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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.

A Film Celebrating Bad Cooks: Christmas in Connecticut

12/13/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 2 Comments

I come from a long line of bad cooks. My mother was way ahead of her peers with the natural foods craze, but, like a new vegan, she never learned to substitute anything for the bacon grease she’d been raised with; everything she made was bland. When we visited my maternal grandmother’s, all of our cousins would drop by with food. I remember the day I discovered why, when I witnessed Grandmother putting mayonnaise in macaroni and cheese. My fraternal grandmother supposedly was a good baker before her illness set in, but the only real meal I remember from the Williams family recipes was courtesy of an in-law.

For some women, this deficiency would be a source of shame, but it wasn’t for my grandmother, who bragged about her recipes as she put ketchup in her ratatouille, knowing no one was bold enough to contradict her. As for my mom, she took Greek salad to every holiday potluck, shrugged at all the better fare, and returned to her studies afterward. Who cared about culinary proficiency, when she could be mastering Aristotle? I’ve followed my family’s example, neither worrying about my lack of ability, nor feeling an impulse to remedy it.

With these tendencies and antecedents, it’s perhaps unsurprising that one of the few domestic comedies I find relatable is Christmas in Connecticut (1945), starring Barbara Stanwyck as Elizabeth Lane, a food writer who can’t cook. The publisher of her magazine (Sydney Greenstreet) wants to please a hero who craves good eating and satisfy his own stomach in the bargain. He invites the sailor—and himself—to Christmas dinner at the columnist’s country home, forcing her to quickly accede to a friend’s proposal and thus be able to pretend owning the home—and baby—she’s been writing about for years instead of the actual tiny New York apartment she lives in as she spins stories about rocking chairs and fireplaces and pet cows.

A view Lane pretends to be “the broad front lawns of our farm, like a lovely picture postcard of wintry New England”

A view Lane pretends to be “the…front lawns of our farm”

The premise is absurd, of course, but with Stanywck as the faux-Martha Stewart, Greenstreet as the busybody, and S.Z. Sakall as Felix (the enterprising buddy whose recipes she’s been using for her articles), this film is a lot of fun. When Lane falls for the sailor (Dennis Morgan), she plots to avoid the promised marriage to her stuffy friend, John Sloan (Reginald Gardiner). She boldly flirts with the handsome hero, Jefferson Jones (Morgan), freed by his engagement and her own supposed marriage.

Even more entertaining than their flirtation is the treatment of Lane’s poor cooking as she pretends to be Mrs. Sloan. When he hears Felix will be handling dinner, the publisher complains, “…I won’t feel quite the same as if you’d cooked it, Mrs. Sloan.”

“Believe me,” quips Felix, “you will feel much better.”

In a famous scene, Felix teaches Lane to flip a flapjack, which she’s described in great detail in her writing. Repeatedly, she screws up, hitting the ceiling with the batter.

Lane, viewing the pan like it’s a tarantula

While she dodges having to display her bad aim at first, she’s finally put on the spot, and her shocked face when she succeeds—by a sheer fluke—is priceless.

**spoilers below, for anyone who still thinks it’s possible to spoil a predictable romantic comedy***

She may be a poor pancake maker, but Lane’s courage and quick wit are worth witnessing when she finally confronts her bullying publisher, who tries to convince her and her faux-husband Sloan that they should reproduce again for the good of the magazine’s circulation. Once he discovers the deception, the publisher urges her to marry the “bore” (Sloan) and proceed quickly to child bearing. Even though she’ll likely lose her job and a promised raise, Lane still decides to have her say: “Listen to me. I’m tired of being pushed around, tired of being told what to do, tired of writing your galldarned articles, tired of dancing to everybody else’s tune, tired of being told whom to marry. In short, I’m tired.”

Of course, this exchange sets Lane up for becoming the housewife she’s been pretending to be, but in feminist fashion, it’s a choice, not a default—and quitting is in her case an act of liberation. I like to think of her using that big imagination to write the next great American novel while Jones, who already likes washing babies, tends to the children. (She knows what she’s doing, falling for this sensitive type.)

Surprisingly, the film is no more judgmental about her culinary failures than I would be. “Well, young man, I spose you know what you’re doing,” the publisher says to Jones once it’s clear the two are altar bound. “But I warn you, she can’t cook.”

Jones asks her if it’s true. “No, I can’t cook,” Lane admits, without a trace of embarrassment.

“She can’t cook,” Felix repeats. Then he adds for all of us who’ve fallen for her during the film, “But what a wife!”

Versatile Blogger Award!

06/09/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 9 Comments

Thank you, Kristina at Speakeasy, for honoring me with the Versatile Blogger Award nomination!! (What wonderful things happen when you’re out of town!:))

Check out Kristina’s blog—the post on the award alone proves just how funny and talented she is.

Those nominated for the Versatile Blogger Award simply thank their nominator and link to his/her blog, choose 15 blogs to nominate, and tell the nominator seven things about themselves.

I can’t possibly list all of the blogs that have inspired me, but here are some I enjoy quite a bit:

For their classic film coverage, which is witty, wise, and informative:

Because I love her desserts: Chocolate-Covered Katie

I’m not stylish enough to get all of her outfits, but love her writing style: My Edit

For her much-appreciated assistance with #2 below: Putting Me Together

Because they make me laugh:

Seven Things about Me:

1-Festivals and museums devoted to peculiar subjects make me happy, probably because my extended family resembles this one:

Don’t miss the Spam Museum.

2-I am hopelessly fashion challenged. My taste was formed in this decade:

Once I woke up to the horror of what I was wearing, it took years to convince me into trusting color again. (The fashion blogs I mention above are helping with my affliction.)

3-My cat loves BBQ. And oatmeal, and potato chips, and pretty much anything he once found in the dumpster where he was discovered. Still today, he trash dives, like a dog.

He is named Rico after the anti-hero of this film due to his similar over-the-top personality, large ego, and shaky grasp on sanity.

4-I own two copies of Brainsmasher…a Love Story (the second was a gift, in case my original became too worn down).

5-When I’m gloomy, I go to someecards.com to cheer up. I don’t need to anymore, since my sister outdid herself on my last birthday with this t-shirt, which makes me laugh every time I see it:

6-My favorite quote is from Pride and Prejudice. The heroine, Elizabeth, is at an awkward gathering, and no one knows what to say until the food arrives: “There was now employment for the whole party—for though they could not all talk, they could all eat….” This line perfectly describes why I station myself at the buffet table at every party I attend.

7-I own a Jane Austen action figure and a Dude bobble head. They stare at each other in my office, and are equally inspiring.

Three Hypocritical Oscar Moments

03/05/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com Leave a Comment

1. Ellen Insulting Her Wife’s Arrested Development Costar
I don’t know about you, but if my wife had been flayed in the press for her plastic surgery, I would avoid digs like the one Ellen gave Liza Minnelli at Sunday’s Oscars.

Kimmel’s Spoof Oscars Night: Perhaps Pre-Spat?

While Portia de Rossi didn’t seem offended, it’s hard to believe a woman who has written a book about the suffering she endured to look perfect would approve. I would have expected this kind of behavior from Seth MacFarlane, not from the usually affable Ellen. Talk about marital insensitivity.

2. Oscar Commentators Praising “Not Looking Old” and “Growing Old Gracefully” Simultaneously
The online attacks on Vertigo (1958) star and Oscar presenter Kim Novak for her looks were appalling, especially since this is a woman who left Hollywood at the peak of her fame and lived privately for decades because she couldn’t take the objectification she experienced as a bombshell in Tinseltown. She’s been lured back into the limelight in her eighties, and look how she’s treated. Because for what would we judge a woman who starred in the film now ranked best of all time but her looks?

Vertigo

Chicago columnist Mike Royko wrote that 1976 Oscar viewers were outraged about seeing silent film star Mary Pickford (who had “grown old gracefully”) on their screens because they wanted to remember her cute and pretty, like this:

Mary Pickford (right)

Royko didn’t understand why people preferred “facial skin stretched out like a drumhead.” “They cheer the illusion of Zsa Zsa,” he wrote, “but they flinch at the reality of Mary Pickford.” In 2014 an elderly woman can’t get away with natural aging or plastic surgery unless her surgeon is some kind of Houdini. Novak had the right idea originally—just get out.

3. Bestowing Honor by Awarding on the DL
Do you feel honored for a lifetime of achievement if the Academy deems the moment you’re given the statue not exciting enough for the big night? I was reminded of host Chris Rock’s reaction in 2005 when the technical awards were given in the aisle and sometimes en masse instead of individually onstage: “Next they’re gonna give the Oscars in the parking lot. It’ll be like a drive-through Oscar lane. You get an Oscar and a McFlurry and keep on moving.”

I found the choice to separate the honorary and competitive awards especially disturbing given that the former are so often given to those the Academy considers unworthy of notice for years and belatedly realizes they unjustifiably snubbed; such as one of this year’s honorees, Steve Martin, and Cary Grant (yes, the only classic film star many people can name).

Steve Martin, honored at separate event

Unsurprisingly, honorary Oscars are frequently awarded to those who mainly appear in/write/direct comedies, so I thought Jim Carrey’s jokes and Bill Murray’s shout-out to Harold Ramis were timely reminders that comedians receive no credit unless they appear in dramas—and usually not then—until the Academy’s honoree-may-be-near-death-oops awards, honors that now aren’t even bestowed on the night itself. Classy.

What bothered you most about this year’s Oscars?

Facing Your Black-and-White Fears

01/16/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com Leave a Comment

You are petrified of classic movies, afraid you will

Be ostracized by your Sharknado-loving friends, who’ll ask whether you’re planning to throw out your Madonna or Jay-Z for Beethoven next.
Drift into an alternative Pleasantville universe in which everything is in ugly shades of gray—including you.
Start dressing like you’re raiding the Dowager Countess’s wardrobe, which is obviously even worse than Barry Manilow’s.

Maybe you tried old movies once, such as Citizen Kane or your mother’s beloved Gidget (big mistakes), and decided classics weren’t for you. Or perhaps instead of taking a risk on the unknown, you chose the Redbox pick of the week instead.

Not to worry. I’m not a classic film expert. But what I do know is how to find films that are fun to watch, whether my John Cusack-Molly Ringwald-Chevy Chase favorites from the 80s, Coen brothers anything, or the classic films that have brought me equal—usually more—enjoyment. And I can help you find them too.