Film Reviews (Seriously) Redux – The Philadelphia Story

On August 22, 2011, on a now-defunct personal blog, I published this FR (S) review of George Cukor’s The Philadelphia Story.  A recent conversation about watching old movies on PBS in the pre-cable era got me thinking about this film, which I first saw on PBS with my late grandmother … in the pre-cable era.  With that memory, I thought I’d repost my review of it here.  Thanks for reading (or re-reading). – Michael

1940
Starring Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, James Stewart, Ruth Hussey, John Howard, and Virginia Weidler
Directed by George Cukor
112 minutes

We live in a world of preconceived notions, and our lifestyle has put us there.  As a society, we are so accustomed to taking in as much information in as little time as possible (so that we can move on quickly to the next thing), we sometimes forget to take the time to fully understand things.  Sound-bite news feeds, on-screen crawls, and sidebar articles can offer just enough information to get us by at the water cooler the next day, and because of our short attention spans, we sometimes find it easy to make generalizations about people because its quick and easy, despite any inaccuracy.

Which of the following sounds familiar to you (either based on your own thoughts or on the comments you’ve heard from others)?  All models are dumb.  All geniuses are geeks.  All writers drink.  All rich people are snobs.  The list could go on and it could get far worse.  George Cukor’s The Philadelphia Story looks at the preconceived notions of a variety of personalities, dismantles those notions, and does so with humor, charm, and romance.

The Philadelphia Story opens with a short scene that wonderfully plays like an old silent picture.  A handsome and affluent man storms out of his large house with luggage in hand.  Nipping at his heels is a beautiful and affluent woman who pulls a golf club from the man’s bag and spitefully snaps it in half over her knee (golf club shafts were made of wood back then, kids).  The man cocks his fist, but rather than hit her, he palms her face like a basketball and pushes her to the ground.  End Scene.  Cukor’s efficiency here is fantastic.  In less than a minute, and with no dialogue, we know (or we can safely assume) that these two characters are wealthy, spiteful, and soon to be divorced.  It’s instant conflict.

Fast-forward two years, and we learn that the woman was Tracy Lord (Hepburn), a publicity-shy Philadelphia blueblood, and the face-palmer was her ex-husband, C.K. Dexter Haven (Grant), also of old Philadelphia money.  Tracy is set to marry George Kitteredge (Howard), a man not of blue blood, but of blue collar, who earned, not inherited, his wealth, and who has high social and political aspirations.

Enter Macauley “Mike” Connor (Stewart) and Liz Imbrie (Hussey), reporter and photographer (respectively) for Spy Magazine, who will attend the Lord-Kitteredge nuptials under the guise of being friends of Tracy’s brother, who is traveling abroad and cannot attend.  While there, Mike and Liz will covertly cover the wedding for the magazine.  Dexter has arranged this fraud, seemingly for revenge, but things, as you know, are rarely as they seem, and this situation is no exception.  (By the way, Dexter plans to stick around for the wedding as well.  His thought process is that even though they are divorced, Tracy is still his wife until she is remarried, and he has every right to see it happen.

When Tracy scolds Dexter for inviting strangers into her home, he reveals their identities (but he doesn’t tell Mike and Liz that Tracy knows), and he explains to Tracy that the magazine story of her wedding is the price she must pay to bury another story about an affair between her still-married father and some dancer.  Blaming both her father and Dexter for the pinch that she’s in, Tracy allows the charade to continue, but takes the opportunity to crank up her snobbery level ten-fold, with the help of her kid-sister Dinah (Weidler) and their mother, Margaret (Mary Nash).  Mike and Liz, commoners in an uncommon situation, find themselves overwhelmed by, and contemptuous of, the affluence of those around them.  Still, they have no choice but to carry out their assignment.

Preconception runs rampant throughout this film.  Tracy looks down on Mike not because of his socioeconomic status, but because of his job.  She views him as nothing more than a snoop who refuses to let private lives remain private, until she learns that Mike has published a book of poetry.  She then tags him as an intellectual snob, but ultimately realizes that his poetry comes not from his mind, but from his heart.

Mike pegs Tracy for being a high society* snob, until he gets to know her better, too.  In fact, he discovers what a fascinating person she truly is.  Throughout the film, she is at odds with nearly everyone: Dexter, for their previous marriage and his connection to Spy; her father, for his philandering ways; her mother, for tolerating her father’s lifestyle; Mike, for his disdain of society and his intellectualism; and Liz, for her normalcy.  Tracy even harbors a little resentment for Dinah, her kid sister, because Dinah still believes that Dexter is the only man for Tracy.

But even though she was born into wealth, Tracy has a headstrong and independent will (classic Hepburn character trademarks).  She is the center of everyone’s universe, yet she resents that everyone puts her on a pedestal.  She yearns for a true, “normal” love, yet she prepares to marry a man largely because of what he is, not who he is.  Some would call her hypocritical, but in the hands of Hepburn, Tracy is sympathetically misguided – the poor little rich girl at odds with the most important person in her life … herself.

Also interesting is C.K. Dexter Haven.  While everyone is busy being angry at someone else, Dexter remains somewhat neutral.  He might be admired, envied, or despised, and he might instigate problems between others, but his motives, and the core of his character, are pure, and that purity is fueled by his love for Tracy – a love that never died, even if their marriage did.  He has not invited Mike and Liz so that Spy can publish the dish on Tracy’s wedding; that’s nothing but a cover story.  Dexter wants to spare Tracy and her family from the public embarrassment that her father is causing with his wandering libido, and Dexter’s deal with the magazine was the only way to do that.

Also, he has no real concern that Mike (who has fallen in love with Tracy, or at least thinks he has) or George are threats; he doesn’t have to.  Let’s face it: he’s C.K. Dexter Haven, and he knows it.  He is only concerned about Tracy and her happiness, and he sincerely believes that her happiness is with him.  So, while his actions show that her happiness could be with someone else, his confidence in his own idea of the truth lets him get her without taking her.  He embraces the “If you love something, set it free…” mantra, but he never tips his hand as such.

The Philadelphia Story is one of those rich movies (not in dollars, but in depth) with a greater message comprised of smaller messages, none of which is preachy or heavy-handed.  It covers tabloid journalism’s quest to do whatever it takes to get a story, it addresses the divide between the social classes, and it touches on divorce, adultery, and sexism (all of which still ring true today).  But the overall puzzle that is made up of these pieces is one of handling preconception.  Not all models are dumb, nor are all geniuses geeks, nor are even worse preconceptions involving race, gender, or religion true.  It also shows that not all rich people are snobs, not all intellectuals are snobs, and a person’s lot in life doesn’t define who that person is.

With a sharp script, tight direction, and excellent performances from a roster of Golden Age all-stars, The Philadelphia Story gets that message across with plenty of laughs, in a story that spans all of two days.  By the end of the film, feelings are hurt, fences are mended, jokes are made at nearly everyone’s expense, and not everybody wins.

But in the end, Tracy finally, and happily, marries … and it’s all caught on camera for Spy Magazine.

*Kudos to you if you understand this reference.  What, you thought I would just give it to you here?

Film Reviews (Seriously) Redux – La Belle et la Bête

On September 11, 2011, on a now-defunct personal blog, I published this FR (S) review of Jean Cocteau’s La Belle et al Bete.  The film recently screened at a theater about 3,000 miles away from where I live (he lamented), so I thought I’d revisit the film and repost my review of it here.  Thanks for reading (or re-reading). – Michael

1946
Starring Jean Marais, Josette Day, and Marcel André
Directed by Jean Cocteau
93 minutes

Mention Beauty and the Beast to ten people, and chances are great that all ten will recall the Disney feature from 1991.  Its animation was gorgeous, its musical numbers were entertaining, it was the first full-length animated feature to be nominated for a Best Picture Oscar, and it was (and still is) popular with kids AND adults alike.  Plus, it promotes positive messages to children that they should not rush to judgment about people they don’t know, and that they should not treat someone differently simply because they look different.

Mention Beauty and the Beast to 100 people, and maybe (hopefully) more than one or two will recall the 1946 French film from writer/director Jean Cocteau that is not so much about judgment and tolerance as it is about love and death.

Sticking closely to Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont’s original tale, Beauty and the Beast (La Belle et la Bête) opens by quickly establishing its characters.  Belle (Day) is one of four grown children (three girls, one boy) of a local merchant (André).  Of the four children, Belle is her father’s most beloved, and of the three girls, not only is she the most beautiful (her name translates to Beauty) she is the least shallow.  Her sisters are obsessed with their waning social status because of their father’s financial woes, while Belle is content serving her father and her family in a Cinderella-type role.  In fact, so dedicated is Belle to her family, particularly her father, that she turns down a marriage proposal from Avenant (Marais), much to the young bachelor’s ire.

Belle’s father comes into a financial windfall and must travel to a nearby town for business.  The snooty sisters demand that he buy them lavish things while on his trip, but Belle only asks for a rose, “…for there are none here.”  Unfortunately, all the money he makes goes towards paying his creditors, so he must return home empty-handed and still in debt.  On his trip home, he gets lost in a foggy wood, and happens across an enchanted, seemingly unoccupied, castle.  He eats, drinks, and sleeps there, and before leaving, he picks a rose from the garden for Belle.  At least he can please one daughter, and know she will appreciate his humble efforts.  No sooner is the flower plucked, the father is confronted by The Beast (also played by Marais), who says that he will kill the old man for stealing, unless he sends one of his daughters to take his place.  The father rides home on The Beast’s magical steed to explain his predicament to his family, and to contemplate his fate.

Ever the faithful and selfless daughter, Belle sneaks out to take her father’s place at The Beast’s castle.  She faints at the monster’s initial sight, and is repulsed by his very being, but over time, she grows to respect and pity him as she learns more about him.  During that same timeframe, The Beast falls in love with Belle, and because of this love, he allows her to live, but he does not allow her to leave his domain – until he lets her return home for one week to visit her ailing father.  Finally reunited with her family, Belle tells of The Beast and his riches.  Her siblings and (the scorned) Avenant immediately conspire to dupe Belle into staying home, so that they can kill The Beast and steal his treasures.  Once Belle learns of the plot, she returns to the castle, only to find The Beast near death – not as a result of Belle’s family’s actions, but because of his grief over her absence.  A “loving look” saves The Beast, and turns him back into the prince he once was.

Cocteau’s presentation of this classic tale mixes beautiful vision and unique interpretation that results in a film that is clearly for adults.  Aided by the wonderful talent of cinematographer Henri Alekan, The Beast’s castle is a magical place with a life of its own.  Doors that open and close by themselves are only minor goings-on that Belle and her father experience.  Once in the castle, each visitor comes upon a long hallway, flanked on either side by candelabras that not only light themselves, they are held by pale human arms that protrude through black walls.  At the dinner table, another arm that protrudes from beneath the table pours the wine.  And throughout the castle, the faces that are carved into busts move and watch those who occupy the room.  Belle is exposed to even more magic than her father.  The Beast gives her a mirror that allows her to see her father at home while she is captive at the castle, a glove that transports her to wherever she would like to go (simply by thought), and a necklace that is made of pearls only when in her possession.  But beyond the creative vision, and disguised by an age-old fairy tale about true love, is a clever tale about death and purgatory.

This film reminds me of M. Night Shyamalan’s The Sixth Sense (1999) in that the clues to its meaning are only evident once you’ve seen the end of the film.  That being said, consider yourself duly warned that SPOILERS lay ahead.

First, consider Belle’s father’s visit to The Beast’s castle when compared to Belle’s visit there.  When the father arrives, he wanders the castle freely, calling out to its unknown resident and receiving no reply.  He dines and sleeps in privacy and comfort, and he probably would have been able to leave without incident, had he not picked the rose for Belle, thus incurring The Beast’s wrath.  On the other hand, when Belle arrives, she runs down the hallway in dream-like slow-motion until she ultimately leaves her feet and floats down another long hall (with stunning, flowing white curtains waving in a gentle breeze) to her room.  Why the difference?  Why did Belle float and run in slow-motion to a specific destination while her father wandered the castle on his own two feet, at normal speed, and basically at will?  Belle went to the castle of her own volition, so it’s unlikely that The Beast’s magic “forced” her to her room.  The only explanation can be that Belle is close to death, and that while she might be unwilling to go, she does not resist the trip, maybe recognizing that the flight to her room is the summoning of the afterlife; perhaps a variation of the “long, beckoning tunnel of light” about which near-death survivors often speak.

Other smaller details provide clues about the afterlife.  The arms that hold the candelabras and pour the wine, and the moving faces that exist throughout the castle, represent souls for whom no one has prayed, who are forever stuck between heaven and hell.  The mirror that allows Belle to see her father represents the mythical pools of water that allowed the gods of mythology to look upon mortals.  The Beast’s white steed, which somehow knows where Belle’s house is, where The Beast’s castle is, and how to travel between the two, is not unlike the white horse in the Bible, as described in Revelations Chapter 6, Verse 8: “And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death….”

Another strong clue is Belle’s request of The Beast to allow her to visit her ailing father for one more week.  The Beast struggles with his decision for fear that she will not return.  But why does she need to go back when The Beast has already given her the mirror so that she may watch over her father?  She has this need because she realizes and accepts her fate, and she left her home without saying goodbye to her father.  If you knew that your death was imminent, wouldn’t you want one last chance to tell someone something?

The clincher for me, though, is The Beast himself, in his actions and his words.  When he first speaks to Belle, after she awakens from her fainting spell, he tells her that she mustn’t look in his eyes.  This is not to spare her from some horrible fate; he is no Medusa.  It’s obvious that she is his ticket out of his current existence (purgatory), but it’s also clear that he is smitten with her, and that conflict between his heart and his head gives him cause to be ashamed of not what he is, but of his motives for demanding her presence.  He knows that a “loving look” from her, like a prayer to a lost soul, will free him from his limbo, but he hesitates to foster that look from her.  Yes, his original intent was to use her, but he did not expect to fall in love with his ticket out.  Perhaps his most telling hint is when he entrusts Belle with the key to the pavilion that houses his untold amount of riches.  The Beast refers to this treasure as his “earthly riches.”  Why “earthly”?  If The Beast is merely a man who suffers a great curse, why not just call them his “riches,” or his “human riches”?  Because he is no longer of this earth, and regardless of what he looks like, that also means that he is no longer human.

When Belle finally bestows her loving gaze upon The Beast, he turns back into a man (a prince, to be precise, which would explain his wealth).  Almost simultaneously, Avenant, who is attempting to steal The Beast’s treasure, is slain by a statue’s (soul’s?) arrow.  Laying on the ground, presumably dead or dying, Avenant turns into The Beast.  We don’t see Avenant again, but it’s safe to assume that a “changing of the guard” has taken place, and a new Beast must dwell in the purgatorial castle, waiting to be freed by a loving look – a prayer for a new lost and tortured soul.  (This would also explain why Cocteau used the same actor to play Avenant, The Beast, and The Prince).  What better way to illustrate man than to have one person play three eternally connected roles: Man, soul-in-limbo, and saved soul, the last of which is shown in the last shot of the film, when The Prince and Belle leap into the air, without ever returning to the ground, launching their ascension to the heavens above.

Film Reviews (Seriously) Redux – His Girl Friday

On August 14, 2011, on a now-defunct personal blog, I published this FR (S) review of Howard Hawks’ His Girl Friday.  As today is Sunday, and I am still a sucker for actual ink-and-paper news, and given the film’s subject matter, I thought I’d repost it here.  Thanks for reading (or re-reading). – Michael

1940
Starring Cary Grant, Rosalind Russell, and Ralph Bellamy
Directed by Howard Hawks
92 minutes

In my life, I have watched an inordinate amount of episodic television, across all genres and networks, during every hour of the day and night, without prejudice towards premier or rerun.  (It’s this experience, particularly during my formative childhood years, that now makes me a savant at commercial jingles – not that it pays any bills, but I thought I’d mention it).  If I were asked the dreaded “desert island” question and was forced to choose only one TV show to watch for the rest of time, I would seriously consider creator/writer Aaron Sorkin’s The West Wing.

The show, about the day-to-day inner-workings of the White House, appeals to me because of its crackling dialogue, which Sorkin serves intelligently, wittily, and at a blistering pace that is reminiscent of Howard Hawks’ His Girl Friday.  But where The West Wing laces its politics with humor, His Girl Friday laces its humor with politics.

After an extended leave of absence, Hildy Johnson (Russell), ace reporter for New York City’s fictional newspaper The Star Ledger, returns to the office to inform her publisher, Walter Burns (Grant), that she is leaving the newspaper business for good.  She has become engaged to insurance salesman Bruce Baldwin (Bellamy), and plans to move in with her new husband … and his mother … to settle down as a homemaker in Albany.

This greatly concerns Walter because he will not only lose his best reporter to a life of (what he perceives to be) abject boredom, he will also lose his ex-wife to another man – an ex-wife he still loves.  Making matters worse, Hildy is scheduled to leave in only a few hours, with the nuptials to take place the next day.  Hoping to change Hildy’s mind about her reporter’s life and her heart’s love, Walter takes every scheming opportunity to postpone, and ultimately prevent, her marriage and departure.  Hildy is quite familiar with Walter’s wily ways, so she is as careful as possible while around him, meaning Walter must be twice as conniving (in the names of love and news, of course) to get his way.

Walter’s mission begins with a little bribery.  He offers Hildy the commission from a $100,000 life insurance policy to be underwritten by Bruce, in exchange for her getting the scoop on the story of the century.  Earl Williams (John Qualen) is a man convicted of shooting a cop, and he is to be executed by hanging the next day.  Complicating Williams’ case is the fact that he is white, the cop was black, and the Mayor (Clarence Kolb), who is up for re-election, is using his support of the execution as a springboard to secure the city’s black vote (despite the governor’s opposing wishes).

As events unfold and as Walter’s scheming takes its toll, Hildy wants to forfeit the commission and flee for Albany.  But Walter finds more ways to keep her around by whatever means necessary.

One of the most important aspects of any film is the chemistry between its stars, but that is difficult to quantify, because, like organic chemistry, costar chemistry can take on many forms.

Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, who starred in nine films together, had the great chemistry of two people with mutual restrained desperation for each other (thanks, in part, to their long, off-screen affair that resulted in the marital equivalent of unrequited love).  William Powell and Myrna Loy, together in 14 films, had the chemistry of two people who had been together for eons, but acted like newlyweds every day (they were only ever friends in real life).  And real-life lovers Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, together in just four films, had a heat that has yet to be matched in Hollywood since.

In His Girl Friday, Grant and Russell have a chemistry of two best friends (with myriad benefits) who can’t live with or without each other.  It’s this chemistry, when combined with each actor’s individual talents, that makes the rapid-fire dialogue – with numerous instances where their dialogue overlaps for what feels like glorious minutes – work so well, because they are that comfortable with each other.  This comfort level also makes their critical comic timing perfectly smooth.  Unfortunately for us, unlike the dozens of combined pairings of the three aforementioned couples, Grant and Russell make their only on-screen coupling in His Girl Friday.

Like the films featuring Tracy & Hepburn or Powell & Loy, His Girl Friday has a strong sense of female empowerment and equality, as evidenced in Hildy’s first scene, when she returns to the newspaper.  She strides with great confidence through a field of desks, and is showered with enthusiastic and respectful greetings from her male peers.  This strong sense continues throughout the film, whether in Hildy’s double-speak dealings with Walter, her verbal spars with the boys in the press room (and a fantastically motley bunch they are, featuring great character actors like Porter Hall, Roscoe Karns, and Frank Jenks), her interview with Earl Williams, or her pants-wearing role in her relationship with Bruce.

Yet, for all that empowerment and equality, and like other Hepburn and Loy characters, Russell’s Hildy won’t sacrifice her feminine identity.  Hildy laments that her marriage to Walter was a failure, she yearns for the “normal” life of a homemaker, and she empathizes with the only other pivotal female character in the film, Williams’ friend, Molly Malloy (Helen Mack), who is misunderstood and mistreated by the male reporters.  These instances remind us that while Hildy might be “one of the guys” on a daily basis, she is still a woman at heart.

Dig a little deeper into the film’s dialogue, and you’ll find scathing jabs taken at politics, politicians, corruption, nepotism, racism, sexism, capital punishment, and the power of the press, all delivered by screenwriter Charles Lederer in a style that Aaron Sorkin surely must admire, if not downright envy.

Spinning all of these plates is director Howard Hawks, who is smart enough to do several things.  First, he compliments the complex dialogue with simple direction.  There are no stunning camera angles, no fancy tricks of shadow and light, and no lavish sets.  This film is based on the play The Front Page (written by Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur), and Hawks maintains the feel of live theater by keeping everything (except the dialogue) to a minimum.

Second, Hawks doesn’t preach (and this is where His Girl Friday splits from The West Wing).  Yes, weighty issues are addressed, but they only act as reminders of the real world while simultaneously serving as targets for humor.

Third, and most impressively, Hawks knows when to change pace.  Sure, the majority of the dialogue is delivered at breakneck speed, but from time to time, Hawks slows things down enough so that we might catch our breath.  Then he cranks it back up again.  The best example of this is when Hildy interviews Williams in jail.  Progress comes to a near halt as we learn the convict’s story, but once that’s done, Hawks says to us, “I know you’ve been on a roller coaster ride that feels like it’s now over, and I’m sure you appreciate the stoppage, but what do you say we ride it again, only this time with a few more curves?”

We gladly ride it again, and we never want the ride to end.

Film Reviews (Seriously) – Children of Paradise (Les Enfants du Paradis)

1945
Starring Arletty, Jean-Louis Barrault, Pierre Brasseur, María Casarès, Louis Salou, and Marcel Herrand
Directed by Marcel Carné
190 minutes

Children of Paradise is a love story told in two parts.  Part One is titled “The Boulevard of Crime,” and it’s where we meet the film’s five key characters.  The title refers to a French street that is mobbed with revelers and sideshow attractions (think Mardi Gras in New Orleans without topless women pandering for beads), and Frédérick Lamaître (Brasseur), an aspiring actor, is looking for work at the Boulevard’s main attraction, the Funambules Theater.  In the crowd, Lamaître meets the beautiful performer Garance (Arletty), but his efforts to woo her fail.  Garance, leaving Lamaître to find another conquest, visits her acquaintance, Pierre-François Lacenaire (Herrand), a brilliant criminal and aspiring playwright who fronts as a public scribe.

Garance and Lacenaire stroll the Boulevard and stop to watch a performance by Baptiste Debureau (Barrault), a mime with the visiting troupe.  When Debureau becomes a key witness in proving that Garance did not steal the pocket watch of a man standing next to her (Lacenaire stole it), she throws the mime a flower as a gesture of appreciation.  Love immediately fills Debureau’s heart.  Despite his engagement to fellow performer Nathalie (Casarès), Debureau pledges his love to Garance, who makes her move to sleep with him.  But her emotional feelings for him are not the same as his are for her, so he rebuffs her physical advances and leaves her.  Looking for immediate physical gratification, Garance sleeps with Lamaître behind Debureau’s back.  When Garance and Lamaître join the performers at the Funambules Theater, Debureau learns of the affair and he is heartbroken.  Enter the fourth man in Garance’s life, and the fifth of the five key characters, Count Edouard de Montray (Salou), a theater patron who is also smitten with Garance.  The Count offers Garance a life of love and luxury, which at first she declines, but when she is suspected of aiding Lacenaire in a failed murder/robbery attempt, she uses the Count’s clout to get herself out of the jam.

Part Two, titled “The Man in White,” picks up the story several years later. Debureau is now a wildly famous and successful performer, headlining shows and selling them out nightly. He is married to Nathalie, and they have a young son. Garance is in a loveless marriage with the Count, Lamaître is a successful actor in a bad play who is chased by demanding creditors and irate husbands (thanks to his wily bedroom ways with their wives), and Lacenaire is still a criminal who mingles with theater people instead of being a playwright who writes about crime. With the onstage performances of Debureau and Lamaître as backdrops, the lives of these five people intertwine at once, with a climax that will leave four of them unhappy … and one of them dead.

What I love about this film, in addition to the stage work depicted (and I’ll get to that), is that it’s about the sorrow brought on by, and the prices paid for, concessions. The five members of the “love pentagon” are such different characters, yet their actions, generally speaking, are the same, because all five settle for something less than what they truly want.

Let’s start with the Count. He is rich and powerful (his wealth is plainly evident, and his power is displayed when Garance gives the police his business card to get herself out of that Part One-ending jam), and his ultimate desire is for a loving relationship with Garance … something his money or his power cannot readily grant him. Rather than not have her at all, he settles for at least being married to her, even though she does not love him; she even refers to him, to his face no less, as only a friend. Still, the Count has his marriage.

To compliment (or perhaps to offset) this distinguished gentleman is Lacenaire, the criminal. A man of great intelligence, Lacenaire’s legitimate career is that of public scribe, but his true passion is writing plays. However, because of his lack of success in theatrical endeavors, he must settle for using his intelligence as a criminal; at times, he even settles for being far less than a mastermind by ordering his thugs to take care of menial physical abuse. As for his relationship with Garance, I certainly wouldn’t describe it as love, or even as friendship; I get the sense that he settles to have her as an accessory – a 19th Century gun moll who looks good on his arm.

Lamaître, the actor, is the romantic scoundrel of the group. In the ways of romance, he is content to find love not in his heart through a relationship, but in his loins through indiscriminate sex with willing female partners, as illustrated in the suggestion that he bedded his landlady, in his known relationship with Garance, and in the ire of those husbands who pursue him as adamantly as his creditors. Prior to his fame, he is desperate to act in serious works, but he settles for work at the Funambules, lest he have no work at all; and when he becomes famous, he still winds up settling for a role in a sub par play to earn money to pay his creditors.

If the Count is the sophisticate, and Lacenaire is the criminal, and Lamaître is the scoundrel, then Debureau is the romantic. In addition to this moniker, he is also the most tragic of the four primary male characters. Yes, he is the most successful theatrically, making him a bigger success than Lacenaire and Lamaître, but his decisions on how to handle Garance make him a greater failure than those two  (and the Count) combined. This is terribly ironic because his refusal to settle, early in the story, is exactly what leads to his settling for something even less later in the story. When we first meet Debureau, he is engaged to Nathalie, and that is fine for him, until he meets Garance, and then he knows that love can be much better than fine. But his idea of love is different from Garance’s definition, and that difference forces him to take a step back in their quickly developed relationship. He is a man who loves a woman with greater intensity than she loves him, and he is willing to carry a torch for her while her feelings ascend to his level. When this doesn’t happen, Debureau settles for returning to Nathalie, the one who was carrying a torch for him. (It’s important to note that Nathalie, while a secondary character, also settles; she marries a man who placed her behind another woman.)

Ah, and what of Garance, the object of no less than four men’s desires? Her tragedy puts Debureau’s to shame. She is first introduced as part of a sideshow attraction. She is known as THE TRUTH, and the barker outside of her tent promises anyone who enters (for a price, of course) that they will see a beautiful naked woman. As is the case with most sideshows, the trick is on the customer. Yes, she is beautiful. Yes, she is naked. But this woman, THE TRUTH, is seated in a barrel of water that stops just above her cleavage, and every person who passes by can’t quite make out anything below the water line (and they try). The great irony here is that, as THE TRUTH (which is an accurate attraction name, but only in the slimmest of technical senses), she tricks people into thinking they are getting something that they are not. Throughout the rest of the film, she tricks herself into thinking she is getting what she wants, when in fact she settles for everything but. What does she want? She wants the pure love that Debureau offers, but when first presented with it, she doesn’t realize it. She thinks that Lacenaire’s dangerous ways, and Lamaître’s passion, and the Count’s money, are better than what she can have with Debureau, when all of those elements pale in comparison to what the mime can offer.

As mentioned earlier in this piece, the other gems of this film are three notable plays starring Debureau. The first is when Debureau is introduced, when he enacts the theft of the stranger’s watch. It’s simplicity is indicative of the purity of Debureau’s future love for Garance, and its silent brilliance is reminiscent of Chaplin. Without words, the mime relates to a policeman exactly what happened, without a question left unanswered, and in the process entertains the onlookers. It sounds simple, but try it sometime. My guess is that your effort (like mine) will look more like a game of charades after too many cocktails.

The second play also occurs in Part One. In it, Debureau plays a mime who falls in love with a statue (played by Garance), but that statue is stolen away by a harlequin (played by Lamaître). This play was written by Debureau before he knew that what was to be enacted is what would happen in real life. Look at the similarities. In the play, the silent romantic, in love with the statue, has his heart broken by the statue and the harlequin, while in real life, the silent romantic who plays the silent romantic, in love with the aloof woman who plays the statue, has his heart broken by the woman who plays the statue and the scoundrel who plays the harlequin. It’s as if Debureau predicted his own future. In the play, his character threatens suicide, and in real life, after learning of Garance’s affair, he does the same. Did he simply act out what he wrote, or did he prophetically write what was to come? The debate could go on.

The third play, in Part Two, was also written by Debureau, and was written prior to Garance’s reentrance into his life after several years. The story is about a man who cannot gain access into a fancy ball because he wears rags. His character kills a clothes peddler and dons fancy attire to get in. This illustrates Debureau’s screaming regret, as his character represents himself, and killing the clothes peddler represents his character’s refusal to settle with being denied access to where he wants to be, and taking whatever means necessary to ensure he gets what he wants. Had Debureau not settled in Part One, he might have been more like the character he created in Part Two. That being said, Debureau’s life might have gone down a happier path.

This film has been called France’s Gone With the Wind, and I must confess, if I have three hours to fill and I’m looking for a long film to watch … frankly, my dear, I’m picking Children of Paradise.

Film Reviews (Seriously) Redux – Black Narcissus

On September 4, 2011, on a now-defunct personal blog, I published this FR (S) review of Powell and Pressburger’s Black Narcissus.  As this is my favorite Powell and Pressburger film, and as this is my first submission for TheCinementals.org, I thought I’d repost it here.  Thanks for reading (or re-reading). – Michael

1947
Starring Deborah Kerr, Sabu, David Farrar, Jean Simmons, and Kathleen Byron
Directed by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger
100 minutes

Twelve years. That’s how long I spent in Catholic schools (thirteen, if you include kindergarten). And during my time in the Delaware parochial school system, I encountered nuns in almost every grade; nuns who taught me everything from typing to psychology to trigonometry to sex education (no, really; in fact, it’s a wonder I ever got … well, you know).

With this upbringing, I remember the first time I sat down to watch 1947’s Black Narcissus. I sarcastically thought, “A film about nuns! And set in the Himalayas, no less! How exciting this should be!” Well, shame on me then for judging a DVD by its keep case. While the premise of the story is one of nuns in the Himalayas, the film itself, directed by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressbuerger, is rich with breathtaking color accented by sharp contrast.

Sister Clodagh (Deborah Kerr) is a Calcutta-based schoolteacher and devout member of the Order of the Servants of Mary. She receives word that she has been chosen to head a new nunnery, to be called St. Faith, in the Himalayan Mountains, where she and other nuns will provide medical care and education to the locals. This venture will make her the youngest Sister Superior in the history of the Order, and her current Superior, Mother Dorothea (Nancy Roberts), who does not think she is up to the task, seems to set up Sister Clodagh for failure by assigning the sickly Sister Ruth (Byron) to the group. When Sister Clodagh and her team of nuns arrive, they establish their convent in the Palace of Mopu, which was generously donated to them by the Old General (Esmond Knight), the local man of power and affluence. The nuns are assisted in their efforts by the Old General’s agent, Mr. Dean (David Farrar), a rugged and handsome man who is as worldly-wise as the nuns are spiritually so. But as time progresses, Sister Clodagh and the other nuns find themselves in situations for which they are not prepared, including wavering faith, physical temptation, and psychological madness.

When you watch enough black-and-white films, you learn to notice when the cinematography is better in certain films than in others. For example, compare The Lady Eve (1941) and The Third Man (1949). Both are excellent films in their own rights, but The Third Man uses shadows and light to create darker blacks and fewer grays. The visuals become as integral to the film as the plot, characters, and dialogue, because they set the tone for the film. The Lady Eve simply LOOKS like a “normal” black-and-white film, and there is nothing wrong with that, because that particular tone isn’t critical to that particular film. When you watch most modern color films, the colors are just there on the screen, as they normally would be in daily life. One example, though, of integral color usage is 1990’s Dick Tracy. Director Warren Beatty assaults the eyes of his viewers with screaming, contrasting primary colors throughout the film. Compare it to most modern color films, and the difference is immediately evident.

That use of color in Dick Tracy set a tone of nostalgia, done to give the film that old four-color comic strip feel, and it worked. But the use of color in Black Narcissus goes far beyond visual gimmickry. The color plays an important part in setting the tone and establishing a major contrast in the film.

When the nuns arrive at the highest point in the Himalayas, they find a natural environment exploding with rich color, yet in they walk, wearing the plainest of full-length white habits. We know that the nuns are chaste, and we can surmise that people living on a remote mountaintop are going to be somewhat primitive by comparison. But the radical contrasts between the nuns’ white habits (and the white nuns themselves) and the colorful local flora (and the darker-skinned “natives” of Hindu descent), drive the “fish out of water” point home without a whisper of dialogue. But the color isn’t the only source of contrast found in this film.

According to the film’s narration, “Nanga Dalle,” the mountain on which the convent stands, means “The Bare Goddess.” How fitting a name is this for a place where nuns will live? They are bare in that the will never procreate, and they are goddesses by their holy nature. In contrast to that, when the edifice was known as the Palace of Mopu, it housed The Old General’s father’s mistresses. If you can take that step and liken the mistresses to prostitutes (if the man had a house full of them, they surely weren’t in it for love), how fitting a name is “The Bare Goddess” for them as well? They were bare because of their dearth of morals, and they were goddesses because they were worshiped for their sex. One name, two types of women. Contrast.

On the nuns’ property sits the Holy Man, Phuba (Ley On). He does nothing all day but sit and pray. No one is quite sure how he maintains physical sustenance, but they know he is always there, sitting and praying. His methods and (lack of) actions are the antithesis of the nuns’. The nuns teach and heal and sew and farm and pray, all in the name of their God, while Phuba does nothing but sit and pray in the name of his God. Yet the nuns, for all of their hard work, earn little respect, while Phuba is revered by all. One common spiritual goal, two different Gods, two different methods, two different results. Contrast.

Also in contrast are the lives of the nuns and the lives of the film’s other key players. Mr. Dean is a handsome, fit, rugged man who knows his way around the land, its people, and its culture. His lifestyle is vastly different from that of the Sisters; he likes to drink, and he makes it subtly clear that he knows his way around women. He is exactly the kind of help that Sister Clodagh DOESN’T want – the kind who, for all of his practical knowledge, is the embodiment of loose morals. Farrar plays him well, ensuring that he doesn’t come off as some macho stud, but rather as a confident man, with arrogance just close enough to the surface to occasionally remind us that he could, if he wanted to, do some serious moral damage. He is also a realist, and sees religion not as “God in heaven” but as pie in the sky. Contrast.

Seventeen-year-old Kanchi (Simmons) is a sensuous young local who is entrusted to the Sisters’ care. Again, the nuns are confronted with an individual, like Mr. Dean, whose ways are vastly different from theirs. Kanchi adorns herself with nose rings and other jewelry, as well as colorful and flowing garments, and always has a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. She has no dialogue (save one scene where she cries after being whipped for suspicion of theft), but she doesn’t need dialogue. Her beauty, her suggestive dress, her seductive moves, her sly glances, and her taboo age speak volumes against the religious backdrop, and her silence adds mystery. Contrast.

But if Kanchi is a seductress, then who can she seduce in a convent full of nuns and children? Possibly Mr. Dean, although that would be too easy (and chances are if he wanted her, he would have had her long before the nuns came to town). Besides, Dean is the type of man who enjoys challenges, and bedding a 17-year-old nymph is certainly not that. Enter The Young General (Sabu), sent to St. Faith by his father to receive a formal education. The Young General looks to be in his late teens or early twenties (Sabu was about 23 at the time), and while he is a young man of affluence and respect, he has a sincere desire to study. But once under Kanchi’s spell, The Young General loses interest in the nuns’ cerebral offerings. This solidifies Kanchi’s powers of seduction. If the man who can have anything he desires with the snap of his fingers (or his father’s fingers) is seduced by her, she must be something special.

This combination of things takes its toll on the Sisters’ psyches. Symbolically, the convent’s demise starts with a small scene where Sister Briony (Judith Furse) and Sister Clodagh discuss, among other things, the red spots that have appeared on all the nuns’ bodies. The cause of the spots could be attributed to anything – bad water, infectious plant life, insect bites – but the cause is unimportant. It’s as if their entire surroundings have infected the nuns, and as is the case with many infections, this one spreads and grows, and becomes a symbol for a spiritual epidemic.

The most radical victim is Sister Ruth. Already physically ill, she does not adapt well to her surroundings, and her resentment towards her situation, the locals, and Sister Clodagh (as the scolding Sister Superior), grows worse with each passing day. Complicating matters is Sister Ruth’s attraction to Mr. Dean. At first, the attraction is merely physical; she is still young in life and in vocation, and is surely more prone to mental wanderings than the older nuns. However, when Mr. Dean pays Sister Ruth a harmless compliment, her attraction becomes an obsession. This leads to false accusations, severe jealousy, and, ultimately, madness. Byron turns up her character’s psychotic heat in perfectly measured increments, and Powell and Pressburger film her growing madness with meticulous care, using colors, shadows, and tight close-ups to their fullest potential.

Then there is poor Sister Clodagh. As a novice put in a situation an expert would be challenged by, the odds are against her success before she ever reaches the mountains. Add to that pressure all the other factors mentioned, and it only takes Sister Philippa (Flora Robson) to request a transfer due to her own wavering faith to trigger several flashbacks to the life Sister Clodagh knew before her calling – a life of fun, affluence, and romance. Not only did Sister Clodagh leave behind a comfortable secular life, she might have left it behind for the wrong reasons. Did she run TO something in her vocation or did she run FROM something in her secular life? There it is again: contrast.

While Black Narcissus is a film about nuns and challenged faith, it has no spiritual agenda; it never preaches. It is a beautiful work that shows how physical seclusion can fracture the lives of those who already live in emotional seclusion.

Sunday Morning on Film – Do It For the Children

It wasn’t that long ago that Fox Searchlight was faced with a decision for Steve McQueen’s Shame: make cuts to the film or take a higher rating.  Fox decided against cuts, taking an 18 Rating in the UK and an NC-17 Rating (an 18 equivalent) in the US, thus standing by the artistic vision of its director.  When this happened, I had hoped other filmmakers, producers, and distributors would follow suit.  It seems instead that they would rather follow money.

Read the rest at Filmoria …

Film Reviews (Seriously) Redux – The Lost Weekend

On August 18, 2011, on a now-defunct personal blog, I published this FR (S) review of Billy Wilder’s The Lost Weekend.  I thought I’d slowly migrate some previous work to this new site, so here is the latest.  Thanks for reading (or re-reading). – Michael

1945
Starring Ray Milland, Jane Wyman, Phillip Terry, and Howard Da Silva
Directed by Billy Wilder
101 minutes

Hollywood has had this habit (pardon the pun) of portraying alcoholics as funny drunks, getting cheap laughs from the “antics” of actors like Dudley Moore in 1981’s Arthur, and Foster Brooks, a Las Vegas comedian who appeared in various TV movies and series, and who was known as “The Loveable Lush.”  Even legends like W.C. Fields and Dean Martin had popular and entertaining real-life personas of being perennially excessive drinkers.

All of these antics have also been to the delight of the industry’s wallet.  If a man humiliates himself as a result of being intoxicated, Hollywood is ready to milk every slur, stumble, or fall for a laugh and a buck.  Yes, there have been exceptions, like Leaving Las Vegas (1995) and 28 Days (2000), which are two excellent modern examples of how Hollywood deals with alcoholism’s debilitating hold on its sufferers.  The best classic example, though, is The Lost Weekend (1945), a film that is more sobering than a month on the wagon.

Director Billy Wilder’s masterful establishing shot speaks volumes.  It’s a wide shot of the city skyline, which is cliché, but this view of the city simply lulls us into thinking it’s a standard opening shot.  Wilder pans and fixes the lens on an open apartment window; then, as Wilder slowly zooms in, we see, hanging by a length of rope from the open window, and dangling high above the street/sidewalk/alley below … a bottle of booze.

Not only does the sight of this shock us out of our lull, it tells us several things about the main character, and we haven’t even met him yet.  We know that if a man hangs a bottle of booze from his high-rise apartment window, he must be hiding it from someone, and if he’s hiding it from someone, he probably shouldn’t have it to begin with.  It shows his resourcefulness at finding unique hiding spots, because if he has gone to the extreme of hanging the bottle outside, chances are all of his inside hiding spots have been found.  It also shows the desperate extent to which an addict will go to ensure that he gets his fix.  We know, seconds into the film and without a word of dialogue, we are in for an intense ride.

Through the window and into the apartment, we meet Don Birnam (Milland), a failed writer and recovering alcoholic, who is packing for a weekend in the country with his brother, Wick (Terry).  Don’s girlfriend, Helen (Wyman), arrives with a pair of concert tickets, and Don manages to persuade Wick to accompany her, after which the brothers can take a later train to the country.  Fate steps in, and Wick finds Don’s dangling bottle, which he quickly pours down the drain.

Wick and Helen leave Don with no booze and no money, until Don finds some hidden for the cleaning lady.  Don steals the money and heads straight for the liquor store for two bottles of rye.  Then he heads for the local bar to down a few shots before he opens the bottles.  As the weekend progresses, so does Don’s drinking, to the point of hospitalization.  Wick abandons him, Helen worries for him, a local girl who hangs out at the bar looks for love from him, and Nat (Da Silva), the barkeep, keeps on pouring for him.

Watching a man drink himself into oblivion is a difficult thing to do.  Going with him to the bottom of the bottle is harder still, and that’s exactly where Oscar-winners Wilder and Milland take us.

Wilder’s greatest storytelling achievement in this film is that he manages to take time away from us.  We know that the “lost” weekend is a long one – Friday to Monday – and that it starts mid-afternoon on Friday.  But once we get into the evening, the weekend grows more blurred for Don, so it grows more blurred for us.  Wilder only uses subtle clues to tell us that a substantial amount of time has passed, like the number of shot glass-sized rings on the bar and the number of milk bottles outside Don’s apartment door.  Don slips in and out of sleep, in and out of bars, and in and out of consciousness, and while we might be given hints as to whether it’s day or night, we’re never sure which day or night it is.

Time is not simply one of those elements that is crucial to a film’s believability, it is something that is important to all of us, because we never seem to have enough of it, so we are always aware of it.  Think about the number of “timekeepers” in your life: clocks, watches, computers, cell phones, etc.  All of them keep time.  Losing this sense of time in the film is exactly Wilder’s goal; someone on a multi-day bender will not have a tight grip on time, so neither should we, and that gets us deep inside the character.

A sequence of note is the flashback, as told by Don to Nat, about the time Don and Helen meet for the first time.  This sequence lays some nice groundwork on just how much of an impact alcohol has had on Don’s life, and on the lives of his loved ones.

At first, those supporting characters seem two-dimensional, but what they represent are standard personalities – common character denominators of people who populate an alcoholic’s world.  Wick is the one who has tried so hard to help the alcoholic recover, but finally gives up; Helen is the one who loves the alcoholic, and who will do anything to keep the alcoholic alive; and Nat is the one who, despite knowing better, takes twisted pity and feeds the alcoholic’s needs.  And all play their parts despite the consequences.

As for Milland, he rises to the daunting task of creating a character that is deceitful and mean and selfish, yet so tragically flawed and self-aware that he commands sympathy.  Out of everyone in his life, he is his own greatest victim; not just by the damage he does to his own body and mind, but by the scars he leaves on his own soul.  And it’s that soul that continues to fight, despite the scars.  Nearly everything Don consciously does seems to have a dual purpose – selfish and unselfish.

He sends his brother to the concert with Helen, so that (selfish) he will be alone to drink, and (unselfish) because they are the two people who he has made suffer the most, and who deserve a couple hours away from the daily worry and care for him.  He buys two bottles of rye with the expectation that Wick will find one.  This “decoy” bottle (selfish) will make Wick think that Don has been caught, when Don’s second bottle is all he’ll need, and (unselfish) Wick will feel better about himself thinking that he stopped his brother from downing a bottle of booze.  He arranges a date with Gloria when he already has a girlfriend, (selfish) so he can have companionship with someone that is not trying to save him or rehabilitate him, and (unselfish) he can give Gloria the opportunity for a night out on a “real” date, not the usual “dates” she makes with older men.  Don’s split behavior continues throughout, even when he steals money from a stranger’s purse, so that he can pay a bar tab.  He is thoughtful enough and remorseful enough about the negativity of his own actions to leave a flower in the purse as a form of apology.

Even after the Hitchcockian hallucinations Don he has while suffering through the DTs, some might consider the film’s ending to be a little too tidy, but having lived through Don’s experiences, it comes as nothing short of sweet relief.