love to see your model.”
“I can’t tell you the number of men I’ve helped to realize themselves.”

It’s amusing to see West’s attractions fail, given how many times we’ve seen the opposite. But what’s even funnier is to witness the man’s obtuseness. Clearly, he’s a surrogate for the censors, who must be fooling themselves (or be quite naïve) to misunderstand the meaning of West’s every look, every line.

Go West Young Man undermines the notion that sex can be discouraged by rules. The film may not have been one of West’s triumphs in terms of box office or critical acclaim, but it is a riveting look at a writer’s reactions to early Hollywood’s rule-bound universe.

Of course, the title makes little sense, referring to a famous historical line the film doesn’t address. I like to think of it as a reference to the star herself, with just one preposition (and comma) missing: “Go for West, young stud. You won’t regret it.”

The Epitome Of Teen Queen Cruelty: The Heathers Of Heathers (1989)*

04/16/2015 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 23 Comments

This post is part of the second annual Great Villain Blogathon, sponsored by Ruth of Silver Screenings, Karen of Shadows & Satin and Kristina of Speakeasy. Click here to read about other fascinating villains!

The Three Heathers: McNamara, Chandler (queen), and Duke

Before there were Mean Girls, there were Heathers, the heroines of the late-80s teen flick. If you haven’t seen it since high school, watch it again immediately on Netflix. It’s so much funnier than you remember, one of the sharpest satires about group behavior you will ever see. Mean Girls (2004), entertaining though it may be, is just a pale copy of it.

There are multiple villains in this black comedy, but the wicked trio are my favorites, a group of snotty popular girls, all named Heather. One outsider, Veronica (Winona Ryder), is allowed to share their company. She narrates their cruelty (and her own) in angsty teen fashion until J.D., a new crush (Christian Slater), urges her into revenge.

Cliché as this group might be, the Heathers are so extreme in their behavior that they’re mesmerizing, with their lead, Heather Chandler (Kim Walker), the most interesting of the bunch.

To capture her fascination, I’m categorizing the queen Heather’s words, preferences, and actions below.

(Note: Some of the best lines are so profanity laced that I decided not to include them; the line ending in Mother Theresa is a favorite.)

Power Accessory
Heather’s red scrunchie is clearly one of the symbols of her dominance. It’s the first thing we see in the film.

Her School Armor
These shoulder pads speak for themselves:

Lunch-Time Polls & Other Bits of Wisdom

Heather creates a regular poll** for her fellow popular kids. One of Veronica’s pathetic minor rebellions is to insist they seek answers from those Heather considers “the scum of the school” as well, those who in the queen’s estimation won’t help them brush up on their “conversational skills” before a college party.

Representative Poll: “Now check this out. You win five million dollars from Publisher’s Sweepstakes, and the same day that that big Ed guy gives you the check, aliens land on the earth and say they’re going to blow up the world in two days. What do you do?”

I just love the level of importance attached to this idiocy in the movie.

Signature Aphorism: “Real life sucks losers dry.”

Idea of Fun—and Urgency
The two Heather minions (Duke and McNamara) tell Veronica she’s needed right away in the café. When she arrives, their queen huffs, “Veronica, finally…I need you to forge a hot and horny, but realistically low-key note in Kurt’s handwriting and slip it onto Martha Dumptruck’s (Carrie Lynn’s) lunch tray.”

When Veronica protests that she doesn’t have anything against the poor target, Heather responds, “You don’t have anything for her either,” then suggests (with typical color) that this will give the girl fantasy material for when she’s alone. The Heathers’ excitement in anticipating the results of this cruel plot is evident:

Sense of Furniture
“Veronica needs something to write on. Heather (Duke), bend over.”

Favorite Game
There’s really nothing like croquet for sociopaths; Heather Chandler has a loving ritual with her ball.

Just after it, she hits Veronica’s head with it in a dream sequence.

Her real-life game isn’t much more cordial. When her red ball knocks into Heather Duke’s green one, the latter asks, “So what are you going to do, Heather? Take the two shots or send me out?”

“Did you have a brain tumor for breakfast?” the queen snaps. “First, you ask if you can be red, knowing that I’m always red.” She then proceeds to knock the ball out of play.

After Heather Duke miraculously manages to rebound, Heather Chandler gets a chance to ruin her chances again, and does.

“Why?” says Heather Duke.

“Why not?” her frenemy responds.

Self-Reflection
“Does it bother you,” Veronica asks Heather #1, “that everyone thinks you’re a piranha?”

The queen scoffs in response that of course she doesn’t, desired as she is. “I’m worshipped at Westerburg,” she explains, “and I’m only a junior.”

“You wanted to be a member of the most powerful clique in school,” Heather reminds Veronica when the latter protests bullying. “If I wasn’t already the head of it, I’d want the same thing. Come on, Veronica. You used to have a sense of humor.”

Insults & Threats

Her entire demeanor belittles those around her, but Heather Chandler really has some classic lines. Here are a few examples of this sweetheart’s empathy at work:

“Grow up, Heather (Duke),” she says as her friend is puking. “Bulimia is so ’87.”

“You blow it tonight, girl,” Heather warns Veronica before their party at Remington University, “and it’s keggers with kids all next year.”

“What’s your damage?” (when Veronica refuses to sleep with an annoying college guy)

“You were nothing before you met me,” Heather snaps after Veronica embarrasses her by not putting out and getting sick at the university party. “You were playing Barbies with Betty Finn. You were a Bluebird. You were a Brownie. You were a Girl Scout cookie. I got you into a Remington party. What’s my thanks? It’s on the hallway carpet. I got paid in puke…Transfer to Washington. Transfer to Jefferson. No one at Westerburg’s going to let you play their reindeer games.”

“Is this turnout weak or what?” (response to a friend’s funeral in a dream appearance)

Other Heathers’ Honorable Mentions

**Spoilers ahead***

The minions have their moments as well. Here’s Heather McNamara (Lisanne Falk), fixing her hair with holy water after her friend’s funeral:

And Heather Duke (Shannen Doherty), celebrating Heather Chandler’s death:

If you’ve seen the movie, you’ll remember that Veronica accidentally kills the queen, which leads to the latter becoming a martyr in the school, more popular than ever. Afterward, J.D. exploits the school’s fever for suicide, killing two football players and passing the deaths off as self-inflicted with Veronica’s unwilling assistance. And that’s just the beginning.

Much of the humor of the story comes from others’ reactions to the bloodshed, including Heather Duke’s. She dons her predecessor’s queenly mantle, even wearing her power scrunchie. Here’s her response after hearing her clique’s bullying victim attempted to kill herself: “I mean, Heather and Kurt were a shock, but Martha Dumptruck? Get crucial. She dialed suicide hotlines in her diapers.”

Why, Veronica asks, must Heather Duke be such a jerk?

The replacement queen smirks, “Because I can be.”

The film suggests with the interchangeability of the Heathers that the death of a clique queen just leads to another who may be worse. As Veronica says of her friend’s newly acquired status, “I’ve cut off Heather Chandler’s head, and Heather Duke’s head is sprouting back in its place….”

In terms of filmmaking, this movie spawned creatures such as Mean Girls’ Regina George, queen of the Plastics. We might no longer call the teens in them “Swatch dogs and Diet Coke heads,” but clique comedies are alive and well in the Heathers’ wake, which will probably be true as long as high schools continue breeding ugly class structures. As J.D. says about geography, but could just as easily apply to time, “Seven schools in seven states, and the only thing different is my locker combination.”

*1988 international release
**Mean Girls gave a nod to the film with a poll of its own. Did you catch it?

Bette Davis & Sibling Bonds: The Sisters (1938)

04/09/2015 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 4 Comments

April 10^this National Siblings Day. If the holiday makes you cranky about being an only child, watch Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? That should cure you of longing for a sister.

Or spend some time with the creepy antihero of Scarface (1932). You’ll never want a brother again.

But if you insist on the delight of being a sibling, there’s always the classic sisterly bonding tale, Little Women. The March sisters will satisfy all your sentimental cravings.

And if you want a more adult version of sisterly unity, check out The Sisters, a period drama set in 1904 in Silver Bow, Montana. Grace, Helen, and Louise Elliott all marry and experience varying degrees of unhappiness as a result. But the bond between them holds firm even when sorrow, tragedy, and distance separate them.

The story begins at a ball celebrating Teddy Roosevelt’s inauguration, where the three girls are in high demand.

Louise, Helen, and Grace

Helen (Anita Louise) is the loveliest, Grace (Jane Bryan) the steadiest, and Louise (Bette Davis) the most confident. Louise is on the verge of engagement to a banker’s son, Tom (Dick Foran), until she encounters Frank (Errol Flynn), a flashy visiting newspaper reporter.

He has few prospects, and her parents don’t like him. He talks too much about freedom and drinking. But she’s in love, so she elopes with him to San Francisco. Her sisters, who seem to have a sixth sense about one another’s movements, anticipate her actions, and say goodbye before she can sneak away.

While Louise is busy grasping at contentment in San Francisco with her increasingly worthless husband, Grace marries Louise’s ex, Tom, and has a son. Meanwhile, Helen cozies up to her long-time admirer, Sam (Alan Hale), who is twice her age but can give her a life of glamour away from Silver Bow. At first, only Louise’s life is turning sour, with her mother adding the word “poor” to her name whenever she says it. Frank, a heavy drinker, avoids home and complains about his lack of freedom and talent, which makes him a general joy to be around. Finally, Louise gets a job so that they can pay the bills, giving him yet another reason to feel sorry for himself. Just before the famous 1906 earthquake, he flirts with the idea of leaving her.

Helen, predictably, is faithless to her husband, whose health proves precarious. And when Grace discovers her husband isn’t as loyal as she thought, her sisters rush home to help her, scaring a group of philandering husbands into aiding their cause: outcasting the woman who seduced him.

I won’t reveal what happens to each of their marriages, or the ending that promises happiness the audience has no reason to trust. I will say the movie is engrossing throughout, with comic relief from their parents (character actors Henry Travers and Beulah Bondi), convincing chemistry between Flynn and Davis, and lovely dresses by Orry George Kelly.

But what most intrigued me about the film occurred in the final minutes. Grace and Helen both sense that Louise is in need during the final inaugural ball of the film (this time for Taft), and each leaves her man to seek her. Together, the three sisters hold one another in a final, empowering image, their expressions declaring that whatever others will do—or won’t—these three will fiercely protect one another. And that is an image that will be on my mind on National Siblings Day.

Pre-Code Fun: The Jewel Robbery (1932)

04/03/2015 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 19 Comments

This post is part of the Pre-Code blogathon hosted by Pre-Code and Shadows and Satin. Click here to see the other entries!

Jewel Robbery has much to recommend it: a debonair thief; a bored, beautiful housewife; marijuana cigarettes adding comic relief; and of course, a host of diamonds. Along the way, we witness a faux kidnapping, a baked police chief, and a rooftop escape. And, of course, we get to hear some killer lines.

This is a pre-Code film—in other words, the kind of film you didn’t think your grandmother watched, but then, you didn’t know her all that well, did you? In the few years before censorship, there was a lot of scandalous footage on the screen, and much rooting for those engaged in immoral behavior. In this film, we are, of course, meant to root for the affair between the wife and thief, but I confess that this time I felt for the wronged husband, probably because the poor guy had so much stacked against him. First of all, Baron Franz (Henry Kolker) is not a looker:

He already has a friend, Paul, making assignations with his wife, Baroness Teri (Kay Francis), and then calling her a “coquette” when she doesn’t keep them. Luckily, most of his fellow politicians are too intimidated by Franz’s position to seduce her, but clearly, an undersecretary or two will slip through the cracks when a wife is as tired of her pampered, quiet life as Teri is. And then, of all weapons aimed against him, it just had to be with one:

I think you’ll agree that the gun is not the threat here. This is not any thief. This is a robber played by William Powell with the grace, sophistication, and wit that would immortalize him two years later in The Thin Man. Describing his stealing method as a “drawing room style,” the robber plays music and converses with Teri as he and his henchmen snatch every trinket in the store she’s visiting after hours with her husband. He even explains his methods in great detail, including positioning a “very alluring blonde on each corner” to distract policemen.

To keep the atmosphere light (and prevent retaliation), the thief compliments the shop owner’s taste and hands him a marijuana cigarette, which keeps him laughing through the trauma.

After such a thrilling experience, the fickle wife is quickly in love, refusing to be locked up in the safe with either her husband or Paul, as she’d rather continue to be charmed by the thief. With such a man in her sights, what hope does a bureaucrat have to keep her interested?

The one weapon Franz has in his arsenal is Teri’s love for sparkling beauties like this one:

The couple is in the shop to purchase a 28-carat whopper, the Excelsior diamond, a ring Teri literally worships.

“What wouldn’t a woman do for such a treasure?” she says when she sees it.

“Anything. I’d deceive my husband, with pleasure,” her sidekick Marianne (Helen Vinson) answers.

“A woman would do much more than that,” Terry explains. “She would tolerate her husband.”

But all such motivation is gone when the handsome distraction in question steals jewels for a living, can give her far more than even her multimillionaire spouse can. Franz tries to convince his “incurably romantic” wife out of her lust, but her expression really says it all:

The thief’s attraction dims a bit once he catches sight of—and steals—her new treasure. But he returns it to her house while her husband is out. Teri’s friend Marianne is initially thrilled by the prospect of the robber on the premises.

But when Teri declares her intention to keep the ring in spite of its risks to her (given that she reported it stolen), Marianne is so spooked she announces her intention to leave to avoid being implicated in a scandal, declaring, “This is one night I shall be very glad to be with my husband.”

**Spoilers ahead**

Of course, this departure gives the besotted thief a chance to ask Teri to flee with him to Nice. He begins his seduction by taking her to his place. When she claims he should be more forceful (to match her romantic images of this moment), he carries her to the bed. She doesn’t deny him, only asking that they not hurry, with “so many pleasant intervening steps” before they get there.

The thief reveals just how well he’s gotten to know her next. Could any foreplay work better on a woman who claims a diamond’s purity made her rethink her frivolous life than this display of riches?

In spite of her feelings for him, Teri waffles on whether to leave the comforts of her position for a dangerous future. Unfortunately, she has no time for indecision, as the police have arrived. The robber ties her up to save her reputation, employing his usual panache in his daring exit across the roofs and into a waiting cop car his buddy has stolen.

Teri tells her husband she needs to take a long rest in Nice to recover from the trauma of the kidnapping. She approaches the camera with one final gesture to ensure we are in no doubt about her intent:

If this plot doesn’t convince you to watch the film, there are other gems: Helen Vinson is hilarious throughout the film, there’s a subplot about a guard who is both comically gullible and quickly becoming a fan of marijuana, and some nice rooftop action. Give it a try! And while you’re at it, read about many other funny, scandalous, fascinating pre-Code films.

Edward G. Robinson and My Cat

03/19/2015 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com Leave a Comment

“Suave,” the receptionist at my vet’s office said the other day, reacting to my cat’s name. “Sorry,” she added quickly. “I couldn’t resist.” I laughed, having forgotten that Gerardo’s infamous 1990 song is the first association most people have with the name Rico. My cat does share some traits with the character described by that one-hit wonder, but “suave?” Not so much.

My husband and I had seen Little Caesar a few months before adopting our cat. We’d wavered over a name, and then started noticing some familiar traits. Like our cat’s ego, which seemed to be vastly disproportionate to his size.

A head so big they'd need a "special sized noose" for him.

Cops say they’ll need a “special noose” to fit his “swelled head.”

We discovered that our newcomer wasn’t exactly sane, and that he felt entitled to what wasn’t his. He wanted our food as well as his own, and jumped up on the counter to paw some while we were eating it. That’s when we realized his actions reminded us of something, and that something was Edward G. Robinson’s breakout role.

Increasing acquaintance with my cat’s past and behavior has proven that those traits are just the beginning of his resemblance to Edward G. Robinson’s antihero. He was returned once to the shelter because he couldn’t handle associating with other dominant male cats. Sound familiar, Edward G. Robinson fans?

And then there’s his survival instinct. My cat is scrappy. He was discovered outside a dumpster in a New England winter he somehow survived. As if to prove his history, he has knocked over the trash can so many times seeking leftovers that we’re considering the metal tamper-proof kind others purchase to keep out collies and labs. And if a jalapeno potato chip, a piece of broccoli is dropped, he devours it before we can retrieve it. Rico never takes anything for granted, assumes he has to fight for everything he gets. Just like Little Caesar.

And like Robinson’s character, my cat is always voracious (despite a now hefty belly). Little Caesar hungered to be part of the “big time.” He begins the film envying Diamond Pete Montana, a successful gangster, not a nobody like himself, ripping off gas stations. “Money’s alright,” he says to his partner, who admits he’d quit crime if he had enough, “but it ain’t everything. Yeah, be somebody. Look hard at a bunch of guys and know that they’ll do anything you tell them.” He even expresses his longing with a butter knife.

As Little Caesar begins to rise, he can’t help eying others’ pins, diamond rings…

Of course when you think of Robinson, you can’t forget that voice, and how much he liked to use it. My cat too has a great desire for self-expression, and sees no reason to ever cease meowing. Maybe that’s why my husband and I started referring to him as “the Rico,” recalling Robinson’s famous line when he talks of himself in third person: “Is this the end of Rico?”

I think one of the reasons Robinson’s role made his career is because in spite of all of his criminal acts in the film, in spite of his arrogance, there’s something haunting and sympathetic about Little Caesar’s need to prove himself, to be envied.

He is in so many ways the embodiment of the American Dream filtered through a shaky understanding. He’s hardly the first—in fiction or real life—to be destroyed by his belief in it. Because he’s played by Edward G. Robinson, we are enthralled by Rico even as we condemn his actions. And in spite of everything, his loyalty to his best pal is always there, even when he most wants to lose it.

Perhaps Little Caesar’s real tragedy is that he was born into the wrong species. In feline form, the ambition, ego, hunger would all be endearing. We’d smile, hug, and pet him for those characteristics, and acknowledge his superiority without any need for proof. After all, it was the thirst for that recognition that inspired Little Caesar’s crimes. Poor man. He should have been a cat.

The Artist at Play: Man with a Movie Camera (1929)

03/09/2015 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 14 Comments

This post is part of the blogathon hosted by Movies Silently and sponsored by Flicker Alley. Thanks to both for such a great event! Click here to see the wonderful entries of the other participants:

Wizardry. It’s the word that jumps at you while viewing Man with a Movie Camera, the celebrated documentary depicting 24 hours in a Russian city. Unlike the famous magician of Oz, director Dziga Vertov invites his viewers to experience all that his camera—and by extension, all that film—can do. Announcing at the start of his movie that there will be no scenarios, intertitles, or actors, Vertov set out to separate the genre from its roots in theater. The result could have been a movie so meta it became unwatchable to any but film scholars; after all, the director even demonstrates how he obtains shots, even exhibits the film editing process. But this masterpiece is not only revolutionary; it’s also engrossing. Here are just a few reasons why:

It’s a Bird…It’s a Plane…It’s Vertov Behind the Camera
There’s a dizzying speed to the film, images flashing by at such a clip that some contemporary viewers and critics protested. Predictably, some of this speed captures industry, as when the director hurries an assembly line production to Tasmanian Devil haste to capture its unremitting flow. The director thrills at images of transportation, with clips of trains, buses, motorcycles, often with himself in dangerous positions to capture the motion. The thrilling score—I watched the Alloy version—underscores the frantic mood.

Vertov occasionally slows his pace, even stopping to profile still shots, the film editing process, and those same shots in action in a particularly lovely tribute to the power of moving images.

But it’s in rapidity that Vertov reveals his mastery of form and meaning. He even underscores the brevity of life in a short sequence. We see a couple getting a marriage license.

Directly after, another couple is signing divorce papers; the director zooms in on the estranged wife’s grim expression.

A mourner appears in a cemetery. A funeral passes our eyes. A baby is being born.

The director moves back and forth between the scenes to reinforce the connections. This circle of life takes a total of three minutes.

Realism…with Mannequins
The film begins in a movie theater, priming the audience for a show. We see a Russian city, morning beginning. A woman sleeps in her room; a child does the same on a bench where he’s spent the night. There are scenes you expect next: the bustle of a city beginning, the drudgery of work. And some of those scenes, you get, and each is powerful, particularly portrayals of the mines. But it’s the surprises that keep you watching. Why does the director dwell on creepy shots like this one?

What’s the obsession with washing scenes? (What number of shaving, tooth brushing, and hair cleansing rituals were shot over the years he made this movie to end up with so many in the final product?)

Documentaries can be gloomy, and for a director who attacked fiction and took so seriously his aims to capture truth, Vertov has a surprisingly light touch. You’re struck by the artist’s obsession with grace, revealed through a montage of pole vaulters, high jumpers, dancers, and basketball players.

He revels in a kid’s magic show, in women’s bodies at the beach. He attempted an international art form through his completely novel take on a documentary, achieving the realeast of real. And he delivers: You can’t help but feel fascinated by similarities evident between Russian culture and ours, between 1929 and today.

But like this pioneer’s artistic descendants, practitioners of cinéma vérité and literary journalism, Vertov believed revealing subjectivity was part of delivering truth. He not only affects his subjects by the intrusion of his camera, but our perception of them by which shots he includes, and which he doesn’t. As essayist Joan Didion would explain many decades later, “However dutifully we record what we see around us, the common denominator of all we see is always, transparently, shamelessly, the implacable ‘I.’”

Part of the delight of Man with a Movie Camera is watching subjects’ reactions to his (then novel) camera: the woman who blocks her face with a purse to avoid it, the tiny girl who can’t keep her eyes away.

But the director’s vision is so unique and his quirkiness so evident throughout that you never forget that another artist would have chosen other faces, other moments, would have startled his subjects in other ways, and for other reasons.

Look, Mom! No Hands!
The highly touted innovations with camera work in the film are remarkable in and of themselves. (Who knew so many of these techniques were used so early?) They also serve a purpose, not only illustrating Vertov’s sense of time dissolving, but recapturing for modern audiences the thrill of being at the beginning of a new art form.

They made me think of the Impressionists, freed from the tyranny of having to capture exactly what they saw. The scenes featuring the filmmaker at work are so amusing. Here’s the photographer riding on a moving car! Watch him risk his life to portray that train! I kept thinking of a little kid showing off on his bike, holding his hands aloft for the first time. And just as I thought it, I saw this image:

Because the director’s having fun, so are we.

Because the action is exhilarating, we are giddy. Who but a kid-like grown up could have come up with an animated movie camera in action, or with this delightfully silly image?

Surely, Vertov would be leading the creative team at Pixar today.

Sight and Sound rated this movie eighth, and gave it the honor of best documentary of all time. I am not surprised by either ranking given the vision and experimentation of this film. But that’s not why I’m glad that I’ve seen it. What an experience, to witness so much of life covered, in so little time, and so beautifully. What a joy it is, to a witness the work of a genius with a sense of fun.

Thanks to Kimberly Bastin at Flicker Alley for a screener of the film!

Why the John Goodman Oscar Snubs?

02/09/2015 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 16 Comments

This post is part of the 31 Days of Oscar blogathon. I’m taking part in the Oscar Snubs segment, hosted by Once Upon a Screen! There are so many amazing posts. Check them out here. Also see Paula’s Cinema Club & Outspoken & Freckled for the other great Oscar topics.

I’m rarely puzzled by an actor failing to win an Oscar. The competition is steep, the Academy biases evident, and the campaigning too embarrassing for some well-respected professionals to attempt. But for an actor not to be nominated when he regularly appears in critically acclaimed movies (and presumably played a role in their success) is surprising. With over two decades of fine performances to his name, John Goodman has yet to receive a single Oscar nod.

He is a regular in Coen brothers’ films, and thus would presumably take on the shimmer of those critical darlings. How’s this for a partial list of acting credits?: Inside Llewyn Davis (2013), O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000), The Big Lebowski (1998), The Hudsucker Proxy (1994) (voice only), Barton Fink (1991), and Raising Arizona (1987).

For two years in a row, Goodman acted in the Oscar-winning film: Argo (2012) and The Artist (2011). In 2011, in fact, he performed in two Oscar-nominated films, playing the doorman in Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close as well as the executive in The Artist. While his roles in the other two might not have been significant enough for Academy Award consideration, his performance in Argo certainly was.

Goodman won a Golden Globe for playing Dan Conner on Roseanne (1988-97) and an Emmy for his guest performance in Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. He’s won other honors, including, of course, for comedy, but the most prestigious have been ensemble awards. His only Golden Globe-nominated film performance was for Barton Fink.

I have to ask: Why?

Is His Acting Not Good Enough?
The easiest answer is that he’s simply not skilled enough to win. I guess that’s possible, even though I find it tough to believe any other actor could have so memorably captured Walter Sobchak in The Big Lebowski, or the oddest hotel guest ever in Barton Fink. Even in small roles his impact is felt. I can’t stop laughing when I think about his performance as an escaped convict in Raising Arizona, especially when he gets into his never-leave-a-man-behind diatribe.

And with all of Hollywood to choose from, why would the gifted Coen brothers continue to cast Goodman if they didn’t find him talented? While the directing duo features the same actors in many of their films, I think only Joel Coen’s wife makes more showings than Goodman. (John Turturro, also beloved by the brothers, has been in four of their movies to Goodman’s six.)

Are His Roles Not Sufficiently Challenging?
Goodman fits well into a number of stereotypical roles, especially the kind of good ol’ boy he plays in Alpha House. He clearly plays these with ease. But he enjoys eccentric characters too, as so many of his Coen brothers movies prove. The Academy seems to love larger-than-life characters. Anthony Hopkins and Daniel Day-Lewis have been honored for roles that bear no resemblance to actual human beings. Does anyone believe there was ever a man like those Day-Lewis played in Gangs of New York or There Will Be Blood? In what world is Hannibal Lecter anything but a caricature?

Goodman’s oddball and sometimes sinister characters, in contrast, are typically very believable, especially Walter in The Big Lebowski. Is it easy to make a person who is comically bizarre come off as realistic?

I don’t think it is, nor do I believe the much-loved Day-Lewis has pulled off this feat nearly as often as Goodman has (admittedly, the latter’s role in O Brother also never gets beyond myth).

In terms of understated performances, which I typically think more deserving of honors, Goodman isn’t always given enough play time for the kind of nuanced and subtle acting we saw in Roseanne, and he doesn’t seem to demand meatier roles when he could. I’d like to see him attempt these types of parts more than he does. If only such understated roles were honored, Goodman being bypassed by the Academy would make sense given the number of his quirky parts. But that’s not the case. Oscars would otherwise never have been given to Day-Lewis for There Will Be Blood or Hopkins for The Silence of the Lambs.

Is It the Usual Reason—No Love for Comedians?
Those of you who’ve read my blog for a while know that I regularly take the Academy to task for their lack of appreciation for comedic performances and scripts (Harold Ramis, Steve Martin, Ralph Fiennes). While Goodman has often starred in dramas, even his more serious roles are usually punctuated with humor. And with a face as expressive as this one, why would he neglect the opportunity to make us laugh?

The Academy’s dismissal of comedy could explain how often Goodman is never even discussed—much less chosen—when it comes to nominations.

Could It Be the TV Curse?
In the new golden age of TV, actors can move from big screen to television and back again without losing their star status—as long as that show is on cable. Network television still retains its low status. (Doubt me? Check out which shows win most Emmys for drama.) Whatever his other accomplishments, Goodman will always be known as Roseanne’s Dan Conner. He starred too long on a hit show—and performed too well—for it to be otherwise. While we see the rare exception—J.K. Simmons’s Oscar nomination this year, for example—most network television stars never get much credit once they turn to film. I can’t explain this trend nearly as fluently as Jack Donaghy (Alec Baldwin) does in 30 Rock.

Jack is advising Tracy Jordan (Tracy Morgan) on how to tank his acting career. In the NBC TV show’s typical self-referential fashion, Baldwin is actually describing his own life:

“Do TV. No one will ever take you seriously again. Doesn’t matter how big a movie star you are, even if you have the kind of career where you walked away from a blockbuster franchise or worked with Meryl Streep or Anthony Hopkins. Made important movies about things like civil rights or Pearl Harbor. Stole films with supporting roles and then turned around and blew them away on Broadway. None of that will matter once you do television. You can win every award in sight, be the biggest thing on the small screen, and you’ll still get laughed out of the Vanity Fair Oscar party by Greg Kinnear….You wanted to hit rock bottom again? Go on network television.”

Could this trend explain Goodman’s snubs?

Is He Discounted Due to His Choices—and Costars?
Perhaps no number of outstanding performances can make the Academy forget this role:

Or the fact that he starred with Roseanne Barr, who never has gained any traction outside of TV and unfortunately earned even a presidential slam thanks to this performance:

That the show they shared was remarkably ahead of its time, wise and real in a way few sitcoms then or since have been, doesn’t seem to make any difference.

Of course, there’s no way to know for sure why the Academy passes on this lovable character actor. My belief? The omission maybe has a bit to do with the TV curse or his former costar. But mainly, he’s ignored for the same reason Jeff Bridges was for The Big Lebowski and for many other roles that preceded it: Goodman simply makes it look too easy.

Please check out the other 31 Days of Oscar entries! (I will, by the way, return to classic movie fare on Thursday:))

Five Surprising Lessons I’ve Learned from Blogging

01/27/2015 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 13 Comments

Sixty posts after my first, I’d like to reflect on the unexpected—and sometimes bizarre—lessons I’ve learned in my first year blogging:

1. Quality/Effort/Originality Does Not Equal a Popular Post; the Word ‘Sex’ in the Title Does

Of course, in theory I knew that words such as “sex” would get a lot of hits, but it’s different to think that and see it in my stats. Interestingly, the other big hit in terms of search terms for my blog is “sadistic spouse,” a post about a movie villain that apparently hit a nerve with unhappy couples.

2. You Can Write When You’re Near-Hallucination Tired

I have used many excuses for not writing over the years, the need for energy and full concentration being at the top of my list. It’s not true. Yes, it takes longer to write when I’m a second away from spotting unicorns in my living room, but something does appear under my fingers. Even stranger, the posts I have written when in this state have been more popular than some of (what I considered) my best. Go figure.

3. Ready to Quit? Strangers Will Revive You

My non-blogging family and friends have supported my efforts, especially at the beginning. But when the novelty faded, most were too busy to read a blog that didn’t correspond with their interests very often. Who could blame them? I’d do the same. But when I kept posting entries and seeing so few views for my efforts, it was easy to wonder why I should bother continuing.

That’s when complete strangers started appearing in the comments section of my blog, and even more shockingly, followed it or posted a link to it on theirs or elsewhere. I can’t possibly express the gratitude I feel for the jolt of energy I always experience in return. Thank you, all of you who have kept reading who don’t know me from Bugs Bunny! I wouldn’t still be online without you.

4. Three-Day Sprints Can Be Fun—As Long as They’re in the Form of a Blogathon
I quit running in my mid-teens once I realized I was using stop signs as an excuse for breaks. Clearly, I lacked the requisite discipline. But even then, I wasn’t a sprinter. I preferred to see where I was going, and had neither the speed nor the energy for the 100-, 200-, or 400-meter races.

Blogathons are fast and dizzying; the number of ideas and amount of subject matter flying at me from fellow bloggers should exhaust me.

And in moments, it does, particularly after the first day. Then the adrenaline hits and I sign up for another blogathon before I know what I’m doing. Probably because after all of these years of having so few people to talk to about the movies I love, it never stops thrilling me to discover so many gifted writers who know so much more about them than I do.

5. People Search for Weird Stuff on the Web; It’s Good Not to Know Who They Are

I imagined it would be useful to know as much as possible about my audience, and thought those who happened upon my blog due to random, unrelated searches might want to stay. I even tried to anticipate their interests with my tags and headers: what words might reach those who wouldn’t automatically come?

But the search terms I see in my WordPress stats mainly confirm for me that people are very strange, and while I value strangeness, I don’t think courting it does much for my blog. I have read The Bloggess for years, who regularly posts the disturbing search terms that lead to her site. I thought for a topic like classic film, I wouldn’t get any such oddness. Not true. People have peculiar questions about Cary Grant, and not the kinds of questions that will keep them on my site. I’m glad for their sake—and mine—that these searches are anonymous.

Of course, I’ve learned much more than these five things, particularly about classic film, but I’m working on a new post for Saturday’s Dueling Divas blogathon, and have to go do some stretches….

The Depression Satire, Gold Diggers of 1933

01/11/2015 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 6 Comments

What does the term gold digger really mean, in the context of the Depression? Today we think of Kanye’s gold digger; buying gold and liposuction, maybe holding a lap dog and wearing furs; not a showgirl escaping destitution. For a musical, Gold Diggers of 1933 is surprisingly earnest, managing to both entertain and make us empathize with the plight of its subjects—and by extension, its audience. As a producer in the movie assures his performers, “I’ll make ’em laugh at you starving to death….”

The film begins with showgirls performing in gold-coin bedecked, barely-there costumes. They’re singing the famous, “We’re in the Money,” led by Fay (Ginger Rogers).

We suspect there’s irony at play; after all, Fay sings a verse of it in Pig Latin.

Rogers’s language play

And of course, we’re right to be skeptical about those claims: before the song ends, the creditors bust in, close the show, and guarantee not a soul singing will be anything but broke.

Clearly, this isn’t the slight film the title, or its greatly inferior sequel, might lead a modern viewer to expect. I was just reading about Girls, wondering if I could handle another season of Lena Dunham’s show about over-privileged, under-motivated friends in the city. I kept thinking of that show when the camera panned from the closed show to a small posting illustrating these singers’ (dissimilar) lack of options:

The camera then turned to a letter beneath the flat door of three of the performers, a rent demand from their landlady.

All three are sharing a bed. They wake up late, with nowhere to go. “Come on, let’s get up and look for work. I hate starving in bed,” gripes Polly (Ruby Keeler).

“Name me a better place to starve,” replies Trixie (Aline MacMahon). The famished roommates steal milk from the neighbors. Trixie reassures the others it’s okay because the milk company “stole it from a cow.”

I know that there’s a place for anyone’s woes; that life (and the films and shows depicting it) is not a comparison game. But the scene reminded me of why Girls so often, despite its cleverness, has left me flat. I’m just not very engaged by women without ambition or integrity. But women who can manage wit when they’re living on bread and snatched milk? Yes, please. Give me more.

When Fay arrives to announce a new show, the women band together to give one of them—Carol (Joan Blondell)—a complete outfit to impress the producer. They’ve hocked too many stockings and dresses to do anything else.

A tearful Carol calls to tell them it’s true that there’s work and that the producer, Barney (Ned Sparks), is on his way; however, he soon confesses he has no funds to start the musical. As eloquent as Carol’s response is to his trickery, her expression is even more so:

Luckily, the women’s singer-and-composer neighbor, Brad (Dick Powell) is available. He impresses Barney with his music, especially the tune which best fits the producer’s Depression theme. More importantly, Brad offers the money to put on the show.

(Just an early spoiler) Brad is secretly a member of a wealthy family, and his proud brother, Lawrence, is not pleased to see his sibling in a musical, and even less pleased the boy is in love with Polly (Keeler). Lawrence’s (Warren William’s) banker, Faneuil H. Peabody (Guy Kibbee), convinces his client all showgirls are gold diggers, and Lawrence therefore rushes to quash the romance.

The two men go to the girls’ apartment to pay off Polly, but mistake Carol for her. Enraged by their condescension, Trixie and Carol decide to pretend Carol is Polly and take the two haughty men for all they’re worth to teach them better manners (and teach us that the title of this film is as ironic as its opening song).

MacMahon as Trixie can occasionally grate, but Guy Kibbee is wonderful as the elderly, lascivious lawyer, the man whom Trixie feels is “the kind of man I’ve been looking for. Lots of money and no resistance.”

Trixie plans to marry the banker in spite of her lack of attraction for him (“You’re as light as a heifer,” she says when she dances with him). She just needs to fend off Kay (Rogers), who wants a meal ticket too.

Carol has no such plans. She’s just angry. The film wants us to understand that Kay and Trixie are just desperate—but understandable—exceptions to the rule. Most of the showgirls, far from being the “parasites” Lawrence assumes, are as ethical and proud as Carol and Polly are. Slowly, though, Carol, in spite of herself, begins to fall for the handsome snob.

The women’s antics are entertaining, especially when they fool the men into buying them pricey hats. But the men’s conviction they’re hanging out with these lovelies just to do Brad good is even funnier. Since this is a pre-Code film, there’s no dearth of skimpy clothing and sexual references. Lawrence soon passes out drunk after confessing love for Carol, and she and Trixie move him to their bed, knowing he’ll assume he’s had sex with faux-Polly and will be too compromised to object to Brad marrying the real one.

Sexual innuendo is evident throughout the musical numbers in the show, especially since this is a Busby Berkeley film. One of my favorite acts is about couples “Pettin’ in the Park.” When it rains, the women retreat to change, returning to their men in metal dresses.

The men are frustrated and outraged they can’t access their partners’ bodies.

Luckily for them, a peeping toddler (yes, you read that right) gives the star (Powell) a tool to break through his love’s (Keeler’s) metal, which he’ll presumably pass to the others.

But Berkeley doesn’t keep with this light tone for all of his numbers. The film ends with the Depression tune that Barney promised, with Carol singing, “Remember My Forgotten Man.”

Alone on a street in seductive attire, she first talks, then sings, “Remember my forgotten man?/You put a rifle in his hand./You sent him far away./ You shouted, ‘Hip hooray,’ but look at him today.”

Showing the cop the homeless man a veteran

Carol defending a forgotten man

The song moves from one woman, to another, then builds into an anthem of men and women attacking the government for not doing more to help the veterans and farmers who’ve worked hard for their country, only to end homeless in breadlines, unable to support the women who love them.

Their women are left not only witnessing their men’s suffering, but with children to support as well as themselves–alone. Carol’s provocative attire and presence on the street are no accident, of course. There is one type of work she can get without her man.

The song is heartbreaking. How rare to find a movie, a musical, that captures the national plight like this, especially after such light fare. But of course, the song is also a reminder that there was nothing truly light about the whole film. Is Trixie a greedy gold digger for wanting a rich husband rather than starving as she waits for a show not to be canceled? The oldest and least attractive of the bunch, she knows she must beat Fay to the lawyer’s libido, or she’s probably headed for the streets. The relatively happy unions of these women don’t blind the audience to the fact that there are a lot of girls in that show, a lot of women without secretly-rich neighbor-lovers, without pliable elderly bankers, but with landlady’s notes waiting for them under the door.