Tom Hanks

The Charming Shop Around the Corner

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Last month, I wrote about Jimmy Stewart playing a monster in Vertigo. It seems only fair that I cover one of his gentlest roles next, that of lovelorn salesman Alfred Kralik in holiday favorite The Shop Around the Corner (1940). For those unfamiliar with the film, it was later remade as the horrible You’ve Got Mail (1998), which I despised only slightly less than the man behind me in the theater, who complained, “You’ve got to be kidding me” to his girlfriend after it ended.

The Shop Around the Corner is superior to its remake for many reasons. Since this is a Ernst Lubitsch film, there’s a sophisticated touch to the little dramedy throughout; the plot is nuanced, funny, heartwarming, and occasionally heartbreaking.

The hardworking salespeople of the little Hungarian gift store are likable and driven and funny and loyal to one another.


They’re also struggling to get by, as in the moment when Alfred asks his colleague Pirovitch (Felix Bressart) if he’s ever gotten a bonus and gets a wistful “…once…” in response. The film often reminds me of workplace comedies, especially Brooklyn 99 and The Office, because the little family of coworkers commit to their work and vie for status with their boss. Shop experiences take up far more time than the romance.

The irascible, sensitive owner, Hugo Matuschek (Frank Morgan), is entertaining.


One of my favorite moments is watching Pirovitch dart out of sight when Hugo, trying to explain a specialty cigarette box, says to Felix’s colleagues, “All I want is your honest opinion.” We soon find out just how unwise it is to express your feelings to this particular boss.

Meanwhile, Alfred, the hero (Stewart), is writing love letters to an unknown respondent, who happens to be Klara (Margaret Sullavan), the prickly salesgirl the shop just hired.


She, unaware he’s her pen pal, treats Alfred with disdain. Her attitude is partially the result of misunderstandings, but also because she’s a snob who sneers at him for his job. Even though she can be conniving and even cruel, there’s something so sad about the little airs she puts on, and about how fragile her thin veneer of confidence is.

And what a savvy salesgirl! She actually convinces a customer the cigarette box the owner loves, with its terrible music, is actually a candy box that is intentionally annoying so that it prevents overindulgence. Brilliant. I can’t help but root for her even if I think Alfred is too good for her. And their dialogue is so funny, clever, and entertaining.


What a doll Alfred is. He’s so tender toward Klara once he knows who she is and is sympathetic toward the owner, who wrongs him. He bears with both of their treatment with a warmth and understanding that reveal he’s made of much finer stuff than either of them. He’s also so modest despite being the most admired worker in the shop. I love the moment he fears his pen pal will be beautiful. “Well not too beautiful, no . . . what chance does a fellow like me..?….just a lovely average girl, that’s all I want.”

Comic relief Pepi Katona (William Tracy), the confident delivery boy, doesn’t appear much until the second half, but what a joy he is every time he shows up. I particularly enjoy him teasing a doctor and the new delivery boy. He and Pirovitch are both by turns funny and warm–an unusual combination for a comedy:

You’ve Got Mail, in contrast, dials up the time spent on the romance, eliminates any humor, makes the modest hero (Tom Hanks) a big box store magnate and forces the heroine (Meg Ryan) to be bop-her-head cutesy and snarky at the same time. I’d tell you more, but I’ve blocked the rest from my memory.

Do yourself a favor, and watch The Shop Around the Corner instead.

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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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Movies to Combat Moving Blues

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**Some spoilers, but then again, this is a comedy.***

I’ve been remiss in my blogging lately, due to my second move in a year. The last apartment resounded with construction noises next door, loud and consistent and close enough to drive me to repacking. So again I’ve been drowning in UHaul boxes, unsticking packing tape from my shoes, figuring out just how little I can get away with repurchasing, and wondering how few calls I can make changing my rental address.

Films about renting typically revolve around roommates, so to find characters to commiserate with (and limit the number of real-life sufferers from my complaints), I’ve turned to stories about much bigger headaches than mine: Walter’s (Tom Hanks) and Anna’s (Shelley Long) alternately endearing and hilarious breakdowns after they buy the lemon in The Money PIt (1986). The lovable Blandings (Cary Grant and Myrna Loy) as they sink their cash into first destroying one house, then building another in its place in Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House (1948).

I like both films so much, but today, I’m going to discuss the original: Tired of fighting over mirrors and closets and other ills of close apartment living with a spouse and two kids, Jim Blandings (Grant) convinces his wife, Muriel (Loy), to move to Connecticut with him, to a big shambling old relic that’s just about to crumble. Comedy ensues, especially when Jim’s jealousy over his lawyer (who once dated Muriel) surfaces while he’s trying to tackle falling parts and failed wells and bad bathroom locks. Of course, Jim and Muriel soon find the costs building up and the issues with first the old, then the replacement house mounting. So much to love about this film. Let’s begin with:

The Realistic Depiction of Marriage
The Blandings frequently squabble about everyday annoyances, but my favorite moments are those that display patience with one another’s faults, as when Jim refuses to believe Muriel knows the directions to their new place, and she patiently waits out his acknowledgment of her correctness through multiple wrong turns, a quiet smile and gaze toward the sky revealing her amusement at how it’s all going to turn out:


Unlike most films that depict a husband jealous of his wife’s affections, Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House does a subtle job conveying quietly brewing suspicions. While Jim’s jealous of his lawyer, Bill (Melyvn Douglas), throughout the film, the sentiment is understated, only boiling over when his stress level does, and therefore never failing to feel authentic. Weaker comedies play such weaknesses broadly instead; the sophisticated version of jealousy here matches that in so many more marriages, and therefore is funnier.

The (Meta) Supporting Actor Casting
The actor playing Grant’s object of jealousy is Melvyn Douglas, often viewed as a second-rate replacement for Grant in romantic comedies. He’s debonair and can be charming, but he’s no Grant.


But Douglas is always better as a supporting actor than as a hero, and does great work as the foil in this film. And some may say he did get the last laugh: he, unlike Grant, his romantic lead rival, would win not one, but two Oscars later in his career.

The Inspired Acting (and Chemistry) of Grant & Loy
Every frame of the film conveys the joy of home ownership and the stress of building and moving so well, thanks to the stellar performances. Honestly, as mobile as these two stars’ faces are, this film could have easily been a silent. Just take these shots of Grant in smirk and self-embarrassment mode, respectively.


Or Loy’s face as she expresses love, mockery, and shocked anger in turn:


The actors’ best scene is after Jim expresses jealousy over his wife’s past relationship with Bill. His expressions–one part suspicion, one part hope, one part shame–are so nuanced and real.

When he pouts, asking why she married him, she fires back in a brilliantly worded (thanks to the script) rebuttal:

“I’m beginning to wonder….” she says. “Maybe I knew you were going to bring me out to this $38,000 icebox, with a dried-up trout stream and no windows…Or maybe I just happened to fall in love with you, but for heaven’s sake, don’t ask me why.”

The scene is pitch-perfect Loy. Only she could be so angry and endearing simultaneously.

Quibbles
Luckily, the voiceover narration, which is occasionally grating, is in short supply. It is used to great effect in the opening, which depicts decidedly unidyllic city living.

I’m not a big fan of the scene in the film most love, when Muriel gives a comic level of detail about the wall colors she wants, and the painters reduce her requirements to red, yellow, etc. as soon as she turns her back. It’s just so sexist, so “oh that silly woman” in its approach. In contrast, her sink mistake, which is also depicted as foolhardy, is treated as if it’s on the same level as Jim’s errors. But Loy is fabulous in the painting scene, sure she’ll be taken seriously and oblivious to the painters’ condescension.


While Jim’s work stress during the building is a little undercooked plotwise, there are comic gems, as when Grant’s creative process is depicted:


But the joy of these brief work scenes is undermined by the portrayal of Gussy (Louise Beavers), the housekeeper, who will later be featured, Aunt Jemima style, in Jim’s ad about some Spam-like product. He does offer her a $10 raise for coming up with the ad idea that saves his job, and she doesn’t come across as stereotypically as some black actresses at the time did (Gussy does, after all, originate the ad). But it sure would be cool to see more for Beavers (and Gussy), especially given how progressive Loy was, and given Beavers’s earlier star-making turn in Imitation of Life.

Of course, the film’s legacy, despite these weaknesses, comes down to….

Its Comic Writing & Pacing
Wry humor sparkles throughout, especially when Grant has a breakdown near the film’s close. When the couple is first purchasing the old house, others observe that it’s junk, as when Bill looks at the Blandings and observes, “It’s a good thing there are two of you. One to love it, and one to hold it up,” or when Jim asks for a structural engineer’s analysis of the house, and the man succinctly replies, “Tear it down,” a caution two other engineers repeat, word for word.

The film is so efficiently edited, so quickly paced, that there’s little time to dwell on one change before another is brewing, accurately echoing the hectic pace of changing a home.

I love that so much goes wrong in the film that the move itself is briefly canvassed in order to get on to the bigger problems. Jim’s jealousy is also neatly addressed, without sidelining the story of the house. Unlike its indirect remake, Money Pit, the film doesn’t address the number of people swindling or lying to the Blandings (besides the house cost) so much, instead relying on ignorant decisions and accidents of nature. I love when the Blandings, with no knowledge of architecture, settle down to each add all their own cool features to the blueprints, as the architect looks on in dismay:


And yet, as unrealistic and financially reckless as the two prove to be, you also see why it’s worth it, to find the home they want, to set aside the troubles it took to get there. And in the moments they enjoy it, you’re proud of this idealistic couple. Proud that in spite of all their foolishness, they stubbornly hold on, and get what they wanted. It may not always be true, or even often be true, but sometimes, it’s just worth it to try for that dream home.

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