Cary Grant Won't Eat You

The Moment I Fell For: Alice Brady

10/31/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 14 Comments

This is part of the Classic Movie Blog Association’s Forgotten Stars blogathon. Check out the other entries!

When you type Alice Brady into a Google search, a flood of entries appear—but not for the talented actress who won over My Man Godfrey audiences in her role as the flighty head of the Bullock clan. Instead, the character of Alice (Ann B. Davis) from the Brady Bunch pops up. I enjoy my 70s kitsch as much as the next gal, but I find it troubling that the lasting fame of Brady, an actress who already was granted too few years (she died at 46), should be shortchanged as a result of everyone’s favorite cheesy housekeeper. Here are a few reasons why Alice Brady needs to be remembered:

She Could Outdazzle Ginger Rogers
In The Gay Divorcee Aunt Hortense (Alice Brady) hires her former fiancé Egbert (Edward Everett Horton) to help her niece (Ginger Rogers) attain a divorce. While I am amused by Mimi’s (Rogers’s) attempts to divorce her husband and her suitor’s (Fred Astaire) confusion over the hijinks that ensue, their romance is completely outdone by the duo of Horton and Brady, who vie each other for who can be the most foolish. Hortense interprets any of Egbert’s idiotic actions—agreeing with her that geometrists are synonymous with geologists, wearing a finger puppet while conducting business—as signs of his continued love for her. When leaving his office, Hortense becomes weepy, saying, “You know, divorces make me so sentimental. Don’t you wish it was ours?”

This exchange would have been funny with almost any actress. But this is Alice Brady. A few images should give you the idea of just how fun this moment—and their whole romance—is, and just why from that moment forward, I sought out Brady films. Just check out how expressive she can be in one short scene, and this without the delightfully funny trill of her amazing voice:

As a fervent Astaire-Rogers fan, I’m usually annoyed by the subplots that take away from dance number time. But in this case, I was eager to see Hortense again, even becoming impatient with the dancing. Who wouldn’t smile to see the amazing Horton and Brady together?

She Could Do Everything—Drama, Comedy; Film, Stage
Despite her producer dad’s strong objections, Brady, born in 1892, followed the family business by becoming a Broadway actress, and spent her youth alternating between screen and stage, mainly in dramatic roles, including as Lavinia in the first performance of Mourning Becomes Electra.

While I’ve only tracked down one of her many silents, Betsy Ross (1917), its absurd, overdramatic plot is worth viewing if only for this great line: “Thee is too spicy for a Quakeress, Betsy! I fear for thee.” Does any word suit this wonderful actress more?

Brady as Ross

Brady left the screen for a decade, focusing on the stage as Hollywood revolutionized its production. She returned in the sound era with perfect comic timing and delivery, no doubt honed in Broadway roles in such comedies as The Pirates of Penzance.

In typical Oscar fashion, the Academy nominated her for the romantic comedy My Man Godfrey, but only granted her the award when she starred in a drama. She played an Irish mother (Molly O’Leary, owner of the famous arsonist cow) beset by her children’s squabbles in In Old Chicago. What’s fascinating about the film is how understated her performance is, even for the stereotypical tough Irish mom she’s playing. For a woman who verged toward the theatrical in her comic roles, it’s interesting to find her often going for a quiet harrumph rather than a shout.

She Could Spar with William Powell
She’s good in the O’Leary role, but it pales in comparison to her comic gems. I’m not even a fan of My Man Godfrey, which feels a bit preachy to me and relies on too many sets of Carole Lombard hysterics. But I could watch her hangover scene with William Powell all day long.

Her near-comatose presence is so funny given her later zaniness, as is her conviction that pixies are haunting her. When her new butler (Powell) tells her the tomato juice he’s serving is pixie remover, her flat delivery is priceless:

“Oh, then you see them too,” she drones.

“They’re old friends,” he responds.

“Yes, but you mustn’t step on them,” she explains calmly. “I don’t like them. But I don’t like to see them stepped on.”

She may not be remembered as much as she should be, but we classic film buffs would be the poorer without this “spicy” actress.

Random Facts:
A man claimed her Oscar at the Academy Awards when she was too sick to be present; apparently, no one ever had a clue who he was, including Brady.

Brady tried to get massages as a deduction on her income tax, claiming looks essential to her role as an actress, but, as her New York Times obituary writer wryly noted, “The government remained unmoved.”

Breakfast at Tiffany’s: Why the Movie Blew It

10/23/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 2 Comments

Let me be clear: Nothing is wrong with Audrey Hepburn’s sparkling portrayal of Holly Golightly. It’s the only reason to watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s, witnessing this character’s charms (besides the obvious joys of the fashion). And though certainly a tamer version than the book’s Holly, she is every bit as interesting.

That said, fans of Truman Capote’s book have many pains in store as well as pleasures. It is truly a masochistic act to watch what becomes of favorite novels on the big screen, much like our drive-bys of houses where we once lived, when we go to see what they’ve DONE to them: a purple paint job, a favorite Oak felled.

In the case of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, it isn’t the racist cameo that most strikes me, painful as it is. It’s the way the film took the sensitive, interesting, platonic-toward-Holly narrator, and chose this to portray him:

Now, I enjoyed Col. John “Hannibal” Smith and his band of A-Teamers as much as the next 10-year old. But in terms of personality, it’s difficult to imagine a bigger dud than George Peppard as Paul/Fred in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I’m supposed to like this smug kept man who has memorized his book reviews and barks about his talent? To see in him the sensitive narrator from the novella, who is torn up by Holly’s critique of his writing? The man who is proud of the little apartment he’s obviously scraped together to afford?

I shiver to think of Holly’s twinkling self reduced to trying to prepare this dud the right flavor of chicken wings. As I watch him interact with her, I imagine William H. Macy screaming, “Where’s my dinner?!” in Pleasantville and wonder why Hollywood thinks I should root for them as a couple, why I should somehow imagine this union as right for her, as I’m clearly intended to do. That flat voice and judgmental attitude would squash her spirit within six months. True, he does laugh when she screws up a dinner for him:

But it’s still courting time, and Holly knows him well enough to be concerned about her mistake. Paul/Fred is only likeable when he’s acting as a friend to her and others, not as a would-be lover. Romantically, he’s far too conventional to suit her.

Paul/Fred, aka Col. Smith, assists Doc, aka, the Man Named Jed

I know I shouldn’t be surprised at this dreadful botching of the story. Hollywood loves a romantic comedy (as long as it’s between young, single, heterosexual characters), and, just as now, they don’t trust us to storm the theaters to watch a friendship. Yet when people recall this film, it’s Holly at the window of Tiffany’s they remember.

Why? Because this story was never meant to be about love—or really even friendship. It’s about the charms a big city represents to those of us from less thrilling hometowns, and how an insider—in this case, Holly—can show us how to make the most of the place, to be a part of it, to belong.

Here’s a favorite passage from the book: “Once a visiting relative took me to ’21,’ and there, at a superior table…was Miss Golightly, idly, publicly combing her hair; and her expression, an unrealized yawn, put, by example, a dampener on the excitement I felt over dining at so swanky a place.”

Holly has already arrived, while Paul/Fred is always seeking social acceptance. In the film, she upstages him from the start, with a powerful whistle for a cab, the kind he never could master.

Near the start of the book, the narrator (Paul/Fred) spots Holly dancing in front of a saloon in a “happy group of whisky-eyed Australian army officers baritoning, ‘Waltzing Matilda.’ As they sang they took turns spin-dancing a girl over the cobbles under the El; and the girl, Miss Golightly, to be sure, floated round in their arms light as a scarf.”

What I felt reading both of these passages was recognition: that first heady gush of love that comes to so many of us even walking down the streets of a city we (unbelievably) can call home. For me that city was San Francisco; even the sad little shops of junk, the catcalling loafers, the dirty steps of the subway could give me a rush of joy. I actually lived here. I was sometimes even asked directions. I remember admiring those girls who had the city figured out: who knew the quickest subway routes, the quirky former-salon bars, the mystery to achieving urban-chic. Those girls who hosted and were invited to the best parties, gatherings held in wineries and with themes….Oh, what magical girls they were.

A city-ready girl: mailbox tricked up with a mirror

For Holly, of course, the thrill of the city is represented by a beautiful jewelry shop. But for Paul/Fred—and for so many of the rest of us—it’s captured in Holly herself. She is that woman who actually does all the impulsive, New-Yorky things, who represents life in the city for the rest of us (much as Carrie Bradshaw still does for tourists today).

And by being initially an outsider herself, she gives everyone hope that they too could be like Holly one day. In the beginning of the book, she’s disappeared from the narrator’s life, but been maybe spotted by others, and to me, that opening, the desire to see her again (or maybe the time in his life she recalls), captures the allure of passing friendships.

An older, more mature Holly couldn’t possibly have the same impact. She’s charming in part because all of her affectations are intact, because she’s young enough to believe that tri-colored hair and a lack of furniture make her special, interesting. And those beliefs—not her traits or behaviors themselves—make her so.

She’s as much of an ideal creation as Gatsby ever was, and lovely, like him, because, as her former agent says, “She isn’t a phony because she’s a real phony. She believes all this crap she believes. You can’t talk her out of it.” If Paul/Fred married her or otherwise knew her for the rest of his life, many of those beautiful illusions would disappear, and everyday humdrum qualities and cynicism would surface. But he doesn’t (in the novella), so they don’t, and so forever Holly will represent to him—and to us—being young in the city.

Which is why you should skip over the first twenty-five minutes of the film to get to the party, and right when it’s starting to look like these two might actually get together, shut it off. It’s like Carrie Bradshaw moving to Connecticut and complaining to her husband about the kids’ laundry piling up. We don’t need it. We don’t want it. Let us keep remembering Holly taking in the city, as she knows so well how to do…

And, of course, eating breakfast at Tiffany’s….

Three Reasons to Watch The Uninvited (1944) This Halloween

10/16/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 8 Comments

The Uninvited begins simply: Siblings Rick and Pamela (Ray Milland and Ruth Hussey) come upon a lovely oceanfront house on their vacation and buy it to escape the demands of London life. It even has a charming name, Windward, and a quaint touch: no electricity. Of course, things go awry from there, slowly but surely: a dog that won’t climb the stairs, strange weeping sounds, a room that depresses anyone who enters. This film is an eerie, perfect choice for Halloween, not just because of its pleasures as a ghost story, but because it has these three added delights:

1. Candy—the Visual Kind
You spend most of the film gazing at these attractive siblings:

Ray Milland and Ruth Hussey as the Fitzgeralds

One would think that pleasure would be enough to satisfy your sweet tooth, but this is Halloween, and it’s all about gorging. No worries. The Uninvited delivers: just wait till this knockout fills the screen:

Gail Russell

The beauty, Stella (Gail Russell), is the granddaughter of the owner; she disapproves of the home purchase since she believes her mother, who died in a cliff fall, haunts it. But she warms to the couple, especially to Rick, who quickly sets about flirting with her. (Who wouldn’t?)

2. Genuinely Likeable Characters
Most scary stories feature interchangeable victims. If we know their names—Sarah, Dan, Rob, Susan—we don’t know them for long, and the characters quickly become The Screaming Guy or The Girl Pushed Down the Stairs or the Cheerleader Covered in Blood. While we may not wish them ill, we certainly don’t know them well enough to worry when Casper turns out to be a not-so-friendly ghost.

Rick and Pamela, in contrast to these stick-figure characters, are laid back, witty, fun. They are a gutsy pair, unlikely to fall prey to fears or believe in haunted happenings. After being told former tenants complained of “disturbances,” Rick quips, “What was the trouble…Ladies carrying their heads under their arms?”

The two like to tease each other, like most siblings. To convince her brother they should take the house, Pamela points out that if they live there instead of the city, he could work on his composing. He protests, of course, “My poor lunatic sister. I happen to have a job.” She replies in equally supportive sibling fashion: “Yes, and what a job. Going to concerts and telling your readers how bad the music was….Chuck it…It isn’t as if you’re even a good music critic.”

3. A Human Conspirator: A Haunted House with an Ally?
It’s clear the ghostly house has it in for Stella, and much of the film portrays the siblings’ efforts to discover the story behind the hauntings, the reason for all the eerie sounds, dying flowers, dog phobias, temperature shifts, and occasional apparitions (the special effects are surprisingly good). Once they understand the story, the siblings believe they can save the girl from the increasingly hostile house—and, of course, make it a bit more hospitable for themselves. (After all, it’s putting a great dent in their parties, making it highly unlikely they’ll be the popular pair they were back home.)

A ghostly party crasher

Soon the siblings suspect there may be a live human abetting the house’s murderous impulses, and among all the shifty possibilities, the person who begins to emerge as the frontrunner seems disturbingly sane—except for his/her desire to help the house kill Stella, of course.

If you’re not yet convinced by my reasons, read the excellent review that led me to buy the film in the first place. The author, the blogger Self-Styled Siren, even draws a cool parallel between the film’s apparitions and the terrifying ones in Raiders of the Lost Ark. What could be a better recommendation?

My Favorite Canadian: Michael J. Fox

10/09/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 16 Comments

This post is part of the O Canada Blogathon hosted by Ruth of Silver Screenings and Kristina of Speakeasy.

I remember being vaguely horrified when I discovered Michael J. Fox was Canadian. He was OURS. How could he possibly be anything other than American? His role as Alex P. Keaton was so iconic: the conservative, hippie-parent-horrifying, greed-is-good believing teen who embodied and parodied Reagan-era culture. Although I’d rather hang out with his sister Mallory (Justine Bateman), I knew Family Ties revolved around Fox’s pitch-perfect, Emmy-winning performance as Alex.

Keaton (Fox) explaining the horror of taxes to preschoolers

Alex P. (Fox) explaining the horror of taxes to preschoolers

I was such a huge fan of Family Ties that when Fox followed the show with big-screen stardom in Back to the Future, what I felt was pride.

No wonder then that in those years before I’d ever been out of my own country or met any Canadians, I felt so disappointed to lose any hold on him. I mean, I’d gone to see Doc Hollywood–in the theater. I’d suffered through The Secret of My Success for him. It wasn’t really a crush with me. (Even if I ever had one, I think those suspenders in Back to the Future would have ruined it.) I just admired him so much. His gestures, expressions, movements–always so true, so uniquely his, and so damn funny. And oh, the lines. No one can deliver a line more effectively than Michael J. Fox. I could listen to him ask, “Are you telling me that you built a time machine… out of a DeLorean?” on repeat. No wonder the guy can’t seem to walk in front of a camera without being nominated for an award.

When Parkinson’s forced Fox to leave Spin City, his costars couldn’t stop crying long enough to finish his final episode. They didn’t know yet that he’d find a second career in his illness as a guest star, even as the headliner of his own show. And most of all, as the representative for the disease that had claimed him. They didn’t know he’d write a memoir. Call it Lucky Man. Tell other actors on Inside the Actor’s Studio suffering from the same afflictions that he had it easy, with his advantages, that they were those who had courage and guts; they were the ones he admired. That he’d remain tireless and fearless in his pursuit of a cure, and keep on wowing his countless fans.

It took a while, but I finally lost my dismay at Fox’s being Canadian. Instead, I now feel gratitude toward his homeland: for sharing this fine of an actor, this caliber of a human being with the rest of us. And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to re-watch Alex P. recommending amoral business principles to children.

Be sure to check out the other entries in the blogathon! And I promise to return to classic film next week. I just couldn’t resist celebrating Fox.

For Gone Girl Fans, A Fascinating She-Did, She-Didn’t Thriller

10/06/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 2 Comments

I’ve been wanting to see Gone Girl, but the laryngitis-respiratory infection cocktail I’ve got right now means that I would be an object of fear and distraction to fellow film goers, so I had to settle for an alternative. What film, I wondered, might employ a similar ambiguity about whether or not a spouse is a murderer? What other film might tell a tale of an unhealthy romance that might or might not have sinister roots or results? The answer: Daphne Du Maurier’s My Cousin Rachel. The film, starring Olivia de Havilland and a very young Richard Burton, never reached the fame of The Birds or Rebecca, but has a similar eerie draw, and (for me at least) lingers longer than either.

Young Philip has been raised by his cousin, Ambrose (John Sutton), and the two are comfortable together in their picturesque Cornish town until Ambrose’s illness leads to their first separation—a trip to Italy. There, Ambrose discovers and falls for their distant cousin, Rachel. Before Philip can adjust to this change in his life, a more somber situation develops: Ambrose is nearing death, and blames his wife for it, claiming she’s trying to do him in. Is his condition the result of a brain tumor, or is it poison?

Femme fatale, yes, but is she a murderer?

A heartbroken Philip (Burton) travels to Italy to uncover the mystery after his cousin’s death. Since all of the estate goes to him, not the wife, Philip might assume things are as innocent as those in Italy suggest, but the circumstances seem shady, and he’s ready to turn Rachel over to the hangman—that is, until he meets her.

Of course, she’s charming, affectionate, worldly, and experienced, and within no time, is hosting gatherings at Philip’s place and then, well, what repressed English boy could resist this cougar?

Before long, Philip’s giving her the family jewels from the vault—which aren’t his yet, as he doesn’t get the estate till he’s 25, his guardian reminds him.

Also, a generous allowance he’s given Rachel? Yes, she’s overdrawing it—by a lot. Philip doesn’t worry. He’s in love! She deserves everything that’s his. He’ll just give his whole estate to her, announcing it Romeo-style on his birthday.

She, in thanks, gives him more than kisses. In Philip’s world, this means she’s going to be his wife. In Rachel’s? Not so much. Philip, whose stupidity and naiveté know no bounds, doesn’t take this well, even starts strangling her. She ends their romance, whether because of his actions, or because with the money, she has no motive to seduce him any longer.

Soon after, Philip falls dangerously ill and finds some seeds that may have been the cause of his brother’s illness—and his.

What happens next I won’t reveal, but let’s just say that the evidence for and against Rachel’s guilt about even out, leaving the viewer to wonder the whole film (and book).

This was my first viewing of the film, and it stays quite true to what I remember of the novel. But viewing it as an adult, I noticed some details I’d missed before. Yes, she may be a murderer, or she may not be, but even if she didn’t try to kill either lover, exactly how wrong and/or inadvisable is Rachel’s behavior? I have some advice for Rachel, which, of course, comes a tad bit late:

Some spoilers ahead—though not the ending.

Never Seduce Crazy
It’s not hard to miss just how big of a dolt this Philip is, so even if she weren’t after his money, seriously, is this someone you seduce? I mean, he’s cute and all, but he’s obsessive. This is a textbook case of a stalker-in-the-making if ever I saw one. Surely a woman as confident and assured as this one knows a case of insane puppy love when she sees it. I’ll alter one of my favorite Arrested Development lines– “Never promise crazy a baby”—to Never seduce crazy. I kept wanting to warn Rachel away: Don’t kiss this fool. He’ll be sending out your wedding invitations next.

Remember: Virginal Boys Don’t Understand Samantha Jones Ways
If Rachel just kinda forgot that those in repressed English villages don’t act like her cosmopolitan friends, shouldn’t that church moment when she arrived late have given her a clue?

She’s so shocked Philip thinks they’re going to marry after they have sex, but would anyone in this community think otherwise? Remember when Samantha Jones hooked up with the inexperienced college boy on Sex and the City who shared her name?

Didn’t turn out so well, right? Filled up her answering machine with love-yous. Arrived at her door screaming through the peep-hole.

That’s Philip for you.

Don’t Marry the Guy Whose Regular Expression Looks Like This:

Whatever her motives or knowledge, Rachel is absolutely right not to marry this dude. I can just see it: She tries to hang out with her friends, and he’s there, watching. She leaves the house and he’s hiring private detectives. This woman has lived on her own, experienced an unusual degree of freedom for a woman of her time, and he doesn’t even want her to return to Italy—ever. She may make some dumb mistakes, but Rachel is not that foolish.

Don’t Live with the Stalker after You Ditch Him
Why does Rachel remain in the house? Yes, I can understand for appearance’s sake, she might stay a little after the inheritance is given to her. But this is one angry guy. And, of course, dangerous as he fears she is, he’s the one going for the throat when he doesn’t get his way.

But….

Did she do it? Did she poison her husband?

She has suspicious ways. Rachel’s spendthrift tendencies, of course, are undeniable. This woman loves the money. Whether it’s to help her pal-maybe-lover back in Italy or not, she takes whatever anyone will give her with no regrets. It’s not hard to believe her gold-digger impulses brought her to England in the first place, and those motives seem sinister enough that she may have just killed for them.

Of course, it’s possible that she did love Ambrose, and wanted to meet his cousin. I’m not sure I buy that the one precludes the other. I don’t have to admire her greed, but I don’t have to believe that’s all there is to her either.

It’s the ambiguity I love about the film. Hopefully, Gone Girl is just as good (no spoilers on that, please!)

The Moment I Fell for Van Heflin

09/23/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 13 Comments

I didn’t know a thing about Van Heflin when I saw The Strange Love of Martha Ivers (1946). I picked the movie because of my love for Barbara Stanwyck, whom I assumed from the title would be the star of the film; I didn’t realize she wouldn’t appear until half an hour into it.

Stanwyck in The Strange Love of Martha Ivers

The story begins in 1928. Young Sam Masterson (Darryl Hickman) is trying to convince his crush, Martha Ivers (Janis Wilson), to run off to the circus with him. Sam is always evading the police thanks to Martha’s aunt (Judith Anderson), Mrs. Ivers, the wealthy woman who owns the town. Only if they run away can they be together. Unfortunately, their initial efforts are foiled by tattletale Walter, who likes Martha too.

Sam does run away, but just before Martha flees to join him, Mrs. Ivers beats her beloved cat to death, and Martha retaliates by striking her aunt with the same cane. We see Sam riding a train just as his crush is concealing the murder with the aid of her greedy tutor and Walter, his son.

The film jumps to 1946. Sam has grown up to become an easygoing professional gambler (Van Heflin). In his car with a hitchhiking sailor, Sam catches sight of a “Welcome to Iverstown” sign.

“Well, whaddya know?” he says. “….Leave a place when you’re a kid, maybe seventeen, eighteen years ago, and you forget all about it, and all of a sudden you’re driving along and smacko, your own hometown up and hits you right in the face.”

He’s so surprised that he turns around to see the sign again and crashes his car.

Laughing at himself, he explains to his befuddled companion, “The road curved, but I didn’t.”

“Welcome to Iverstown,” he says to himself as he heads there for repairs. “Well, maybe this time, they mean it.”

I had expected to be disappointed by Stanwyck’s costar, as I usually am. Even actors good in other films come across as flat or artificial next to an actress this natural, and as downright stilted if unskilled to begin with (i.e., Herbert Marshall).

Captivated by the self-deprecation of Heflin’s character and his unexpectedly casual responses to conflicts, I soon forgot Stanwyck was even in the movie. I think I’d fallen for Van Heflin before he got out of the car.

Discovering that “scared little boy,” Walter, is now a DA

Heflin is an excellent foil for the scheming adult Martha (Stanwyck) and her alcoholic, tortured husband, Walter (Kirk Douglas). Sam’s relaxed, freewheeling persona acts as a kind of tonic to his tightly wound former love and a poison to her jealous and fearful husband, who assumes this childhood friend is back to blackmail them. Like Mrs. Ivers before him, Walter tries to drive Sam away. But Sam is no longer as powerless as he once was.

Heflin is every bit as comfortable in his role as Stanwyck is in hers, and the naturalness I would soon discover to be a hallmark of his acting works perfectly here, contrasting with the duplicitous couple’s double dealing. What makes Heflin so attractive as an actor is that same ease of movement Stanwyck possesses; it wasn’t surprising to discover this man spent much of his life as a sailor. Clearly, he finds his sea legs in every part quickly, and that comfort in his skin and in his environment is seductive to watch. By the time he meets Martha again, even the usually compelling Kirk Douglas is hopeless against him (Douglas plays an atypical part here, and is wonderful in it).

Seeing Martha again

Heflin was not a traditionally attractive man, and famously remarked that “Louis B. Mayer once looked at me and said, ‘You will never get the girl at the end.’ So I worked on my acting.” Whatever he did worked: He’s so riveting to watch that I never questioned any woman Heflin won, even one as jaw-droppingly sexy as parolee Tony (Lizabeth Scott), who falls for Sam as he’s wandering around Iverstown.

Gorgeous Scott as Tony

Flirting with Walter’s secretary

In fact, I’m more likely to question when Heflin doesn’t get the girl, as when Jean Arthur starts to fall for pretty-boy Alan Ladd in Shane over her tough husband (Heflin), or when Lana Turner prefers boring Richard Hart in Green Dolphin Street (to be fair, the character’s choices were just as baffling in the book). Even when Heflin plays a less courageous part than he usually does, as in 3:10 to Yuma, he’s always got some kind of hard, immovable core of strength to him. In The Strange Love of Martha Ivers, where I saw it first, this mental and physical strength appears when Walter starts to mess with him—and worse, with Tony.

Fighting the detectives who stooge for Walter

Fighting Walter’s detectives

Yet Heflin is just as adept at playing kindness as brawn, as when Tony (Scott) betrays Sam out of weakness and then asks him to hit her because of it. Of course, he refuses to hurt her, but he does more than that: he shows compassion for her behavior. “The only thing you got coming, kid, is a break,” Sam says, the simplicity of his delivery conveying his conviction.

And it is a joy to see Heflin in scenes with Stanwyck. Sam suspects he’s in love with Martha, and even though the audience knows he should steer clear, it’s hard not to root for them, since it means more scenes with these two brilliant actors, and fewer with the less talented Scott.

The chemistry between the two is strong. It’s wonderful to witness Stanwyck unable to dominate an actor, to see in him an equal.

Aware that she can’t manipulate Sam, Martha panics after she reveals her secret to him. Of course, Stanwyck conveys that fear in one look, as only she can:

And Heflin’s understated response portrays his excitement about her honesty, his understanding of her distress, and his disgust at what’s happened:

Before long, of course, Sam must confront Walter about his feelings for Martha:

And Martha must stop characterizing herself as a victim, instead seducing Sam with money, power, and lust:

The role of Sam Masterson requires that Van Heflin have a great deal of range—that he express assurance, wonder, sympathy, violence, love, anger, fear, revulsion. Heflin’s performance carries the film, and he plays each emotion so perfectly that you feel like you know this man, and wish him far away from his destructive former playmates. I won’t spoil what happens, as the movie is well worth viewing, with excellent acting, an intriguing story, and a great script. But be warned: Heflin’ll get to you, just as he did to me.

This is the fourth in a monthly series of The Moment I Fell for posts…Hope you’ll share some of the moments that drew you to your favorite actors and actresses….

Being a Princess Would Suck: Roman Holiday

09/18/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 6 Comments

Like most girls, I was born wanting to be a princess, though I preferred Belinda from The Practical Princess to helpless Cinderella. Unlike for many of my peers, this desire ended quite early for me. The wedding of Princess Di lasted far too long for my attention span, and what was up with that poofy dress and that decidedly not Barbie-like haircut?

Even had Diana worn the kind of clothes I preferred at six, I knew her kind of life wasn’t for me. For a shy kid who dodged from view, that much limelight looked terrifying and—even worse—dull.

It’s hard to ignore the tedium of official duties when you’re the daughter of a principal. “Are we going to be last AGAIN?” I used to whisper to my sisters at the high school concert’s or play’s conclusion as I shuttled between the mothers talking kids and fathers spinning funny stories and finally glared at that last soul who hadn’t noticed that my family and he had been the only ones there for the past hour.

Perhaps that’s why whenever Kate Middleton is shot in another gorgeous dress or chic hat, I always look past it to the caption, to see what tiresome event she wore it for. I like viewing the pretty dresses in princess films still today, but I’m far more interested in the conflicts the heroine has to endure.

In The Prince and Me, when Paige, Julia Stiles’s character, balks at the many rules of royalty, the queen claims jewels are compensations, and the camera rests on a feast of diamond and emerald. “Yeah,” I remember thinking when I saw it, “maybe for the first twenty minutes.” Because after enduring the 200^th ribbon-cutting ceremony in honor of something I’d never heard of; choking through fussy, elaborate dinners while wearing Spanx; watching yet another stream of dull important people approaching me I’d have to pretend were interesting, like some sick replay of my worst date; I’d be handing that tiara to the gal next to me and high-tailing it to Vegas.

Perhaps that’s why Roman Holiday is my favorite of all princess films, a story about the glamour of everyday joys rather than balls, the excitement of the release from royalty. The film begins with Princess Ann (Audrey Hepburn) trying not to yawn through yet another official ceremony on her goodwill tour, and scandalously kicking off her tight heel, which her retinue quickly finds a way to conceal.

In response to her schedule for the next day, Ann rehearses her answers, her boredom coming through in every line: “Thank you, no thank you.” And which speech she’ll have to give, such as one of her regulars, “Youth and Progress.” Her frustration with all the routine soon leads to a nervous attack, a sedative, and her escape to play hooky in Rome, sans her identity or attendants. She meets handsome reporter Joe Bradley (Gregory Peck) as she wanders. He soon discovers her identity and plans for a scoop on the princess’s “holiday.” Oblivious to his discovery, she simply enjoys herself, and he, of course (this is Audrey Hepburn, after all) does too.

Everyday joys soon elevate the princess’s spirits from frustration to exuberance. Just look at that smile as she goes about the city…

Meeting a guy in nonofficial capacity...in PJs

Meeting a guy while in PJs

Shopping for sandals

Getting a haircut

Drinking champaign for breakfast (Hepburn with Peck)

Trying what's forbidden... (with Peck and Eddie Albert as the adorable photographer)

Trying what’s forbidden (with Peck and Eddie Albert as the photographer)

Driving around….

Falling for a regular guy (if you can call Peck that)

Causing a ruckus

Compared to such pleasures, what are designer gowns and crown jewels?

From Poem to Boxing Ring: The Set-Up

09/13/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 8 Comments

An enthusiastic Rocky fan, I was curious how the classic films on boxing would measure up. The Set-Up sounded intriguing because it was about the underworld attached to the sport, and shockingly, was based on a poem.

Let’s sit here and think about that for moment. A poem. Say it to yourself. Boxing. Poem. Can you put the two together? I sure couldn’t. But once I viewed the film, I did see a kind of poetry in it, and thought I’d say a few words about why this film is so moving and—yes, poetic. The Set-Up is about weighing choices, each of which shapes the film. The fact that the movie plays in the exact running time of the prep for and fight itself emphasizes the crucial timing of each decision…

Should a Manager Tell His Boxer He’s Fixed a Fight?
Manager Tiny (George Tobias) believes boxer Stoker Thompson will blow his match, satisfying mobster Little Boy (Alan Baxter), who has paid Tiny to fix the fight between Stoker and his favorite, Tiger Nelson (Hal Baylor). After all, Stoker is past his prime, and hasn’t been on a winning streak in quite some time.

If Tiny informs Stoker (Robert Ryan) about the fix, he will lose some of his cut. On the other hand, if Stoker doesn’t perform as expected, Tiny is in trouble with a mobster. Certain of his boxer’s ineptitude, Tiny considers neither the justice of his action, nor the danger it poses to Stoker. Only when his boxer shows spirit during the fight does Tiny begin to sweat—for himself.

Should An Aging Boxer Give Up The Sport To Please His Wife?
Stoker’s wife, Julie (Audrey Totter), proclaims her resolution to stop attending her husband’s fights. She wants him to quit. Stoker tries to convince her he’s almost done with the sport, but urges her to wait longer, until he can make a greater success. At the start of the movie, he keeps looking to her window and the chair he’s reserved for her at the fight; she wanders around the city trying to decide whether to go.

Clearly, Julie hates watching her husband get hurt, and worries about his survival. His love for her is painful to watch, as is hers for him. The problem is, all ambitions notwithstanding, Stoker also loves to fight. He enjoys the company of his fellow boxers, who thrive on hope, and rejuvenate his (comparatively) aging body and more resigned disposition with their energy and dreams.

Julie has put up with a lot to support him in this profession. How long should he ask it of her? Will she leave him if he doesn’t let it go?

How Long Should a Fighter Wait Before Abandoning that One Chance to Make It Big?
In the locker room, Stoker acts as a kind of patriarch to his peers, easing their nerves and encouraging their bravado. When a first-time boxer vomits before his first round, a trainer asks Stoker to admit it happens to everyone.

Yes, Stoker agrees aloud, recalling his own first bout, when he did the same: Trenton, NJ, 20 years before. Stoker’s face is poignant at the memory, back when he was as jubilant as the young men around him.

Among the many wonderful moments in the locker room, the best is perhaps the encounter between Gunboat and Stoker. Both aging fighters, both still trying to maintain ambition. Gunboat is inspired by a former middleweight champion who was beat 21 times before winning, a statistic he repeats to all who will listen, hoping his own record will soon resemble it.

“Can’t you see me, Stoke,” says Gunboat. “First I win the title, and then the exhibition tour, that’s where the easy dough is. I’ll be in the movie, Stokes, with a line of dames waiting for me a block long…”

When Gunboat returns from his fight unconscious, the camera pans over each fighter and trainer in turn, the fear and pain in all of their faces perfectly capturing the guts it takes to move from this moment, as several must do, to their own matches. And, of course, it presents Stoker with the inevitable question: Has he waited too long to quit?

What Spells the Difference Between Enjoying a Dangerous Sport, and Craving the Carnage?
The movie focuses in on just a few spectators the whole film, letting us see the fight between Stoker and Nelson through their often disturbing reactions. There’s the woman in the crowd who claims to hate matches, but reacts with glee when the fighting is most brutal, and grumbles when it’s not….

There’s the blind man relying on his friend for the play-by-play. “Nelson (Hal Baylor) opened up his left eye. He’s bleeding!” says the friend.

“Good,” his companion answers, and later yells at Nelson for not going for the eye again.

Then there’s the man who eats everything in the place, his appetite undisturbed by the blood, pain, or cries around him.

No wonder Julie doesn’t want to come. No wonder Stoker flinches before his fight at a spectator’s cries: “Kill ’im!”

What Should a Man Do When He Discovers Betrayal, But Payback Could Be Fatal?

Stoker begins to suspect foul play when his manager keeps trying to convince him to ease up once he begins to win. The bout itself is riveting, moving from the match to those few members of the crowd we’re tracking.

Ryan boxed in college, which explains why his moves are so convincing onscreen, unlike those of many actors in boxing films since. The confusion, anger, betrayal, and uncertainty of how to handle this fix play on this talented actor’s face. Given his pride, his conflict over Julie, and his disillusionment, we aren’t sure just what Stoker will do….

How Faithful Should Filmmakers Be to the Source Material?
The Set-Up has been criticized for changing the race of the poem’s hero from black to white, and among the harshest detractors were the poem’s author, Joseph Moncure March. It’s easy to dismiss the director’s claim that this change was because RKO didn’t have an African-American star then. The date alone (1949) suggests less elevated motives, and the black fighter in the movie, Luther, is played by James Edwards, who starred in the award-winning Home of the Brave that very same year.

Luther is portrayed sympathetically, which suggests the same could have happened with a black leading man, and the kind of treatment Tiny doles out to his boxer would have darkened and deepened the meaning of the movie had they not shared the same race (not to mention more faithfully reflecting the boxing world at the time).

However, the poem’s author, Joseph Moncure March, according to scholar Jefferson Hunter, “attacks an injustice without fully understanding his own involvement in it” and “is more a denizen of his time and place than he knows.” That is, March referred to his hero as a “jungle jinx” and saddled him with bigamy and a prison record. Therefore, some changes needed to be made to the story, and given its audience’s likely prejudices, perhaps some might even have been a good idea. But what a film it would have been with a morally questionable fighter, and an exploration of race politics in the ring….

Say Anything Fan? Holiday (1938) Is the Classic Film for You

09/06/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 2 Comments

A hero who reveals his vulnerability, yet retains his pride; the kind of man devoted enough to lift a jukebox above his head blaring Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” to woo the girl who dumped him, yet still grounded enough to enjoy relaxing with his friends; a boy with few prospects who is seeking a “dare-to-be-great” situation.

There’s a reason Say Anything (1989) and its hero, Lloyd Dobler (John Cusack), were nearly universally worshipped by every middle and high school girl I knew. Cusack quickly became the heartthrob of my generation, just as Cary Grant was to his. In Holiday, Grant played a role much like Cusack’s in Say Anything. That’s why if you’re a diehard lover of Lloyd Dobler, I think you should check out this 1938 film and see for yourself the many similarities:

Lightheartedness
Those accustomed to seeing Grant’s suave persona on display in clips and photos might not realize how fun it is to witness him being the opposite—silly, playful, with that same uneasily expressed, coltish confidence in himself that makes Lloyd Dobler so appealing. In Holiday, Johnny (Grant) likes to do flips to cheer himself out of tough times or worries, just as Lloyd chides his sister for not being able to pull out of hers.

Romancing the Daddy’s Girl—and Daddy Ain’t So Great
Both films feature heroines who are too close to fathers who don’t deserve such adulation. In Say Anything, Diane’s dad (John Mahoney) winds up being a crook; in Holiday, Julia’s (Henry Kolker) is so obsessed with money and status that he verges on caricature.

Johnny’s fiancée and her father

Much of Holiday focuses on Johnny’s discovery that Julia (Doris Nolan) is much closer to her father’s character than he realized, just as Say Anything shows Diane (Ione Skye) slowly recognizing that her father is not the moral center of her universe. Luckily, we have both of Julia’s siblings, Linda (Katharine Hepburn) and Ned (Lew Ayres), mocking their dad the whole time in Holiday, which is way funnier than the whole Diane-Dad snooze fest.

Unconventional Ambitions
Both heroes have unpopular dreams. Lloyd’s is beautifully expressed when Diane’s dad opens the door and he tries to sell himself as a trustworthy date: “I’m an athlete, so I rarely drink. You heard of kickboxing, sport of the future?”*

Lloyd responds to a question about his career plans with “Spend as much time as possible with Diane before she leaves” and proceeds to give an amusing description of his hopes: “Considering what’s waiting out there for me, I don’t want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career….So what I’ve been doing lately is kickboxing….”

Grant’s plan, captured in the film’s title, is to take a vacation from employment. He’s worked since the age of ten, and isn’t sure what he’s doing it for: “I want to know how I stand, where I fit in the picture, what it’s all gonna mean to me. I can’t find that out sitting behind some desk in an office, so as soon as I get enough money together, I’m going to knock off for a while….I want to save part of my life for myself….You know, retire young, work old, come back and work when I know what I’m working for, does that make sense to you?”

Johnny, like Lloyd, makes fun of the idea of needing familial or professional connections: “When I find myself in a position like this, I ask myself what would General Motors do? And then I do the opposite.”

And like Lloyd, Johnny thinks his love should be enough for Julia’s father: After offering a character reference, he adds, “I’m quite decent and fairly civilized. I love your daughter very much, which isn’t a bit hard. She seems to like me a lot too. And uh, well, that’s about all that can be said for me, except that I think we have a grand chance of being awfully happy.”

A Marvelous Support Network
Both men are backed by funny friends who provide much of the comic relief of their films. Edward Everett Horton plays a professor and Jean Dixon his wife, Susan; they are friends of Johnny’s who gravitate toward Linda rather than Johnny’s fiancée. When they arrive at the fussy engagement party for the couple, Susan says, “Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve got a run in my stocking.” “Good heavens, we’re ruined,” answers her husband. “Not a word of this to a soul,” he warns the butler.

Among Lloyd’s many entertaining friends, Corey (Lili Taylor) is the obvious standout, with her 63 songs about her ex and classic line in response to Lloyd’s “…I’m a guy. I have pride”: “You’re not a guy…The world is full of guys. Be a man.”

In Johnny’s case, Julia proves to be remarkably dull, and soon is outshone by her supportive sister, Linda (Hepburn). Linda can be quite amusing, though at times she’s a bit melodramatic about the family woes.

In Say Anything, we’re stuck with Ione Skye as the romantic interest the whole film, with that terrible acting doing nothing for any of us. When Diane dumps Cusack, all the viewers may protest, but it was a relief not to hear Skye talk for a bit and listen to Lloyd’s friends instead.

Rising Above…
Both Johnny and Lloyd display a remarkable level of emotional maturity—Lloyd, in his continued efforts to unite Diane and her father once they become estranged in spite of the latter’s hostility toward him.

And Johnny, in his attention to his fiancée’s needs and sensitivity to her family despite her father’s rudeness toward him.

After asking many not-so-subtle questions about Johnny’s connections, Julia’s father expresses zero interest in her suitor’s obvious resourcefulness, the loss of his mother, and his pride in who he is. Johnny freely discusses his background: his dad’s grocery ownership and debts, an alcoholic uncle, and his own work as a steel mill worker, garbage truck driver, and laundry worker while earning his degree at Harvard. While he isn’t exactly trying to provoke the father’s snobbery, he clearly is amused by it.

“Admirable,” the father says after hearing Johnny’s answers about his life, with no sincerity whatsoever.

“Anything else, sir?” Johnny finally asks.

“I beg your pardon?” the father replies.

“I should think you would,” snaps Linda.

Luckily, fun-loving Linda is the one Johnny will eventually be falling for. If my description doesn’t win you, hopefully this image of the former acrobat (Grant) in action will.

*When I mentioned this quote on kickboxing, my husband pointed out that Lloyd was one prescient guy given the success of UFC….

M: A Serial Killer’s Story about Us

08/27/2014 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 2 Comments

I’ve always been puzzled by The Silence of the Lambs becoming more successful than Manhunter. The latter’s subtlety, especially Brian Cox’s portrayal of Hannibal Lecter, was far more alarming to me than the campy style of Anthony Hopkins. The former I could mistake for a normal human being, making his monstrosity all the more terrifying. Yes, I might jump out of my seat during The Silence of the Lambs, but Manhunter is the stuff of lasting nightmares.

The story is better too, as the deeper fear is not of the serial killer, but of being like him. Mann (and novelist Thomas Harris) question whether investigator Will Graham’s (William Petersen’s) uncanny understanding of psychopaths’ minds means that he has the same dark passions. And of course, that leads to us: Does it make us somehow sick to be interested in a killer’s psychology or his/her capture, to read the stories and watch the films? And if that doesn’t mean we share his/her pursuits, what form does our sickness take?

Perhaps that’s why I think Michael Mann fans would be drawn to M, the 1931 film that begins with a frightening depiction of a child killer, but ends by questioning the wider society that is hunting him. Like Mann, director Fritz Lang did not employ every bell and whistle at his disposal, did not play melodramatic music in the background or make us witness gore or the frightened faces or cries of children. Instead, this director in his first talkie displayed a restrained artistry: an image here, a sound there—just enough, and never more. The result is a haunting film that lingers long after its conclusion.

M begins simply, with a disturbing children’s game about a murderer. A woman tries to shush the kids because what’s going on in Berlin is too similar to their words: a child killer is at large in the city. The camera then narrows in on mother Frau Beckmann (Ellen Widmann), who displays her love for her child, Elsie, through her loving arrangements for the child’s return from school: washing the clothes, preparing a meal with care, peering up at the time with a smile.

The film cuts to Elsie (Inge Landgut), the only sound her ball hitting the pavement. The almost complete silence of these scenes is paralytic to the viewer. We don’t see the killer, just a posting about children’s disappearances obscured by the girl’s ball and a man’s shadow. The man praises the ball; he asks Elsie her name.

As the time passes when Elsie should have arrived, Frau Beckmann looks at the clock. She asks returning kids whether Elsie was with them. They say no.

We see the murderer buy Elsie a balloon from a blind man (Georg John). We hear very little but Elsie’s thanks as the killer whistles Edvard Grieg’s “In the Hall of the Mountain King,” which will later have us jumping, like we did in hearing the arrival of Jaws.

Meanwhile, the mother smiles when a salesmen stops by her door, thinking him Elsie, and can barely attend to his words before she questions him about her daughter. She calls down the stairs to her.

Now overcome with worry, she opens the window.

As she calls, “Elsie!!” the first of several silent shots tells viewers that Elsie will not be coming home.

The quiet street; the untouched place setting for Elsie

The quiet street; Elsie’s place setting

Elsie’s ball coming to rest; her balloon stuck in the wires

Elsie’s ball; her balloon caught in the wires

The images are harrowing; the viewer feels horror: at the child’s death, and the mother’s loss. The ethics are simple: the killer is evil, the mom and child good. The spare use of sound and imagery contribute to this clear-cut moral universe, which Lang is about to disrupt, for this film, we soon discover, is not about the murderer: it’s about the citizens, criminals, and police who pursue him.

Next, we hear a newspaper hawker talking about the crimes, as the murderer (Hans Beckert, played by Peter Lorre) whistles his tune and writes a letter to the paper explaining that his spree is not finished. As friends around a table discuss the murders, they are soon viewing each other with suspicion, one even accusing another of being the man in question.

A mob mistakes an innocent elderly man for the predator, simply because he answered a young girl’s question.

The shouts of the crowd are then cut short, as the words of the murderer’s letter appear on the screen in absolute silence. When the commissioner begins to discuss his investigation on the phone, we see the police in action: tracing the fingerprints on that letter, investigating the handwriting, scanning the crime scene, interviewing confectioners due to a wrapper that’s been found.

As the killer’s pathology is explained, we see him closely for the first time; he makes faces in the mirror, as if trying to see himself as others do. The film’s writers, Lang and spouse Thea von Harbou, achieve a high level of verisimilitude that makes the film resemble today’s police procedurals. (Some say, despite Lang’s denials, that this was due to their attention to the extensive media coverage of serial killer Peter Kürten.)

But all of the police’s efforts prove fruitless. Desperate, they soon resort to frequent raids to catch the child murderer. Lang covers these raids beautifully, beginning with a silent scene of a prostitute soliciting, and segueing into the police marching down the streets en route to the bars to demand papers. The sound finally returns in the form of a whistle to warn customers the police are arriving, after which we hear the uproar of the crowd’s dismay as they try to escape.

A bar owner explains that this treatment of customers is unfair to them and to her, and unlikely to result in an arrest.

“I know a lot of toughs who get all teary-eyed just seein’ the little ones at play,” she explains to a police sergeant, warning, “If they ever get their hands on that monster, they’ll make toothpicks out of him.”

This Cassandra leads us to the next scene: Upset with the disruption to their business, the criminal underworld, led by Safecracker (Gustaf Gründgens), decides they’ve had enough. They’ll find the killer themselves. These mob leaders have a conference to plan their strategy, much like in The Godfather.

Lang cuts back and forth between this conference and a similar one the police are holding about the case, causing the viewer to confuse the two, and then start to wonder whether there is any difference between them.

The police decide that they’ll go the mental health route, finding patients who’ve been dismissed as harmless but have suspicious tendencies. The criminals decide they’ll organize a league of beggars, who, as unnoticed observers of their surroundings, can spot the predator without scaring him. Both groups succeed in narrowing in on Hans Beckert through these means, even as the latter follows a new girl, his silent contemplation of her soon erupting into his signature whistle.

Among the beggars is the blind balloon seller, who, upon recognizing the whistle, sets the alarm, leading to the killer being chased into an office building, a chalked M mark from a beggar having pegged him as the one to follow. The longer the hunt continues, the more the viewers’ allegiance shifts. We don’t want Beckert to go free, but there’s something sadistic about this manhunt, perfectly captured in the large eyes of the predator who has suddenly become prey.

We know now that these criminals are no longer just out to save their business; something more primitive is at play. What happens next is too fascinating for me to give away. But I will say that the film’s treatment of the child killer is surprising; he’s even given a chance to explain his affliction: “Can I do anything about it? Don’t I have this cursed thing inside me? This fire, this voice, this agony?”

Nazi leader Joseph Goebbels, who later offered Lang a job, obviously interpreted the film as less complex in its sympathies than I have. Certainly, there is room for dispute about what Lang was trying to say. But with the Third Reich imminent, Lang (who had Jewish heritage) was about to skip town, job offers notwithstanding. It’s hard not to see in the film’s conflation of police and criminal, citizen and predator, an indictment of the authoritarian regime, especially since Lang’s next film more explicitly attacked it (though, interestingly, facts apparently don’t bear out Lang’s account of his own precipitous escape).

Regardless of his initial motives, by giving the murderer voice at all, Lang questions whether this man might be more than the “rapid dog” he is accused of being, might be in need of a doctor’s care, not a hangman’s noose, as a reluctant defender in the film claims. And since we know the killer is not the subject of this story, we viewers soon turn to the crowd condemning him. Just as there is within this man, Lang seems to imply, there’s a sickness within society. After all, normal German citizens will come to support the Nazi party, including his wife and cowriter. Who is to say any culture isn’t vulnerable to the same manipulation, the same results, given the right fears to make them operate? Whether or not that sickness and those who’ve let it spread are capable of redemption or not, he leaves it to his audience to determine.