Two Critics Pan Hitchcock’s Torn Curtain

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Friends and fellow film buffs: Brian Wilkins and Mike Gutierrez have written wonderful guest posts here at Cary Grant Won’t Eat You—Brian, on fighting in Sword and Sandals films, and Mike, on his ideal casting for Hitchcock remakes. Today they’re joining the second annual Alfred Hitchcock blogathon to consider what the famous director could have been thinking with Torn Curtain (1966).

B: This all started because I had a memory of a movie where a drunken Paul Newman, at the Nobel Ceremony in Stockholm, chats up beautiful blondes and a physicist who may or may not be trying to defect to East Germany. So when Torn Curtain was still available, I texted Mike and said we should grab it.

There’s only one problem.

Torn Curtain is a Paul Newman and Julie Andrews vehicle, about a conference in Copenhagen that ends in a physicist possibly defecting to East Germany. And it’s not the movie I remembered. That movie is The Prize directed by Mark Robson. This was Torn Curtain, and as Mike put it…

M: Torn Curtain is a deeply stupid movie.

And it shouldn’t be.

It’s 1966.  Newman and Andrews are two of the biggest stars in the world. It’s true that Hitchcock was winding down by then, but he’d only done The Birds three years earlier. The three of them coming together for some Cold War intrigue sounds like a sure-fire hit, or at least a fun two hours. But that’s not what happened. And, frankly, I’m not sure what happened during the film.

Newman is “defecting,” but no one believes that for a minute. Andrews is his doting girlfriend who follows him to East Germany and decides to stay with him–betraying her country for a guy who has been lying to her. The East German secret police announce themselves as the “secret police,” which doesn’t seem like something the secret police should do. It’s not clear if Newman is working with the US government or is going completely rogue, but somehow he has ties to the resistance even though he’s just a scientist.

I could keep going–the plot is inane, the characters inconsistent, and Newman and Andrews seemed to have lost their charms on the flight to Berlin–but you get the point. So, Brian, what do you see as the reason this movie went off the rails?

B: They squeezed all the fun out of the movie. In every single case where you could find a joke or a bit of dash, they threw a lead blanket on it. I’m mostly blaming the writer.

But here’s the thing: I didn’t think it was humanly possible to have zero chemistry with Paul Newman. I’m pretty sure even inanimate objects have chemistry with Paul Newman. Even his crutch in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof looks into being leaned on. Julie Andrews looks like he started every take by mansplaining parliamentary procedure.

M: Do you think they took out the fun or had no intention of making a fun movie? I’m thinking the writer considered this his grand epic about a deadly serious topic and wanted to make a bold statement about love and patriotism and the threat of the Soviets; that he believed it was high art, Oscar-bait.

And tonally, it keeps shifting from a romance to faux-intrigue to, well, we should probably talk about how Paul Newman and some farmer’s wife re-imagined Sylvia Plath’s death on the Stasi officer. That scene manages the incredible trick of being both disturbing and boring.

B: Let me do some research <looks at Wikipedia for 2 minutes>…oh, shit, this was a hot mess. Hitchcock shopped the idea to Nabokov, who turned it down (genius) then gave the script to Brian Moore (shortlisted 3 three times for the Booker prize) who really should have known better. Moore complained Hitch had no sense of characters. Hitchcock complained Moore wasn’t funny. So Hitchcock thought he was making North by Northwest and Moore thought he was writing…a boring version of The Spy Who Came in From the Cold?

But to the murder. Listen, I hate to get all professional about this, but there are a million things to murder someone with in a kitchen other than a gas stove. It’s almost like the house frau in question was like, “Do you know how hard it is to get Stasi brains out of a cast iron pan? I just seasoned it!”

M: I just spent five minutes re-imagining this film as if Nabokov wrote it. Then I started imagining if he’d written The Sound of Music. “No, you cannot sing the Nazi’s away, Julie Andrews. No.” I digress.

B: Rolling pin. Cleaning chemicals. Towel garrote. Meat hammer. Fork.

M: Ice pick?

B: Only if he’s a real Communist (yes, that’s a Trotsky joke, David Ives fans).

M: This was one of the big set pieces, the one that shows us that Newman isn’t just a dainty scientist but a badass with a Ph.D. Now, you’re married to a scientist–who I’m certain would have used a paring knife—

B: Correct. Or poison.

M: …and you’ve met scores of scientists in your life: is there anything about Newman’s character that seems the least bit authentic? Or, a better question, what do you think Newman thought he was supposed to be? He’s never been so charmless. He has that great, knowing smirk in everything he does. What movie did he think he was in?

B:  I think Newman read the character as a boring CIA agent the whole time. His character “starts in Washington” and ends with a “teaching position.” He’s just a physicist who couldn’t actually cut it, but as a bureaucrat briefing real spies on what to steal, he’s sort of useful. And I think Paul Newman would hate that man intensely. I’m guessing he needed to fund some sort of charity for kids with horrific cancer. Seriously, that man is a sexy, sexy saint.

M: I’m not sure the first Mrs. Paul Newman would agree. There is a voodoo doll of Joanne Woodward out there floating in the aether.

B: I started wondering if Joanne Woodward would be better casting than Julie Andrews, but, honestly, I don’t think anyone could have chewing gum and twined a performance from this script. Is there any trace of Hitchcock at all with the escape scene?

M: Sure. It’s an elaborate set piece–a bus chase before sneaking onto a ship–that’s supposed to be Hitchcock’s version of how he’d escape past the Berlin Wall. But it feels like a knock-off version of a Hitchcock climax, sort of like how 2 Days in the Valley ripped off Tarantino. The problem is that Andrews and Newman are passive characters in the escape. They’re sitting on a bus driven by someone else, and then shuffled onto a boat where they are shoved into baskets to sit in their own filth for days (weeks?) while someone else pilots the ship. Passive. It’s like Hitchcock forgot what made for great Hitchcock.

B: I never even thought of how this would be Hitchcock’s personal fantasy of how to get away: “Well, I’m certainly not going to run. And riding a motorcycle sounds sweaty. Perhaps I could just drift peacefully into freedom?”

M: Here’s the thing: Cary Grant kills a dude and saves the girl in North by Northwest.

Paul Newman sits in the back of the bus and hopes no one hurts him.

B: I think this film needs more dynamite, there, Butch. I tried to think of something I liked about this film but I’m coming up as empty as a housefrau looking for a murder weapon in a gun closet.

M: Yeah, I’ve got nothing. In the end, I found myself rooting for the Stasi.

B: Well, thank you for your patience, kind readers. I hope you’ve enjoyed being warned off what has to be in my top 5 worst movies of all time. See The Prize instead for all your Paul Newman Cold War-related hijinks. And …oh! Bear Island with Julie Andrews. It’s got the UN, it’s set off the coast of Norway, and there’s a possibly gold-filled U-Boat.

M: That sounds awesome. I’ve never seen it. Let me do some research <looks at Wikipedia for 2 minutes>…. You did it again: You got Julie Andrews confused with Vanessa Redgrave.

B: That’s more telling about my fantasy life than I would like. MEA CULPA!

Check out the other posts in Maddy Loves Her Classic Film‘s The Second Annual Alfred Hitchcock Blogathon, including her post on Rebecca!

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My Podcast Talk on True Stories Of Tinseltown

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It was a riot talking with Grace Collins of True Stories of Tinseltown about Stella Dallas, William Powell, The Blue Gardenia, and Brief Encounter. We had fun comparing loves and gripes about classic films, particularly our united dislike for the husband in Stella Dallas and the supposedly romantic male lead of Brief Encounter. You can find the podcast here. I hope you will also check out her other podcasts. The one on Mary Astor’s diary is especially brilliant! Thanks to Grace for being such a great host and for taking the time to listen to me rant:)

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In Love with Nick Charles

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When asked to pick a swoon-worthy character for the Reel Infatuation blogathon, I assumed Nick Charles would already be taken. But this year, my fellow bloggers, you were too slow on the uptake. He’s all mine. How do I love thee, Nick? Let me count the ways. You are….

  1. Quick with a quip.
  2. The perfect mixture of man and kid.
  3. A generous host, especially to strange characters and party crashers.
  4. An excellent judge of canines.
  5. Averse to pretensions.
  6. Able to explain martini mixing via dance moves.
  7. Smarter than everyone, but without ever taking yourself seriously,
  8. Easygoing and relaxed when exposed to danger or annoying relatives.
  9. Supportive of the weaker types around you.
  10. Owner of a confident swagger and sexy voice.
  11. Appreciative of Nora’s charms, even enough to tolerate late-night breakfast requests.
  12. Entertaining–on every occasion, in every place, in every decade.

Sigh. Who could be better?

Thanks to Maedez of Font and Frock and A Small Press Life and Ruth of Silver Screenings for hosting! Check out other entries here.

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Dancing Lady: A Film that Subsists on Chemistry Alone

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Let’s consider the reasons Joan Crawford is a terrible choice to star in Dancing Lady (1933), one of those films about an aspiring hoofer, Janie, who is willing to do anything but trade sexual favors to get on the stage, and who is so talented she actually makes it.

1. So talented at dancing? Look, I know about Crawford’s Charleston wins and what they did for her career. But Janie (Crawford) is supposed to be talented enough to impress a stage manager, Patch (Clark Gable), whose job is working with dancers. Any woman FRED ASTAIRE can’t make look talented ain’t anything special in the footwork department, my friends. Astaire looks flat-out bored in this film, and it’s not just because those wannabe Busby Berkeley numbers are unwatchable.

2. Torn between a man and her career? The film’s plot is pretty basic: Tod, a playboy (Franchot Tone), gives Janie an in with a show put on by Patch in hopes she’ll grant him sexual favors. Janie denies him because she wants to be a star. Check out those sexy glances when Crawford flirts with her future husband (Tone), and ask yourself: Wouldn’t this woman just go ahead and take both?



Aurora of Once Upon a Screen had it right when she wrote about a different dancing film, “Crawford had heat with most everybody it seems in the early 1930s. She seems to flirt with the typewriter in this movie….” Admittedly, with those looks, Crawford appears sexy all the time, especially when she’s angry. Check out her eyes when a judge demeans her ambitions:


Luckily, Crawford wasn’t cast as Janie because her role–or for that matter, the plot–makes sense. She was cast to make eyes at her frequent real-life lover, Clark Gable, the stage manager pining for her. MGM had already witnessed their chemistry in their three films together before this one (not to mention had to deal with their off-screen behavior), and knew the money was in exploiting it.

Because Patch (Gable) thinks Janie’s gonna take up the playboy’s offer, we get many scenes of him brooding. And seriously, who is a more sensual brooder than Clark Gable?


And like his co-star, Gable looks–if possible–even sexier when he’s angry.


After fewer than 5 minutes of dancing practice, Janie usually has a cramp, twists her ankle, etc. Of course this kind of injury-prone behavior would make her too big of a risk to helm a musical, but the screenwriters know where their bread is buttered: not with logic, that’s for sure. Instead, with scenes of Gable massaging Crawford’s muscles.


And then you get these stares of Crawford’s at Gable, and you realize those swimming scenes with Tone are kid stuff compared to the smoke she’s emitting at Gable. Makes you wonder why Tone even bothered to show up for the film.


If you’re looking for a good dancing movie, do yourself a favor and look elsewhere, or do what I do: walk away during the numbers. But if you want to see two ridiculously hot actors burning the screen into cinders, enjoy. And just for your viewing enjoyment, I’m going to give you a final shot of Gable brooding.


You’re welcome.

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Advice to a Fritz Lang Heroine, after Too Much Crime TV

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Oh honey. The reporters are telling you the police are closing in. Every black and white outfit has you jumping. You’re burning your dress in an incinerator in the backyard.

Let’s refresh why. The date is 1953. You, our heroine of The Blue Gardenia, are played by Anne Baxter. The actress, having shredded every scheming expression from three years before, is now you, the dewy fiancee of a soldier abroad who works at the phone company. As you celebrate your birthday on your own with his (absent) and hers (present) champagne, you take out your soldier’s glorious, cherished letter to find, SURPRISE: He’s fallen for a nurse.

What to do? Well, get drunk with the local cad who has just called to invite your roommate to a place called The Blue Gardenia.


Go to his place after he gets you drunk. After all, you’re too intoxicated to realize “blue gardenia” is a cheap pseudonym for “black dahlia” and therefore a sign of danger;  you’re too intoxicated to even realize there will be no “party” at his pad. (Have you seen no films? Raymond Burr is playing the cad! Run!) So of course, you get in a mess, have to fight off his  attempts to rape you by grabbing a poker, and then you black out to find him dead.

(Before we get to the rest of the plot, there’s a haunting moment in the bar when you had a chance to walk away. There’s handsome Nat King Cole singing “Blue Gardenia,” and somehow his soulful sincerity doesn’t start you sobbing OR walking away from the lying playboy before the mess starts? King’s notes sear through me, more than half a century later. How is it possible they leave you unmoved? But I digress.)


The question of the film–Did you murder the guy?–isn’t that interesting to me, as I’m not sure how anyone in this circumstance could be called a “murderess” anyway. It’s an accident IF it happened, and the need for self-defense evident. But the local crime beat reporter has you convinced your only salvation is to seek refuge in the protection of his newspaper’s arms. And he—the surely not self-interested sleaze reporter—will save you from the big bad police about to knock on your door.

What’s strange to the modern viewer, accustomed to far too much crime TV, true crime books, and novels galore, is that they have NOTHING on you, my friend. A dress. A shoe size. A hair color. Some thoughts about your mannerisms from a flower seller and waiter. All that they really have on you—besides a call to your house that wasn’t even for you (and won’t hurt your friend since she has an alibi)—is that you are a MESS. Calm down, friend. Call over your wisecracking friend, Crystal (Ann Southern); ask for help. Keep that reporter out of your thoughts; honey, heaven help you, he’s almost as gullible as you are proving to be. Instead, put on your Nancy Drew heels. This case is something even that black-and-white thinker could manage. Heck, Encyclopedia Brown would have it down in two minutes.

And then you won’t be dependent on sad sack double crossers who treat your friend like a whore because she was once married, who only like you IF you’re not someone who would defend yourself from an abusive attacker. Then you can solve the crime, put on Nat King Cole’s record, sing along as you mourn your lost love, and then dance your way back to happiness with your hilarious roommates.

Alas, it’s still 1953 for you, my friend. And so the final thoughts in the film are the new cad’s, who is soon to be your love. And all we can do is watch, and pity.

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Happy Accidents: an Underrated Rom-Com

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Few rom-coms actually manage to be both romantic AND funny. For some movies, the romance wins, but the laughs are tepid; for others, you’re laughing so hard, but not feeling any chemistry. Happy Accidents (2000) is that rare film that manages both, maybe because, like most great romances, it’s not strictly about these two people at all. It asks larger questions we heterosexual women ask of ourselves every day: Is it possible to change where we’re headed? Can we trust a man’s words when we can’t verify them? And is it worth staying with a great guy if he runs from miniature dogs and claims he’s from a future version of Dubuque, Iowa?

The film keeps us guessing whether the great guy, Sam (Vincent D’Onofrio), really IS from the future, or just hiding his mental illness and/or compulsive lying. The comedy mainly comes from Ruby’s (Marisa Tomei’s) efforts to wish away/rationalize all of his (seemingly) nonsensical statements and actions. Her past relationships make her desperate to hold onto the nicest guy she’s ever been with, someone even her parents like. Her past is summed up beautifully when Sam asks if she likes music, and Ruby answers with despairing resignation, “You’re not a drummer, are you?”

Tomei’s delivery here and throughout is so on point that you may wonder why we have so few comedies of hers to savor. I have always thought the critical consensus that she was unjustifiably given an Oscar for My Cousin Vinny (an opinion I don’t share) has tainted all of her work since. How easily she could have had Julia Roberts’s or Meg Ryan’s career otherwise! She is adorable and hilarious in this film. And D’Onofrio, who irritates me in Law and Order: Criminal Intent, reminds me in this movie of why I used to like him: he’s awkward, charming, and (seemingly) achingly sincere.


The two have a meet-cute and rush headlong into moving in together, a development that worries Ruby’s therapist, who reminds Ruby she’s falling into her usual destructive romantic pattern. That the therapist is played by this woman ensures that you’ll wish each of their sessions longer:


Sam tells Ruby various stories of why he’s here, why his backstory is so flimsy, and why the worry should be not about him, but her. It seems he’s here to protect her, though he’s cagey about why. Maybe he’s playing a funny romantic game, as her friend suggests. Maybe he really believes his stories, but is otherwise sane. Maybe he’s blocking/compensating for his sister’s death (whenever it occurred). And maybe, just maybe, he’s telling the truth.

I won’t reveal where the story goes, as you (unlike he, perhaps) cannot go back and erase the memory of my spoilers. But trust me: it’s worth it to spend some time with Sam and Ruby. Watch him calmly explaining to bystanders that he didn’t need a college education due to information being inserted into his brain as the strained Ruby tries not to hear it. Relish his attempts to seduce her with polka music. And watch Ruby’s growing love for him, and his infatuation with her. Like Ruby, you’ll start to wonder, “How bad can a fantasy about being a time traveler be anyway?”

**

This post is part of The Time Travel Blogathon, co-hosted by Ruth of Silver Screenings and Rich of Wide Screen World. Check out all the fun travels here.

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2018 Oscar Best Pics Ranked (of the Five I’ve Seen)

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It’s that time again, time to get irritable with the Academy and argue with their choices. This year I thought they did pretty well. Though I haven’t seen Dunkirk yet, I’m glad they’re finally giving Christopher Nolan credit; his ability to capture a place (real as well as fictional) is extraordinary. And the Get Out choice is particularly merited (and surprising given their history). I was too annoyed by There Will be Blood to watch Phantom Thread, but will catch Call Me by Your Name. (Unfortunately, the flat previews didn’t drum up the motivation to watch it in advance.) Everyone who has viewed it has told me Darkest Hour doesn’t deserve the nomination, and I’m annoyed that it and Phantom Thread shut out the deserving I, Tonya. Of those up, here are my rankings:

Tied for 1: Get Out & Three Billboards:

Get Out. Of all those I’ve seen this year, this film entertains the most. What a joy to see a horror movie that is also a satire on racism. The film works on so many levels. I don’t like horror, but the previews hooked me, and as a long-time Jordan Peele fan, I had to check it out. It should be required viewing for everyone in this country, as it beautifully captures how a surface liberalism enables people to ignore their own privilege. Peele has managed to bring mainstream the message Peggy McIntosh gave to academics. Few would be able to deliver such a crucial theme without heavy-handedness. Peele manages to do so with humor.

Three Bilboards Outside of Ebbing, Missouri. It’s difficult for me to choose between this film and Get Out, as Three Billboards reflects on grief and revenge in such an insightful, interesting way, and the plot keeps me guessing throughout. The characters are all shades of gray, and Frances McDormand embodies the most simultaneously badass and complex female lead since Thelma and Louise. (That she deserves the Oscar is so obvious I feel no need to write about it). Actually, I would have given Peele the best film and Martin McDonagh the best director, but that’s impossible since he’s been shut out. (I’ve been intrigued by his strange ability to blend religion, compassion, strangeness and humor since In Bruges, and this is his finest film.) Both this movie and Get Out have stayed with me since I viewed them, and both are remarkable for what they’re saying about grief and justice, and for their extreme level of originality. And unlike the last film on my list, both are beautifully edited, with perfect endings.

3. Ladybird. How fun to see a high school film given credit! While I don’t find it as memorable as the first two, and it’s a smidge too long with some unresolved threads, it’s a strong, character-driven film, with a great turn by Laurie Metcalf as the loving but difficult mother. Both prickly and heartwarming, as a teenage angsty film should be.

4. The Post. I’ve already gone on about this film at length. I enjoyed it. It’s inspiring and informative. It features strong performances. But it falls into the Spielberg ending trap, which undoes some of its effectiveness. And as someone who doesn’t live in one of the few cities where it actually arrived in December, I resent that a big-budget movie I can’t watch until January counts as a 2017 film.

1055. The Shape of Water. Here’s a question for you: Why is acknowledging some humanity in a bigoted cop racist (in Three Bilboards) according to critics, but it’s perfectly acceptable to equate racism, homophobia, and resistance to amphibian-human sex? Comparing animals to people of color is a favorite racist pastime. The most offensive homophobes claim bestiality is next in line after homosexuality; this film comes along and suggests they’re right, and no one minds. It’ll probably get the Oscar. So much for the Academy getting over their #Oscarssowhite shame.

I don’t think the director realized this was what he was implying, as there’s a tunnel vision to this film that suggests he wasn’t thinking much at all (unlike my number 1s). As a fan of Pan’s Labyrinth, I was disappointed in the heavy-handed quality of this later film. The villain is comically evil,  without even the humanity a superhero franchise would give him (and from what I hear of Black Panther, Marvel is proving itself far more sophisticated character-wise). And the heroine is so smitten with desire that it doesn’t occur to her to drive beyond the five blocks of her home to give her love a greater chance at survival. The amphibian-man I’m supposed to root for has nearly zero traits (this is a far cry from the highly lovable ET or even Splash‘s shy mermaid). I was impressed with the creation of his form; why not give equal attention to what’s beneath?

It must be noted that I’m a fan of classic film, and resented the time allotted to celebrating them (and the longing it gave me to be watching those instead). When I’m refraining from looking at my watch because I know the end thirty minutes before it arrives, I know my verdict–a bad Splash (hardly a stellar film)–is correct. Yes, the movie is beautiful, and I know I don’t give enough credit to world building if the character development is weak. But some cleverness in that world building is required (I enjoyed the Mad Max series, which is not exactly praised for character development). In five years, no one will remember this film, unlike his haunting Labyrinth. But you know what they will remember? Three Billboards. And Get Out.

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Girl 27: The Rape Case MGM Covered Up–and the Woman Who Fought Back

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It’s hard to watch Girl 27 (2007). I first heard Patricia Douglas’s story on You Must Remember This podcast, then read the famous Vanity Fair article about it. That a movie extra was raped by an MGM salesperson, that the studio besmirched her reputation and hushed up the story–none of that is hard to believe happened in 1937. What’s shocking is that at twenty, the victim fought back in court. When the DA dismissed the case, she took it to federal court, calling it an issue of civil rights, and holding both the alleged rapist and studio at fault. Girl 27 documents a writer’s efforts to discover what happened at MGM and in the court cases, and what became of Douglas.

The incredible courage it took for such a young woman to stand up against a studio as all-powerful as MGM was in the 1930s is difficult to fathom today; the director compares it to going against the mob. Of course, the cases ended unsuccessfully, thanks to a handsomely paid-off witness (whose daughters admit it now), a DA funded by the studio, a doctor who destroyed any possible evidence after her rape, and shadiness between the girl’s own lawyer and mother, who seem to have colluded to end the second case. The newspaper’s publication of even her address demonstrate just how thoroughly she was shamed, while the man and studio she accused remained protected.

As a film, Girl 27 assumes too much knowledge from its audience. Had I not already known the details, I would have been very confused on the court cases and the timeline, and baffled that the full story of the rape* doesn’t even come up until very late in the film. But it’s true that hearing the story for the first time from the victim was powerful: How she was lured to entertain salesmen at a stag party (clothed as a convention), when she and her peers thought they were auditioning for a film. That the women were basically presented as gifts by Louis B. Mayer for a job well done to his sales force: “These lovely girls—and you have the finest of them—greet you…” How those drunken salesmen forcibly plied Douglas with alcohol until she vomited. How one salesman then attacked and raped her in a car, and those few brave enough to verify her story took it all back.*

Writer/director David Stenn may go overboard with film clips illustrating 1930s attitude toward rape, and may include too much of himself in the film. But it’s hard to fault him too much when his story obviously brought this forgotten hero back into the limelight (he wrote the article as well), this time to appreciation and outrage at her treatment instead of public shaming. Shortly before her death, the film and Vanity Fair story seem to have given her and her estranged daughter some closure. And perhaps more importantly, the director helped ensure that her story continues. Watching Douglas report her experience shows how visceral the attack still is for her, and how thoroughly it destroyed her life.


She admits that it chilled her ability to trust or love anyone, turning her into a fearful recluse. Somehow, the saddest moments are when she talks about her skill as a dancer (her role at MGM), one more thing she left behind after that awful night. Douglas’s silence on the experience was unbroken until Stenn slowly gained her trust, 65 years after the event.

Recently, the Weinstein scandal and the #MeToo movement have given new attention to Girl 27 (which is the number on the casting list for Douglas for that infamous party). While it’s hard to imagine any justice to be gained now, at the very least the story is now doing what it should have in the 30s: celebrating the bravery of a young woman who sacrificed so much to stand up for herself and for the others who’d been tricked and damaged by powerful men.

*Since it was never tried, we will never know the alleged perpetrator’s side of the story. But certainly, the evidence given, the no-win situation she faced, and Douglas’s accounts are very convincing. But even had it not taken place, the cover-up clearly did.

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Spielberg Needs a Better Editor–or These Classic Films

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I just watched The Post, and as usual with a Steven Spielberg film, I was thoroughly enjoying it, hoping, “Maybe he’s avoided it this time!” And then WHAM! There it is: The schmaltzy, on-the-nose scenes and/or musical selections that undo the magic he has so skillfully woven. And so again, I must wonder, Why?

All creators have worst instincts: tendencies to overdramatize, to underdramatize, to love terrible actresses only because they’re icy blondes. If they’re wise, they find a collaborator or editor to curb their worst impulses. If they’re not, they double down, find others who encourage or exaggerate those impulses. Spielberg clearly thinks his work needs no counter-voice (like his similar editing-averse peer, Martin Scorsese), and as a result, we get scenes in The Post like Meryl Streep walking down the stairs with young women gazing at her in admiration, and a Supreme Court judgment read aloud dramatically. And then Spielberg gets folks like me, a lowly blog reviewer in a $7 matinee, grumbling to herself, “Come on, Steven. This is not Lifetime. Cut it out.” Which is not to say that I disliked The Post. That’s the problem. I love Spielberg’s work. I just wish he’d stop ruining it.

Here’s what I wish Spielberg would watch for inspiration:

The “Win One for the Gipper” Speech from Knute Rockne All American


Rockne’s invocation of a previous player’s (George Gipp’s) dying wish to rev up his team would seem, on the surface, hopelessly manipulative. Onscreen at least, it’s anything but. Because it’s a highly charged moment, I was expecting some annoying inspirational music (I’m looking at you, Steven. Amistad’s ruined-by-treacle potential still haunts me.) Instead, the scene is quiet, with only background noise from the game. Pat O’Brien delivers the deathbed wish (that a losing Notre Dame team will go against the odds and pull out a win) as an obligation. He’s fulfilling a promise, nothing more. His voice is quiet; his face reserved, somber. As a result, the moment seems authentic. He’s delivered his sad charge, and it’s up to the players to make what they will of it, to win or not. The scene is, as a result of these decisions, deeply moving. And inspirational.

It’s an elementary writing practice: heightened moments require understatement. Why then must we viewers be subjected to John Williams overplaying the score in every dramatic Spielberg scene? (I don’t doubt Williams’s talent, but he too likes melodrama, doubling the bad impulse.*) Why show us a row of young women fawning over Graham instead of a single smile of a single person? I don’t get it. Nor should Steven.

Meet John Doe & Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
Critics often reference Spielberg’s emulations of/similarities to Frank Capra. I see what they mean. There’s an optimism to Capra’s work, a hope in government and humanity, that is echoed in Spielberg’s films. And in the Capra movie I dislike most, You Can’t Take It With You, I see the same lack of subtlety and complexity Spielberg is sometimes prone to. But there’s a darkness and cynicism to Capra’s work that enriches and tempers his idealism, which is beautifully rendered in Meet John Doe and even in It’s a Wonderful Life. In Capra’s best work, the hero/heroine is compromised.

Take the newspaper story, Meet John Doe. Ann Mitchell (Barbara Stanwyck) fabricates a story about a disillusioned everyman, John Doe, and then leads the campaign to lionize a man who agrees to play the part (Gary Cooper). She plies the man to give speeches repeating her father’s wholesome maxims about humanity. Her idealism–and desire to influence her society with it–blind her to how little control she’ll have over the outcome of this experiment, and the life she’s risking with her carelessness. Note that Joe, the innocent here, is NOT the hero. Why? Because he’s not as interesting to watch or as human a character as Ann.

Consider Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Jefferson Smith (Jimmy Stewart) may be the focus of the film, but Saunders (Jean Arthur); the wised up, cynical DC staffer; is our lens on the story, a woman who is complicit in a culture that destroys naive idealists like Jefferson.


Spotlight understood this necessity for compromised heroes. It derived its energy from the guilt The Boston Globe reporters felt about the coverup of priests’ sexual crimes. Obviously, the paper was not responsible for the child abuse, but they felt they fell short in their watchdog duties by not connecting the dots/seeing the extent of the issue earlier. Without this guilt, the movie would just be bad priests versus noble reporters, the kind of simplistic storytelling we expect out of Superman, not Oscar winners.

Unfortunately, The Post includes no such complexity. While we see that Katherine Graham (Meryl Streep) worries about losing her paper and betraying a friend should she publish the Pentagon Papers, we don’t care about her kids/her family’s legacy/the other stories that might never get told without her paper if it folds. Nixon and his White House are portrayed in comically bad terms, which obviously resonates with those of us who feel the White House is in similar peril now. But we’re talking film making. And while in life there are clear right-versus-wrong conflicts, they don’t make for good cinema. If we at least got what it cost her just to carry on with that paper in the face of her husband’s loss, we’d understand more of Graham’s potential sacrifice. But Spielberg relies on Meryl Streep to deliver too much of this import, and a few throwaway lines don’t cut it.

Perhaps there IS no way to tell this specific story without it appearing so black and white, or at least it seems so in 2018. But I think the key was to let us see more of Graham’s history or even guilt–even if that guilt was considering NOT publishing, however briefly. By acting as if all of her concerns weigh on her equally (the revenue of the publication, her friendship with McNamara, her family’s legacy, soldiers in Vietnam dying), Spielberg may play up the drama of the decision, but he cheapens her thought process, doesn’t allow us to see the struggle against self-interest and rationalization. We therefore see her as more of cypher, and her decision as waffling and random.

That said, it’s a tribute to Spielberg that he still makes the film–and her–so fun to watch. But with a little more Capra viewing, maybe he’d make his heroes and heroines just a little less glowing, just a little more like the rest of us: rusty people, with great potential for more.

The Ending of Casablanca
Typically, Spielberg has a beautiful ending about a half hour before the actual conclusion of his movies, and instead of stopping there, he just keeps going. The peak excitement in The Post is in the decision to print, not in the aftermath, so why does the film continue? A few lines on the screen would have worked better. (Although the VERY end of The Post is too on point, I do appreciate the humor.)

I wish Spielberg would rewatch Casablanca: The hero says his final words; the heroine expresses hers.


The heroine gets on the plane, it takes off, and the hero gets a funny final line. Done. Bows are unnecessary.

Why can’t Spielberg trust his viewers to get it, as director Michael Curtiz did? Why must Spielberg underline, add exclamation points? I don’t need extreme subtlety, but I don’t need words across the sky either.

The Post is still so good–fascinating, rousing, entertaining, a great history lesson, beautifully acted. I loved both Tom Hanks and Meryl Streep in it. I wanted to dwell longer in this world, wanted more time with Ben Bradlee (Hanks) in particular. I loved the mechanics of the press, the feel of the newsroom. The film is a pleasure to watch, and so meaningful in its message. Yes, it’s good. But with Spielberg at the helm, with a harsher red pen, it could have been so much more.

The Color Purple
Before I conclude, there is one final film I’d like Spielberg to view, if I got my wish.


The Color Purple is perfect. No false notes. All complexity (even the bad guy has some heart, and redemption). No extra half hour of cheesiness. (And talk about #MeToo!) Please, Steven. Watch it. See what you got right when you directed it. Replicate.

*I should say that The Post is an unusually restrained film for Spielberg music-wise, for which I’m grateful.

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