Of Lubitsch, Sturges, and Wilder June 12, 2008
Posted by clydefro in : Classic Films, 1930s, 1940s, Billy Wilder, Ernst Lubitsch , 4 commentsThough it initially seemed anticlimactic, the recent fire at Universal Studios in California proved to be more damaging than common sense would have first envisioned. Screening prints of the classic Paramount films of the ’30s and ’40s, owned by Universal and including films by the three directors in the post title as well as several others, were destroyed forever. A programmer for Film Forum in New York told the NY Times that a potential Preston Sturges festival would most likely be scrapped as a result. Bad news all around. The media focused on a comparatively inconsequential King Kong theme park ride while beautiful silver celluloid is transformed into ashes. I can’t hardly classify the loss as tragic, a word which really should be reserved for life and death calamities, but it’s upsetting nonetheless.
These three guys, Lubitsch, Sturges and Wilder, form the backbone of classic Hollywood comedy. Their colleague Leo McCarey was another vital presence who also worked at Paramount and whose key films (including Ruggles of Red Gap) remain largely unreleased, now increasingly difficult to see in repertory screenings, as well. Josef von Sternberg is right there, too. If there’s anything at all worth smiling about, it’s that several films related to this trio have recently surfaced on DVD. Quite a few of their films as writer and director are still without a DVD release, possibly deterred even further by this turn of events, but I wanted to mention the few that have reached the market, which, conveniently, I’ve also reviewed for DVD Times.
Back in February, Criterion’s Eclipse line released Lubitsch’s four Paramount musicals in a nifty, extras-less edition. It’s a must-own for fans of the director. Around the same time, Wilder’s The Apartment got a nice upgrade from MGM. (It was originally released by United Artists.) More recently, the BFI put out Lubitsch’s final completed film, Cluny Brown. Made for Fox in 1946, it’s an appropriate ending to a great career. I had vastly underestimated the film after an initial viewing when I put up a review back early last year on this site. The more pertinent Paramount/Universal titles hit stores in April. I’ve reviewed all these, including Wilder’s first film as director in Hollywood, The Major and the Minor. Also out are a pair of Mitchell Leisen-directed efforts. Easy Living, with screenplay from Sturges, and Midnight, a sparkling film written by Charles Brackett and Billy Wilder, finally received their digital releases, I believe, for the first time anywhere in the world.
This still leaves several Paramount-made, Universal-controlled pictures from the Lubitsch, Sturges, and Wilder cycle unavailable on R1 DVD. Most notably - Angel, directed by Lubitsch and available in a Marlene Dietrich set in R2, Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife, another Lubitsch picture and written by Brackett and Wilder, Remember the Night, written by Sturges and directed by Leisen but not on DVD anywhere, Hold Back the Dawn, which was directed by Leisen and scripted by Brackett and Wilder, and two early Wilder-directed films, Five Graves to Cairo and A Foreign Affair. Both of those latter movies are available in other regions, but still absent in R1. There are a handful of others, things like Arise My Love which I’ve been anxious to see, but I’m now hesitant as to whether any of these films will make it onto R1 DVD in the near future. Despite business concerns, it would seem appropriate for Universal to reveal exactly what films were lost (surely their bookkeeping contains such records) instead of playing so coy.
Hold Back the Dawn May 26, 2008
Posted by clydefro in : Classic Films, 1940s, Billy Wilder , add a comment
There are two reasons I’ve been anxious to see Hold Back the Dawn. One is Billy Wilder and the other is a nonexistent cockroach. I’ve brought this up before, but it’s a good enough story that you really can’t tell it too many times. When Wilder was still under contract as a writer for Paramount, he took to writing an adaptation of the not-yet-published book that became Hold Back the Dawn with his usual partner Charles Brackett. The director Mitchell Leisen, who had previously helmed Midnight, also written by Wilder and Brackett, was assigned the picture and Charles Boyer had the starring role. His character is a Romanian dancer/gigolo (no doubt an “occupation” close to Wilder’s heart) named Georges who’s stuck in a Mexican purgatory while he waits for his immigration papers to be approved, estimated to be a few years because of the U.S. quota system in place at the time.
Early on in the film, after a cutesy opening where Boyer, in character, visits the Paramount lot (hello Veronica Lake) in search of a director he’d met in Europe (played by Leisen) to tell his story to in exchange for $500, Georges finds himself unshaven and holed up inside his Mexican hotel room. In Wilder and Brackett’s original script, a cockroach was to walk towards a broken mirror and Boyer’s character, frustrated by not being able to obtain his immigration papers, would interrogate the cockroach about the insect’s visa. As Wilder told it, Boyer nixed the idea as being idiotic and Leisen backed his actor. The writers weren’t even allowed on set to protest and Wilder decided that was the last time he’d write a script he couldn’t direct himself. Thus, out of a missing cockroach scene, Billy Wilder’s career as director was hatched. He’d deliberately pick a commercial project, The Major and the Minor, for his first directing job the following year.
So, after finally seeing Hold Back the Dawn, it’s pretty obvious where the cockroach would have appeared and it’s also pretty obvious that it wouldn’t have changed the existing picture much at all. Surely Wilder was looking to branch out into directing anyway and this little episode could have been a push, real or imagined, into that area. I say it wouldn’t have affected the film because Wilder’s gallows humor is already all over that first portion of the movie and hardly present for the remainder. It’s a very atypical Wilder script, briefly witty in the early goings but mostly a conventional romantic drama told quite well. The story is good, the acting is superb, and the direction by Leisen is unimaginative and adequate. Had the cockroach scene been filmed and put in the movie, the only difference would have been an odd little interlude unessential to the plot or characterizations. Yet, Wilder was notorious for demanding his scripts be adhered to by the actors without changing a word or even an emphasis. One wonders if he’d have been so strict later on had Leisen filmed what was written. (Probably so!)
Some of the most obviously Wilderian touches are, as I alluded to above, in the first act. Not only was Wilder likely able to step into Georges’ dancing and gigolo shoes, as he’d been in the same position while living in Berlin, but the Mexican layover before entering the United States was one Wilder had likewise experienced firsthand. After leaving Germany upon Hitler’s rise to power, he first went to Paris and then tried to come into the U.S. via Mexico. He apparently came across an immigration officer who was a film enthusiast and, after learning of Wilder’s desire to write movies, allowed him in the country with the instruction to “make good ones.” Boyer’s Georges isn’t so lucky. He’s stuck in the Hotel Esperanza when his former dancing partner Anita (Paulette Goddard) happens to show up. She tells him that marrying an American will get him into the country in just four weeks.
Here’s where Wilder’s classic opportunist model comes in, as Georges thinks back to the Californian schoolteacher he encountered earlier. Emmy Brown (Olivia de Havilland) had a car full of students on a field trip for the Fourth of July when she rear-ended another vehicle. The car must be fixed and Georges just happens to pass by the mechanic shop. She’s anxious to head back home, but Georges, after a brief and failed attempt on another woman, needs just a couple of hours to win her over. It’s loneliness finds loneliness when the two meet. Emmy can’t resist his charms. Georges then conspires with Anita to wait out the four weeks so that he can get a quick divorce and the two dance partners can bring their show to New York. The monkey wrench is Emmy showing up unexpectedly and Georges quickly taking her on an impromptu honeymoon. His feelings begin to change and he realizes he can’t just coldly discard Emmy.
This second act, where the Boyer character hardly resembles the scoundrel from earlier, plays exactly like a classic Hollywood movie. That is to say that it’s entertaining, but safe and predictable. The third act shakes things up a little by letting Paulette Goddard shine first and de Havilland follow in an Oscar-worthy scene that mauls over the other actors in its force of nature-type glory. The sequence isn’t overdone or played with histrionics, a nice reigning in from Leisen, but it’s powerful all the same. It sounds patently obvious, but de Havilland really was some kind of actress. Watching the movie with the knowledge that Wilder and Brackett were apparently still writing the final portion of the film when they learned Boyer had refused to soliloquy with their cockroach, it’s easy to recognize how they turned the actor from star to third banana.
I’m not going to say the film suffers from this transition in focus because it’s still a good picture, but the first act certainly feels like a Wilder movie whereas the rest just doesn’t. Georges changes, leading to the happy ending audiences expect even now from Hold Back the Dawn, and he’s far less interesting as a result. Again, his reform is one we can actively root for in the context of classic movie happy resolutions, but it somewhat betrays the original character and strips the film of any more of those Wilder touches I love so much. You put the cockroach scene in and we might have altered second and third acts, but, by itself, I don’t think it would have tipped the scales much either way in the version that exists now. My hindsight goggles are content to keep it out of the picture so we can enjoy Double Indemnity, Sunset Blvd., Ace in the Hole, The Apartment, etc. Seems like a fair trade-off.
(Hold Back the Dawn is not on DVD anywhere in the world to my knowledge and is controlled by Universal.)
The Shop Around the Corner December 20, 2007
Posted by clydefro in : Classic Films, 1940s, Ernst Lubitsch , 3 comments
The Shop Around the Corner is a 1940 film directed by Ernst Lubitsch and adapted for the screen by Samson Raphaelson. James Stewart stars as a sales clerk in a small Budapest shop and top-billed Margaret Sullavan plays a newly hired shop girl in the same quaint little store. The plot point that usually grabs the most attention is that the two co-workers fall in love with each other anonymously while also clashing at work, but this isn’t entirely revealed until over halfway through the picture. The famous remake from a few years ago starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, You’ve Got Mail, neglected the other, precisely crafted details that make the movie so wonderful and instead focused almost solely on the unlikely romance between two people who outwardly loathe each other.
I can remember Hanks commenting in interviews promoting his version that he couldn’t figure out why the Lubitsch film is set in Budapest with characters mostly forgoing accents despite their Hungarian names. Raphaelson was a New Yorker through and through, but Lubitsch was, of course, from neighboring Germany. He had a knack, along with his torch-carrying protege Billy Wilder, for turning eastern European plays and stories into slightly Hollywoodized film product that retained a sophisticated sweetness without melting into sickly sugar. This is what happened with The Shop Around the Corner, which was based on the play “Illatszertar,” or “Parfumerie” written by Miklós László, a Hungarian playwright who, like Lubitsch, relocated to the United States. Obviously, Raphaelson and Lubitsch could have moved the events to New York City or somewhere similar, but why?
Any alterations to the setting might have worked, but, more likely, would have affected the entire atmosphere of the story. The small, incredibly charming store depicted in the film doesn’t feel American at all. The hustle and bustle of metropolitan capitalism feels a world away from The Shop Around the Corner. Cigarette boxes that play “Winter Wonderland” just wouldn’t have had the same effect. Plus, it’s nice to have a Christmas movie that’s in English but retains some of the more European aspects of the holiday.
One thing in the film that struck me on a recent viewing was the incredible differences in how Christmas is now versus how it’s depicted here. Some of these are obvious and expected, but the fascinating and mildly depressing truth is that most aren’t. The shop workers are nice, customer-oriented and ready to help. I’m assuming this was fairly accurate for the time and place and I’m not surprised, but it’s definitely not consistent with my experiences. More interesting is the contrast between how the characters approach the holiday and their expectations and the lack of stress they show. Somewhere in these last 67 years, it seems that Christmas has become one of the most stressful times of the year. Here, it’s a happy time of relief and excitement that isn’t preceded by months of worrying about what to buy or the impending credit card bills.
Cultural and generational changes I’ll accept, but there’s more. Sullavan’s Klara is fretting a little over whether to buy her soon-to-be fiance that she’s never met a cigarette box or a wallet - humble gifts that represent her love without having to compensate by purchasing more and more things he doesn’t need. Now we buy cars and expensive gadgets and various other things we were fine without before we knew neighbor Bob and celebrity spokesperson Jim had one. Essentially, it’s materialism and consumerism that have combined to completely alter the landscape of what Christmas is and what giving gifts must entail. Try giving someone a cigarette (or candy) box that plays “Ochi Tchornya” instead of a GPS this year and watch the reaction. Your kids don’t get iPods, they get imported pigskin wallets. One’s practical and useful, the other is a toy that distances us from society.
Speaking of distancing, the gap created by Alfred and Klara, the two characters Stewart and Sullavan play, is remarkably touching. The film begins when Klara enters the store and Alfred helps her like he would any other customer. He finds out she’s not looking for a cigarette box, but, instead, a job. The very practical store owner Mr. Matuschek (played by the great Frank Morgan, aka the Wizard of Oz) doesn’t have any positions available, but sees Klara is a skilled salesgirl and reluctantly hires her. Lubitsch and Raphaelson insert little digs between Alfred and Klara, all the while slowly building up the mystery pen pal letters Alfred has told his friend and co-worker Vadas about. It’s a shining example of economic filmmaking and storytelling, where a film that’s ostensibly a romantic comedy neglects romance for the majority of the movie and peppers the comedy just perfectly. Lubitsch’s movies are so often described as those dreaded romantic comedies, but they resemble almost nothing in other films of this genre. They’re light and serious, funny and poignant, and genuinely, but quietly romantic.
The duality explored in Klara and Alfred’s relationship is perhaps the film’s strongest aspect. That these same two people could believably love each other without realizing it and simultaneously dislike, even have contempt for the other is remarkable, but absolutely true of how love often works, I think. Their outward interactions, the public face each shows, cause disregard and antipathy while their private, often innermost thoughts and feelings build a deep bond of affection and trust. This is love in a nutshell, right? No one is the same behind the closed doors of their mind as they are in the more vulnerable arena of the daily outside world. When we meet someone and develop a lasting love, isn’t it almost always because we learn and adore who the person really is, the one they show only us, and not who the rest of the world gets to see. Klara and Alfred exposed themselves in their letters and found each other through the mind instead of the eyes. Beautiful. And that moment when Klara realizes that Alfred is her box 237 must be one of the most fulfilling and romantic scenes ever in film, completely and honestly earned by Raphaelson and Lubitsch.
The complex real-life relationship between Sullavan and Stewart adds another fascinating layer to the film. The two had met while Stewart was at Princeton and he joined a stock company that included Sullavan. He was apparently smitten immediately, but she was becoming established as an actress and he was a shy, gangly college student. Things became a bit more complicated when Stewart’s good friend Henry Fonda, also in the same acting company, married Sullavan while she was making a name for herself on Broadway. She went to Hollywood and divorced Fonda, who ended up rooming with Stewart in New York. By the time Stewart made his way out west, Sullavan had become a known leading lady and had married and divorced director William Wyler before settling down with Leland Hayward, who became Stewart’s agent. They would make four movies together total and most all accounts indicate that Stewart carried an unrequited torch for Sullavan throughout.
They Live by Night August 13, 2007
Posted by clydefro in : Classic Films, 1940s, Nicholas Ray , 8 comments
“This boy…and this girl…were never properly introduced to the world we live in…”
Two weeks ago, the director Nicholas Ray had a very good couple of days on DVD. July 30 saw one of his finest films, Bigger Than Life, released in the UK by the BFI, a superb edition highlighted by Ed Buscombe’s commentary and a conversation between film critic Jonathan Rosenbaum and director Jim Jarmusch, who served as Ray’s teaching assistant in Jarmusch’s last year at NYU. The following day, July 31, Ray’s debut feature They Live by Night hit the market as part of Warner Bros.’ fourth Film Noir collection in R1. It also featured a commentary, this time by film noir aficionado Eddie Muller and star Farley Granger. It’s been a long time coming for Ray, the most under appreciated of the great American auteurs, and, make no mistake, Ray is indeed a great director in the pantheon of the best English language filmmakers despite remaining woefully underrepresented on DVD in the United States. (ahem, I know you’ll never read this, but that’s directed at you Mr. Rosenbaum) Still waiting for a release in R1: Bigger Than Life, The Lusty Men, Party Girl, The Savage Innocents, Born to Be Bad, A Woman’s Secret, Hot Blood, Wind Across the Everglades, Knock on Any Door, Run for Cover, 55 Days at Peking, and, most frustratingly, Johnny Guitar.
Ray’s tenure making pictures for Hollywood was fairly short-lived, from They Live by Night until Samuel Bronston’s 55 Days at Peking in 1962, during which Ray collapsed with a stress-induced heart attack, was replaced, and ultimately barred from the set. Despite being “interrupted,” as he would later classify his stint directing film, Nicholas Ray made several essential pictures of the 1950s, as well as one each from the preceding and following decades. Lost promises and squandered talent are unimportant when a filmography manages to still include legacy-defining movies like In a Lonely Place and Johnny Guitar. There’s never quite been a director like Nick Ray and his legacy is all the better for it. By my count, Ray made five borderline masterpieces and four nearly great films in a period of only twelve years. I’m not sure any other American director can claim such lofty accomplishments.
One of those nearly great pictures was his debut feature They Live by Night, starring Farley Granger and Cathy O’Donnell as doomed lovers unable to combat their production code destinies. When filming ended in October 1947, Ray called the movie Your Red Wagon, from the performance of a song by that name in the picture, but as RKO struggled and Howard Hughes took the reins, the film was rechristened They Live by Night and entered theaters in the fall of 1949 with little fanfare. Initially perceived as another run-of-the-mill gangster movie, critics and audiences alike apparently shared a collective shrug of the shoulders. The often-maligned New York Times reviewer Bosley Crowther derided the film for its “sympathies for a youthful crook,” though he still seemed to like it well enough and praised Ray’s “eye for action details” and Granger’s “genuine sense of nervous strain.” Even the critics in France, who would later, through the writings of Jean-Luc Godard and François Truffaut, come to appreciate Ray much more than those in his native country, seemed unimpressed.
I suppose this shouldn’t be entirely surprising, what with Ray’s lack of any real notoriety or Hollywood experience. They Live by Night was actually released after both A Woman’s Secret and the Bogart-starrer Knock on Any Door played in U.S. theaters, a couple of films which do little to establish much of a reputation. There’s also the fairly pedestrian plot, something which Ray clearly saw past enough to transform into one of his signature works. The film begins with Granger as one of three men who break out of prison, an event not seen, but the aftermath of which is shown in exhilarating detail via helicopter camera shots of the getaway car, and almost immediately plot to rob a bank. His character, Bowie, had served seven years in the joint for murder, since he was only sixteen, and seems content to follow around his escape buddies. When he meets O’Donnell’s Keechie, Bowie is immediately interested despite her somewhat plain looks and lack of romantic experience. As we see during the course of They Live by Night, these are two lonely creatures in the midst of trying to figure out the vast expanse of life and adulthood, with the additional element of one being a fugitive and criminal.
Though Ray’s film is frequently classified as a film noir, it’s really more of a love story set against the backdrop of a life of crime. Bowie and Keechie find each other after short lives without emotional affection. Ray crafts a beautifully moving romance between his two lost souls, as he would frequently do throughout his career, even if the viewer knows things will end tragically. They marry on a whim, during a bus stop at a place that both rents ($1) and sells ($5) wedding rings, and forge a bond of defiant loneliness, the first love of each. It’s really quite impressive how Ray and his actors manage to forge such a sympathetic relationship between a violent criminal and his accomplice. Just look at the many, many other examples of this kind of lovers on the run type of film to see how difficult it can be to establish a fully fleshed out romance between two lawless characters.
These type of films would become quite popular over the thirty or so years following They Live by Night (itself made a decade after the similarly themed Fritz Lang film You Only Live Once). Ray’s film was based on the novel Thieves Like Us, written by Edward Anderson and made again by Robert Altman in 1974 using the book’s title, an apparent invitation or glamorization of crime and deemed inappropriate by the strict production code in effect for the earlier version. In the interim, films like Gun Crazy, Badlands, The Honeymoon Killers, and, most famously, Bonnie and Clyde would repeat the same formula but never with as much soul and heart as Ray’s tragic love story. Ultimately, the audience cannot empathize with cold-blooded murderers unless we’re given some kind of common denominator in which we can relate. First love, perhaps the most emotional period of anyone’s life, is the perfect equalizer and Ray tapped into that here without flaw.
The director, also the sole credited screenwriter of the film, emphasized with notes in his final draft that the movie would be “tender, not cynical; tragic, not brutal” and a “Love Story,” comparing Bowie and Keechie’s plight and short time together to that experienced by Romeo and Juliet. Producer and future Oscar winner/nightmare of prospective law students John Houseman was under non-exclusive contract at RKO, the studio where he had worked at as an assistant on Citizen Kane, and his confidence in the first-time filmmaker can only be described as remarkable. Like his fellow Wisconsin native Orson Welles, Ray would struggle with artistic interference throughout his run in Hollywood, but he would never have as much creative freedom as he did while making his debut feature.
The characters portrayed by Granger and O’Donnell are unique even among Ray’s motley assortment of loners and misunderstood protagonists in that they are truly criminals, evading the law. Granger’s Bowie killed a man seven years previous, escaped from prison and then participated in a bank robbery. O’Donnell’s character is upset with Bowie when his criminal ways continue, but, realistically, what could she have expected? Bowie is certainly not portrayed as a bad man or someone unduly violent, but he nevertheless can’t exactly seek honest employment and make a good life for his new bride and unborn child. His and the film’s end are inevitable, the only way someone on the wrong side of the law can have their fate unfold in the cinema.
As Bowie, Granger is naively sympathetic, giving maybe his best performance on film. The actor would star in two of Hitchcock’s better films, Rope and Strangers on a Train, as well as re-teaming with Cathy O’Donnell for Anthony Mann’s Side Street (included on the WB disc with They Live by Night) before later appearing in Luchino Visconti’s Senso. Granger is not an especially versatile performer, but Ray really worked to his strengths with this role, allowing the actor to show his natural innocence and vulnerability as a young victim of circumstance lost in the frightening reality of the world. Granger recently published his autobiography and, while promoting the book, cited Ray as his personal favorite among directors he worked with, unsurprising praise when you look at the brilliant performances the director continually elicited from his actors. The freedom he gave stars like Bogart, Mitchum, Robert Ryan, and James Mason, among others, shines through in their acting, all arguably never better than when working with Ray.
It’s that willingness on Ray’s part to allow his actors to express themselves without fear of embarrassment or Kazan-like belligerence, as well as the director’s unique penchant for disaffected characters at a time when cookie-cutter conformance was de rigueur in Hollywood movies, that make his films seem so fresh and removed from the standard melodramas and overblown exercises in method acting of the 1950s. Watching They Live by Night, I was reminded of the music of Bruce Springsteen and, specifically, the song “Atlantic City” off his Nebraska album. Both artists were able to locate the pulse of the outsider, someone not particularly special in any way but undeniably American in spirit and attitude. The idea of bettering one’s self and family, even if it means turning to crime or working outside the margins, is a recurring theme in both men’s work. Of course, Ray put his finger on this pursuit some twenty and thirty years before Springsteen.
The newly released DVD of They Live by Night is quite outstanding in picture quality, especially for an RKO film, and it looks noticeably better than Warner’s release of On Dangerous Ground just last year. The more I delve into the Film Noir V.4 set, the more I think it’s truly one of the best DVD releases we’ve had. The special features are a little on the superficial side, with each film sporting a highly condensed short featurette running about five minutes and consisting of talking heads saying little of interest, as well as a commentary. These ridiculously truncated programs seem edited within a millimeter of their lives and leave this viewer wondering how knowledgeable persons like Molly Haskell, Oliver Stone, Alain Silver, and James Ursini could be restricted to such a short amount of time to speak about one of the truly great debut features of the 1940s. The bonus disc included in the Vol. 3 collection was much more interesting and meaty than these little trifles Warner Bros. has given us here. That’s a minor complaint though, and absolutely not intended to dissuade anyone remotely interested in film noir from paying roughly $4 per film for this wonderful set.
Film Noir x 4 August 8, 2007
Posted by clydefro in : Classic Films, 1940s, 1950s , 4 comments
Four viewings of movies designated as film noir in a 24-hour period and the only side effects I seem to have are the almost uncontrollable desires to rob a bank and get mixed up with a woman who’s no good for me. It’ll pass, I’m sure. The new Warner Bros. Film Noir Classic Collection Vol. 4 has been my most anticipated in the series yet, mostly because we get ten films instead of the usual five. Nicholas Ray’s They Live by Night is the best of the lot, but I was most anxious to first sit down with the disc containing both Andre De Toth’s Crime Wave and the rarely seen Decoy, directed by Jack Bernhard. In between the two, I shuttled off to New York City’s Film Forum to take in a double feature of The Window (directed by Ted Tetzlaff, cinematographer of the Hitchcock masterpiece Notorious, as well as the squishily feelgood Stanwyck-MacMurray Christmas movie Remember the Night) and the absurdly-named Deadline at Dawn, in their NYC Noir series.
Let’s start with Crime Wave. Has there been a more stylish noir ever? The only candidate I can think of from memory is Ray’s On Dangerous Ground, but De Toth probably outdoes even that excellent film here. Sterling Hayden (currently staring in disbelief at the top of my film journal here) plays an aggressively tough homicide detective who’s trying to find the perp responsible for a gas station shooting of a cop. The film’s real focus is on Gene Nelson’s Steve Lacey, an ex-con who’s been straight since leaving prison before he gets roped up with some former associates responsible for the cop killing. Nelson is very good here and it’s a shame he never had much of an acting career. He did go on to direct numerous television shows, everything from “The Andy Griffith Show” to “Starsky and Hutch,” as well as a couple of Elvis Presley movies.
I still miss Hayden when he’s not on the screen though, which is far too often. As far as 1950s unsung actors go, Sterling Hayden is right there at the top of the list. His more famous roles, like in The Asphalt Jungle and The Killing, are as crooks, but he’s effectively authoritative here in Crime Wave. The low angle shots De Toth and cinematographer Bert Glennon use to showcase Hayden are remarkably modern. His crisp white shirt and mussed blonde hair are used to great effect and the toothpick as cigarette substitute is a nice touch. Really, the entire film sparkles and shines. It’s even better than I imagined and a clear influence, indirect or not, on film and television crime dramas from the last fifty years. Los Angeles gets its own day in the dark to rival the many, many films noir set in New York City.
One such film, arguably a noir but included in the NYC Noir series nonetheless, is The Window, a 1949 RKO picture. It’s about a boy who tends to make up outlandish stories, reminiscent of the Aesop’s fable about the boy who cried “wolf,” featured on the screen in the film’s opening titles. Tommy, played by the tragic child actor Bobby Driscoll whose unidentified 31-year old body was found by two young boys and subsequently buried in potter’s field less than 20 years after this film was made, can’t sleep one sultry summer night and goes out on the fire escape. He climbs up to sleep outside his upstairs neighbors’ window and awakens to see a man stabbed in the back with scissors fall to his death. When he tells his parents, played by Arthur Kennedy and Barbara Hale (the future Della Street), they don’t believe him and neither do the police when he tries to convince them.
The film is ultimately effective despite basically every adult acting liking an idiot. After Tommy pleads his case to the police and his parents, what do the parents do but leave him alone all night with the sinister neighbors the Kellersons lurking upstairs. The thin plot is stretched out as far as possible, but redeemed by an exciting and suspenseful climax. It’s interesting just how inept the police are portrayed, including a ridiculous sequence where they have Tommy jump from maybe fifty feet or more onto a large round fireman’s net. Throughout, Driscoll does a nice job of being not too annoying to the audience while playing a character who pretty much should be bothersome. It’s a very entertaining, worthwhile picture languishing in the WB vaults probably because they’re not sure exactly how to release it on DVD. I would expect it sooner rather than later though.
The second movie up in the NYC Noir double feature, also an RKO picture, was Deadline at Dawn from 1946, the only film directed by Broadway veteran (and ex-husband of acting guru Stella Adler) Harold Clurman. First and foremost, the main reason to see this movie is the involvement of Clifford Odets as screenwriter, adapting a story by William Irish, pen name of Cornell Woolrich, who also wrote the source material for Rear Window and, coincidentally, The Window. His dialogue sparkles with ludicrous, unnatural humor. “Out of the mouths of actors…” I can only describe the film as terrifically bad. It’s much funnier, as a result of the Odets screenplay, than most any of the traditional comedies of the era. The biggest laugh might be via Joseph Calleia as the gangster brother of the deceased, who comments to a blonde-haired vixen something to the effect that she would look pretty good if someone cut off her head.
The other thing the film has going for it is the presence of the beautiful and talented Susan Hayward. She plays a dancer relegated to long sessions with a creepy guy who wears white gloves to disguise his infectious hands while performing at a night club. There, she meets a sailor who blacked out after going back to another woman’s apartment earlier in the night and found a large sum of money he’d taken from her. Together, they discover the woman’s been murdered and team up with a cabbie (played by Paul Lukas) to try and solve the crime. It’s highly convoluted, but kind of fun anyway. The cops come off as morons in this one too, notably when they encounter a drunken star baseball player. Instead of taking him home or to the station when he wants another bottle of liquor at three or four in the morning, a police officer literally goes up to the dead woman’s apartment in search of more alcohol for the inebriated athlete.
As the innocent sailor, Bill Williams shows you why he never became a star, instead remaining stuck working in television and the odd film like Son of Paleface. The whole of Deadline at Dawn plays like some kind of nutty noir, ridiculously laughable throughout but entertaining nonetheless. Again, Ms. Hayward’s screen presence goes a long way. If she weren’t in the film, it would have become overwhelmingly silly long before the Agatha Christie-lite finale seen from a mile away. The presence of Odets goes to prove the theory that older movies are far more interesting than modern ones. It seems that these smaller, low-budget films could get away with almost anything as long as it wasn’t explicitly in conflict with the production code. I can’t imagine anything like Deadline at Dawn coming out of either the major studios or the independent ones today. Even if it’s not groundbreaking or all that accomplished, it’s still loads of fun.
Finally, I finished up the WB disc of Crime Wave/Decoy with the bizarre noir of the latter. Directed by Jack Bernhard and written for the screen by blacklisted writer and Crime Wave actor Ned Young, Decoy justifiably has taken a place as a hard-to-find gem of 1940s B-movie crime thrillers. The ill-fated British actress Jean Gillie, who strangely seems to have borrowed Joan Fontaine’s cheekbones, plays a gleefully psychotic femme fatale princess unafraid of seductively killing anyone in the path of $400,000 of stolen bank robbery money buried in a hidden location. The film teeters into sci-fi/horror territory with talk of reviving gas chamber victims through the mysterious methylene blue, but it’s still definitely a noir. When Gillie’s Margot Shelby cheers on the film’s Dr. Craig as he digs for the buried loot, her lines and campy delivery echo orgasmic sexual outbursts.
DVD Savant himself and commentator Glenn Erickson likens Decoy to a Quentin Tarantino movie had he been around in the 1940s (though we all know he probably would have been aping German Expressionism so much that he wouldn’t have been able to create something as original and exhilarating as Decoy), I’d argue that it’s really much closer to David Lynch. There’s such an abundance of weird and perverse happenings going on that someone with an odd sensibility like Lynch would fit more neatly in the world created here than Tarantino. There’s also an often inappropriate score, swelling at odd times and including piano playing that doesn’t match up with the hands of the person seen in the film pounding on the keys. It’s a little mixture of corny and avant-garde and fits completely with the weird atmosphere found in Decoy.
Both Crime Wave and Decoy in the Film Noir set look outstanding, especially the crisp transfer of the former. Decoy is apparently slightly incomplete, judging from Savant’s review, but plays just fine nonetheless. The other two movies, The Window and Deadline at Dawn, are not available on DVD, but both were originally released by RKO and thus owned by Warner Bros., so we’re likely to see them at some point. Neither of these two really qualify under a strict film noir definition - no femme fatale, no brooding protagonist, and no real battle with fate or internal demons - but they’re definitely at least as close as films already classified as such like Dillinger and Clash by Night. Each of the unreleased movies deserves at least one viewing, with very little lurking beneath the surface to justify much more than that if you like interesting subtexts and seeing things from different angles, but neither is as impressive as Crime Wave or Decoy, two giants of unheralded film noir.
The Fugitive June 9, 2007
Posted by clydefro in : Classic Films, 1940s , 5 comments
It’s a little hard to believe that a film directed by John Ford, starring Henry Fonda, and adapted from a Graham Greene novel could remain mostly unknown and unseen sixty years after its release. Even more peculiar, Ford claimed the film as his favorite or one of his favorites (depending on the source) throughout the rest of his life. Yet, The Fugitive still hasn’t been released on DVD, save for a French edition, and, I believe, never appeared on VHS stateside. Originally released by RKO, the R1 DVD rights should be controlled by Warner Bros., who released a nice John Ford box set last summer, but failed to include The Fugitive. Pious without being grating, Ford’s version of Greene’s The Power and the Glory (published in the US and identified in the opening titles as The Labyrinthine Ways), is an extremely interesting departure for the esteemed “Director of Westerns.”
Audiences certainly didn’t warm to the slow-moving tale of a fugitive priest unwilling to sacrifice his kindness or pride. An opening voiceover tells us the story is real, from long ago, but the setting is fictional and could have happened “1,000 miles north or south of the equator.” In reality, it was shot in Mexico with several native actors, including familiar faces Dolores del Rio and Pedro Armendáriz. It was del Rio’s first English language film since her affair with Orson Welles on the set of 1943’s Journey Into Fear. Despite the tepid commercial reception of The Fugitive, Armendáriz was able to segue into a stable career in Hollywood, working again with John Ford on Fort Apache and 3 Godfathers, while maintaining his star status in Mexican film. Both actors are effective in The Fugitive, playing forbidden ex-lovers on opposite sides of morality. Del Rio is the Virgin Mary character, an unmarried mother bathed in soft light, and Armendáriz is a corrupt government official.
Ward Bond, who acted in an astonishing 26 films under the direction of John Ford, plays El Gringo, an American on the run for murder. His screen time is limited, but crucial in the picture’s plot. Faring less favorably is J. Carrol Naish who plays a swarthily stereotypical Mexican-type character, complete with heavily accented English. He’s the weakest part of the film. The film’s star, Henry Fonda, delivers in the central performance as a man mysteriously persecuted, too weak to fight his impending punishment. I’ve read conflicting opinions as to whether Fonda was in over his head as the on-the-run title character. Regardless, he doesn’t quite reach the grand performance he gave as Tom Joad in The Grapes of Wrath, but I still can’t find fault in his characterization. The attempt to transform him into a Latin American is a minor distraction, but it’s not difficult to get past, especially in comparison to the atrocious example set by Naish.
All that aside, Fonda is quite good. Never a showy or flashy actor, he instead inhabits his roles as quiet, respectable everymen. From a personal standpoint, I’ve always liked Fonda a great deal, as he reminds me of what I imagine my grandfather was like, and, in turn, myself. He’s simple, reserved, and respectable, while maintaining a moral high ground without condescension. Though his real-life celebrity children publicized Fonda’s shortcomings as a parent, the actor persona we see onscreen is nothing short of admirable, the standard to judge all others. This is consistent in The Fugitive, where Fonda quietly shows the audience the consequences of pride as he ultimately makes peace with his ominous fate. His priest character must know what lies behind the foreboding last rites requested by Bond’s gringo, but he still chooses the “path of the righteous man,” sealing his own fate in the process.
Where Fonda is most effective is in the reserved, resigned quality he brings. The priest is an uncommon, struggling man determined to perform God’s work whatever the consequences. He thinks of himself only after seeing to his de facto congregation. After learning that the baby mothered by the del Rio character has not yet been baptized, the priest immediately sets in motion a service to correct what he sees as an essential rite of passage. He’s selfless to a fault, fleeing the law in God’s name before accepting what must be done as a consequence of his vows. I don’t think you need be terribly religious or full of faith to appreciate Fonda’s achievement or Ford’s film, and that’s exactly why it remains absorbingly fascinating even today. Despite some views to the contrary, The Fugitive doesn’t try to cram religion down the viewer’s throat. It’s not heavy-handed and it never manipulates the audience. Instead, the film shows us the plight of a man confident in his deity’s power, without ever asking or demanding the audience share his views. It’s an allegory that never relies on its source to be compelling.
Aside from Ford’s direction, the two stand-out aspects of The Fugitive are Fonda’s lead performance and the incredible cinematography of Mexican master Gabriel Figueroa. Figueroa (who passed away a decade ago but has a worthwhile website maintained in his name that includes key clips from The Fugitive), not withstanding the other impressive elements of the film, is the absolute main reason to sit down and watch The Fugitive. Not even the breathtaking vistas of Monument Valley equal the photographic wonders found in Figueroa’s wondrous camera work. From the beginning, when Fonda’s shadow is transformed into a cross as he enters the church where he once preached, we know we’re in for something special. The lighting, the shadows, the framing. It’s an incredible achievement by Figueroa, worthy of the highest praises, and a highlight in black-and-white cinematography.
In Greene’s novel, the protagonist was classified as a “whiskey priest,” less sympathetic than what we see in Ford’s film. Maybe that character would have been more interesting, more flawed and thus more human, but the production code required a kinder, gentler man of faith. The script, written by Dudley Nichols in his final credited collaboration with Ford after previously adapting The Informer and Stagecoach, among others, for the filmmaker, instead gives us a near-perfect embodiment of the Catholic church. (Screenwriter and director were briefly reunited on Pinky, prior to Ford being replaced by Elia Kazan.) The reverence shown doesn’t elicit discomfort or rolling of the eyes even if it maintains a strict allegiance with the church. As in other great films of faith, such as Rossellini’s The Flowers of St. Francis (Francisco, giullare di Dio) or Bresson’s Diary of a Country Priest (Journal d’un curé de campagne), we’re never left with uncomfortable dissatisfaction at the characters’ actions regardless of our beliefs.
Those two films are superior to Ford’s, but all three allow the viewer to casually observe the actions of men who possess an undying commitment to their God without forcing us to understand or share their beliefs. Films of faith in this mold fascinate me, as I’m allowed to peer into the mindset of persons with unwavering confidence in their higher being and His omnipotence. For someone who struggles with questions of faith and the idea that an idle God could possibly exist in the presence of war, famine and nearly universal malfeasance, films like The Fugitive serve as a curious and intriguing window into the possibility of gospel absent logic. They provide a stark contrast to the numb cynicism or cloying preachiness we encounter in contemporary films. I’d argue that any over-the-top religiosity derived from Ford’s film is the result of the viewer’s own aversion to those types of themes, and not necessarily inherent in what’s presented.
The allegorical comparisons are obvious, but never out of place. Fonda’s priest is a good man, one of undying faith who sees his beliefs as superior to his own fate. The fact that he’s presented as a martyr, though flawed, adds a gravitas that fits perfectly with the seriousness of the story. Though Ford’s film is far from perfect, hampered a little by Fonda’s demystifying speech late in the film after escaping to another state, it’s still completely absorbing and a significant departure from much of the director’s other work. I enjoyed it very much, especially the first half, and the cinematography alone makes it required viewing. The Fugitive is a quiet, atypical work by a highly influential filmmaker, arguably made during his directorial peak. It’s apparently too “arty” (whatever that means) to obtain a ravenous audience, but I anxiously await the day it becomes available on DVD.
Criss Cross April 17, 2007
Posted by clydefro in : Classic Films, 1940s , add a comment
With the official announcement of the Warner Bros. Film Noir Classic Collection Vol. 4, enthusiasts can rejoice at the prospect of twice as many films as in the other three volumes, at the same price, and all with commentaries and featurettes. There are some real gems in there too, highlighted by Nicholas Ray’s debut They Live by Night and the Anthony Mann classic Side Street. Back in July 2004, when the first WB Film Noir Collection was released, Universal seemingly started their own line, christened with a Universal Noir Collection banner at the top of each cover. There were four titles, including Robert Siodmak’s Criss Cross
Universal hasn’t followed up on their noir line despite the yearly Warner Bros. sets and the emergence of the Fox Film Noir series, priced the same as Universal’s discs and including paper inserts and commentaries (though the spine-numbered Fox collection has been absent lately). There’s little indication that Universal is interested in releasing much of their back catalog individually, preferring instead to package several films into affordably priced sets. A bevy of noteworthy choices, films like Ride the Pink Horse, The Blue Dahlia, The Glass Key, Phantom Lady, and Ministry of Fear, are waiting to be digitally unleashed from the Universal library. Ehh, patience I guess. The studio did an impressive job on their two-disc release of Double Indemnity last year, but I’d feel better if there had been even one other noir title announced in the last four years.
Thankfully, the short-lived Universal Noir Collection gave us some quality films, the best probably being Criss Cross. The film reunites director Robert Siodmak with his leading man from The Killers, Burt Lancaster. Lancaster plays Steve Thompson, a man who’s just returned to his California home town after traveling across America for several months to get away from the divorced ex-wife, Anna (Yvonne De Carlo), he hadn’t quite gotten over. He’s a fairly typical film noir protagonist, a regular guy with a weak spot for a woman and the accompanying potential to turn into a chump as a result. As the film begins, we learn that Thompson is in on a plan to rob the armored car he drives, along with the thuggish Slim Dundee (Dan Duryea, maybe the best dressed man in the movies) who’s Anna’s new husband. This being noir, it’s not difficult to figure out that Thompson is involved because of Anna and the promise of being with her.
Watching the film, you realize how perfectly Criss Cross embodies film noir. Almost everything people love about this type of movie is present here. There’s the man who’s just returned to town and immediately gets caught up (again) with a woman of ambiguous motives. Because of her, he commits a criminal act that doesn’t appear to be in his character otherwise and suffers the consequences of betrayal and foolishness. Burt Lancaster, who had the incredible good fortune of starring in The Killers and Brute Force as his first two films, is a first-rate noir actor, De Carlo is a drop-dead gorgeous femme fatale, and Dan Duryea should be synonymous with this type of role in this type of movie. Siodmak made his mark in Hollywood with noirs like this, as well as Phantom Lady, Cry of the City (reportedly coming soon on DVD from Criterion), and The Dark Mirror. Though perhaps not as distinguished a film noir cinematographer as John Alton or James Wong Howe, Franz Planer shot the film and was a five-time Oscar nominee. On top of all that, we even have an occasional voice-over!
The problem, then, is that Criss Cross almost seems like a paint-by-numbers film noir. It’s a highly entertaining one, for sure, and since the genre/style didn’t formally exist when the movie was made, one can’t really fault the film for adhering so closely. However, there’s nothing really that makes Siodmak’s film stand out from the crowd. Even though it’s an accomplished, enjoyable entry, it’s lacking the colorful supporting characters or the surge of violence or the dynamic chiaroscuro lighting or the untethered villain, etc. that highlights so many great films of this kind. There’s nothing terribly memorable to be found here, aside from possibly the emergence of De Carlo as a missed opportunity for future femme fatale roles of this caliber. Duryea is effective, even if he’s restrained more here than in his best films.
I like Lancaster a lot in general because he was adept at combining intelligence and physicality, but he’s sort of a blank slate in this role. While that’s not intended as a knock, and he’s obviously still finding his way as an actor here, his portrayal of Thompson is fine, if not particularly affecting. Regardless, Lancaster’s early roles should establish him as one of the essential principals of noir, including three films, I believe, Universal has the rights to but has not yet released on DVD - Desert Fury, I Walk Alone, and Kiss the Blood Off My Hands, all of which I’ve not seen but sound worthwhile. He didn’t have the short-fused cruelty like Ryan or Widmark, but, in true noir fashion, his few evil characters, most strikingly J.J. Hunsecker from Sweet Smell of Success, were cold, calculating demons of men. In Criss Cross, the scenes with De Carlo stand out the most, I think, and the two actors have good chemistry together, as they allude to a smoldering sexual undercurrent between the characters. You get the feeling that the “making-up” De Carlo talks about is the whole basis of their relationship.
Speaking of which, how great is Yvonne De Carlo here. From looking at her filmography, it appears she was mostly stuck in lesser films and supporting roles, frequently cast as an exotically “ethnic” looking beauty (which is a little strange for a woman born with the name Margaret, or Peggy depending on the source, Middleton in Vancouver, Canada). The actress probably best known as Lily Munster also appeared in Brute Force, among many other film roles. Criss Cross shows not only how beautiful she was, but also how good she could be with the proper role. Her Anna never really tips her hand concerning her true interest in Thompson until the very end. Then, just after he’s risked everything to begin his life anew with her, she’s ready to bail on him with a bag full of money. I found De Carlo’s consistent, yet incomplete, affection towards Thompson throughout the film to be an accomplished ambiguity sometimes lacking in film noir. We often see a more one-dimensional female whose motives are obvious from the start, but De Carlo, who just passed away in January, does a superb job of feeding the audience little morsels of her character as the film progresses.
She also has a dynamite scene with a young, unbilled Tony Curtis (who would be Sidney Falco to Lancaster’s J.J. Hunsecker less than a decade later) at a dance hall. It’s the first time Thompson sees his ex-wife after returning from his sojourn outside of California. As the band plays and the pianist almost convulsively pounds the keys, the film becomes reminiscent of that remarkable Elisha Cook, Jr. drum solo in Siodmak’s Phantom Lady from five years earlier. That film can be considered the director’s breakthrough in America, after coming over from Germany via France. Interestingly, his very first directorial credit, Menschen am Sonntag, or People on Sunday, from 1930, has possibly the strongest group of filmmakers involved of any feature flim in movie history. Along with Robert Siodmak’s brother Curt, the shot on-location film was co-directed by Oscar winner Fred Zinnemann and noted B-movie director Edgar G. Ulmer. Sharing writing credit with the Siodmaks was none other than Billy Wilder.
I feel almost like I’m beeing too critical of Criss Cross, even though it’s not on the level of what I consider the great films noir. It’s more of a greatest hits package of what so many people love about this type of film and is tightly paced at 88 minutes. The film is highly attractive to those interested in noir and shouldn’t disappoint viewers in search of the typical elements found in such films. It does have a pretty great and undeniably dark ending (spoiled by the geniuses who designed the “Scenes” menu screen on the Universal DVD) that’s difficult to argue with, either from a dramatic or a karmic standpoint. There’s no reason to be apologetic in liking the film, but you might be hungry for something else not too long after watching it.
Top 50 of 1940s January 31, 2007
Posted by clydefro in : Classic Films, 1940s , 9 comments
The unofficial Criterion forum has been conducting a “Lists Project” for a couple of years now. Members submit a list of 50 films from a particular decade every few months and the results are tallied into the top 100 vote getters. At the end of January, a new list for films from the 1940s will be compiled and I’ve been studiously watching and re-watching as many titles from that decade as possible. I thought I would share my contribution, which probably reaches into old Hollywood, especially film noir, more than many of the other members’ lists since that’s what interests me most from the decade. There are still a few notable films I’ve not yet seen due to unavailability, such as several classics of Italian Neorealism, but I feel pleased enough with my final list. I’ve included some brief thoughts on each title, a few of which I’ve also previously discussed.
1.) Citizen Kane (Welles, 1941) - Too easy? Perhaps, but Welles’ achievement is undeniable and his masterpiece makes almost every other film of the decade look like a relic of the past while Kane remains as fresh and vibrant as ever. It’s Welles’ own performance, especially in the film’s first half, that pushes Kane past its technological innovations and into a remarkably modern and vital piece of cinema. The perfect American film.
2.) Notorious (Hitchcock, 1946) - Hitchcock’s first true masterpiece. Cary Grant, inching further away from his persona without abandoning it, and Ingrid Bergman have incredible chemistry as possibly the best romantic couple in a Hitchcock film. Grant, in particular, is very effective as the emotionally conflicted Devlin. “Dry your eyes baby, it’s out of character.”
3.) Double Indemnity (Wilder, 1944) - The true quintessential film noir and a breakthrough for Wilder that established his unmatched versatility and set up scores of pale imitations. Somehow withstands the test of time despite numerous rip-offs and parodies; also managed to inspire a very good pseudo-spin off 35 years later with Body Heat.
4.) The Palm Beach Story (Sturges, 1942) - My favorite of Sturges’ great screwball comedies; Claudette Colbert and Joel McCrea are perfect embodiments of the Sturges style and this is the funniest of his many classics. Just thinking about the Ale and Quail Club puts me in stitches.
5.) It’s a Wonderful Life (Capra, 1946) - My favorite film of any of these, but I controlled myself on placing it higher since even I realize it’s probably not the best picture of the decade. Unfairly maligned by film snobs for its sentimentality (which is an unearned criticism since it’s much darker than its reputation), it affects me like no other film I’ve seen. One of the definitive post-war Hollywood classics and an incredible come back vehicle for Jimmy Stewart, who hadn’t made a movie for five years while on active duty for the U.S. Army Air Corps.
6.) Monsieur Verdoux (Chaplin, 1947) - I can’t possibly imagine how audiences felt after seeing their beloved Charlie Chaplin, the little tramp who had last been seen wickedly mocking Hitler, as a cold-blooded bluebeard, murdering innocent old women for their wealth. An incredibly daring and quite successful attempt at pitch black comedy from Chaplin that obliterates the sentimental tag with which he’s often labeled.
7.) Casablanca (Curtiz, 1942) - A film most everyone loves, which hinders it among arty, contrarian circles, but well deserved of its bedrock status as a classic. Still incredibly enjoyable to watch with a little bit of everything that we enjoy in movies (laughs, action, romance, intrigue, etc.).
8.) Beauty and the Beast (Cocteau, 1946) - A magical fairy tale that remains an enchanting film experience. If I can fall under its spell then any movie lover can most definitely succumb to its charming story and visual feast.
9.) The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (Huston, 1948) - Bogart appears quite a bit on my list and rightfully so, as he had an incredible string of successes in the decade, but his performance as Fred C. Dobbs is the pinnacle of his career in my mind. Huston’s portrait of greed is unmatched in American cinema and Bogart’s refusal to be pigeonholed in the good guy role was nearly unheard of for a major Hollywood star. His risk in playing the crazed and mostly unsympathetic character pays off, even if Academy voters inexplicably denied him even a nomination.
10.) His Girl Friday (Hawks, 1940) - My favorite Cary Grant comedy and the fast-paced, rapid-fire dialogue is used to perfection by Hawks. Look for the unforgettable tongue-in-cheek lines apparently ad-libbed by Grant referencing Ralph Bellamy (whose character is described as looking like the actor) and Archie Leach (Grant’s real name).
Sergeant York January 28, 2007
Posted by clydefro in : Classic Films, 1940s , 2 comments
It seems there are two camps regarding Sergeant York
Like Alvin York, I was born and raised in small town Tennessee and, despite my upbringing occurring nearly a century after his, I can still recognize much of the community we see in Sergeant York. No, I’ve never referred to cattle as “beef critters” before and my grammar and speech may be more easily deciphered than the characters in the film, but I think the basic essence is displayed fairly. This is in refreshing contrast to the treatment of the Southern United States on film in so many other movies and television shows. It’s somewhat difficult, even sixty-five years later, to come up with many portraits of the South that do not include ridicule, inaccuracy or the Tennessee Williams-ization of the region. The people of the Appalachian area portrayed in Hawks’ film have faced even more disrespect over time, in the form of everything from Ma and Pa Kettle to The Beverly Hillbillies.
The folksy, salt of the earth people that populate Sergeant York are special in film history because they are not marginalized or looked down upon for being ignorant of other societies. The arrival of the state newspaper is awaited for local news mentions instead of the glaring front page story on the war in Europe because, to the small corner of the world inhabited by these characters, Cordell Hull is more pertinent than Kaiser Wilhelm. When York finally lands in the military, his unfamiliarity with city things such as a subway and his status as a conscientious objector make him a target for derision. York takes it good-naturedly though, and proves his worth as a skilled marksman, immediately elevating both his rank and position among the other soldiers. This is another telling example of the film celebrating York’s country way of life instead of exploiting or mocking it.
The refusal to patronize or denigrate the people of Pall Mall, York’s hometown, is a big reason I find Sergeant York so charming. In telling the story of the most decorated American soldier of World War I, Hawks was forced by necessity to strictly limit the amount of time spent on battle and war related scenes. York himself was incredibly reluctant to even have his story made into a movie and, after finally agreeing with the condition that Gary Cooper play him, wanted the focus to be away from his military heroics. Thus it’s not surprising that most of the film takes place in Tennessee and centers on York, his family and the other townsfolk. The story runs through York’s rebellious young adulthood, into his maturity and (fictionalized) introduction to devout religion, and, finally, climaxes with his intial refusal to be drafted and eventual heroism in France.
The overt use of York’s story as propaganda for support of the United States entering World War II is unavoidable in the film and must be mentioned. I do enjoy certain parts of the film more than others, and prefer to mentally separate the call to arms portion in which York is called in to his superior’s office and told to go home for ten days and decide if he wants to continue with the military. I don’t care for that scene (though the famous image of him on the hill with his hound, searching for answers in an American history book and the Bible is movingly done), but it doesn’t ruin the movie for me. I suppose propaganda can be justified at times, but it’s a slippery enough slope that I’d prefer to not have my films tread. Regardless, Sergeant York must be looked at through 1941 lenses as well and it’s difficult to fault its propaganda in comparison to something like Triumph of the Will.
As for those reluctant to place Sergeant York among Hawks’ best films, I think it’s a little wrongheaded, but perhaps unsurprising. Hawks, known for his exceptional versatility, also made Ball of Fire with Gary Cooper in 1941 and had just finished Bringing Up Baby and Only Angels Have Wings the two previous years. Without getting too deep into overlapping themes or tenets found in the director’s body of work, I think his contribution to Sergeant York was vital to the film’s success. His ability to perfectly balance the rural atmosphere with the striking war scenes allows the film to succeed where it could have easily failed miserably in the hands of perhaps any other director in Hollywood at the time. The fact that neither feels clumsy or forced, with a perfect shift in tone when necessary, is surely a testament to Hawks’ unrivaled success in many different genres.
While it doesn’t seem surprising that Sergeant York was nominated for eleven Academy Awards and won two, it is a little shocking that it was the only nomination Hawks ever received. It was also the only time Walter Brennan, a three-time winner, was nominated and subsequently lost the award. Also nominated was Margaret Wycherly, who brought an impressive weariness to the role of Alvin’s mother. The British stage actress would later play “Ma Jarrett” to James Cagney in White Heat. It’s Cooper, though, who brings Alvin York and his remarkable story to life. He won his first Oscar for the role and it’s difficult to imagine the film succeeding without his performance. As I watched the movie, I kept finding myself amazed at how well and believable he delivered his lines. It wasn’t so much the accent as the naturalness he brought to the unique way people from the rural and mountainous region spoke.
As a child, even seventy years after York’s exploits, I associated him with other larger than life, almost mythical, Tennessee folk heroes like Davy Crockett and Casey Jones. I believe my first time watching Sergeant York was actually in one of my elementary school classes. It’s especially satisfying to watch the film again, nearly twenty years later, and still be proud of someone from my home state. We all bring our own prejudices and values to anything we watch, but the nostalgic fondness I have for Sergeant York is rare for me personally. I don’t believe one needs to have a similar attachment for the film to be an enjoyable experience. It’s not a perfect film and I can mostly understand how some might have disdain for it, but, regardless, I think it works beautifully as a simple story of an ordinary man’s extraordinary actions.
Scarlet Street January 24, 2007
Posted by clydefro in : Classic Films, 1940s, Fritz Lang , 2 comments
Scarlet Street
Stumbling home from a dinner with his co-workers, Chris musters up enough courage to smack a man appearing to rob an innocent woman. Even his seemingly heroic action is actually done with cowardice, as Chris fearfully raises his umbrella in defense without looking at Johnny, the attacker. His eyes light up when he realizes it’s a beautiful young woman he’s “saved” and happily walks her home. Even though he only paints as a hobby, he boastfully claims to be a successful artist instead of a lowly bank clerk, 25 years at the same job. Chris is smitten and Kitty thinks she’s found a sugar daddy. As Chris abandons any ethics he may have had in the name of lust and Kitty and Johnny devise plan after plan to bilk their new benefactor, Lang warns us to not get too attached to any of them.
All three characters ultimately receive the fate they probably deserve. Chris first seems like a simple loser unable to catch a break, but when given the opportunity, his true colors are revealed to be as unflattering as they are dark. His years of service to his job appear to be less out of loyalty than routine and stability. When he visits Kitty, he’s unwilling to see the silent mocking with which she greets him. The idea that the younger, attractive woman might have less than true intentions would spoil his fantasy. Even after several encounters with Johnny, Chris is reluctant to realize there’s more going on than mere coincidence. When he finally realizes Kitty is not only playing him, but repulsed as well, Chris comes unhinged as his embarassment turns into rage. The final, haunting scenes of Chris, doomed to perpetual ridicule, are exceptional.
Kitty’s contempt for Chris is only mildly hidden throughout the film, but he’s so desperate and enamored with the idea that she could be romantically interested in him that he suppresses any doubts and continues giving her anything she wants. There’s really no denying Kitty’s wickedness. In a film full of rotten characters, she’s the nastiest. While Chris is betrayed by his own ego and desire and Johnny is simply amoral, Kitty is well aware of the damage she’s doing to Chris and absolutely doesn’t care. Her manipulation of Chris is unceasing and we never see the two together unless Kitty is weaseling something out of him. She even finds Johnny’s despicable qualities endearing and seems to almost enjoy him roughing her up.
Each of the three actors delivers a memorable performance, in parts that could have turned the film into more typical genre fare had they been played less skillfully. Robinson’s impressive characterization strays from his tough guy image and makes Chris an easy target for Kitty’s femme fatale. Along with his supporting role in Double Indemnity, this is Robinson’s finest work in proving his versatility. Duryea was the perfect actor for his role - tall, lanky and untrustworthy enough to make you believe he’d steal a sucker from a little kid if given the chance. But it’s Bennett who perhaps makes the biggest impression, contrasting the stereotype of the helpless female who’s actually good-hearted that was prevalent in films of the era. Kitty’s neither and Bennett, who starred for Lang in three other pictures also, uses her innocent looks for shocking effect.
Interestingly, Bennett was married to the film’s producer Walter Wanger for 25 years including the production of Scarlet Street. In 1951, Wanger believed Bennett was having an affair with her agent and, after catching the two of them together, shot him twice in the groin. Wanger’s attorney used a defense of temporary insanity and he served only 98 days, at an “honor farm” in California, of a four-month sentence. Wanger’s suspicions had proven true, but he remained married to Bennett until 1965. His producing career continued after being released, but it couldn’t overcome the disaster of Cleopatra, his final film.
With the release of Scarlet Street in 1945, Fritz Lang once again delivered a shining example of a well-plotted film noir and further proved himself to be a master of pacing. He managed to move the plot along seamlessly in his best films, typified in America by Scarlet Street and the fascinating, but lengthy Hangmen Also Die which somehow never lags. The prolific German filmmaker was responsible for a dozen or more films categorizable as noir in the 1940s and 1950s, most unfortunately unavailable on DVD. While Scarlet Street suffered from numerous unwatchable DVD releases due to falling into the public domain, Kino released a revelatory version taken from a 35mm negative preserved by the Library of Congress in 2005. Though it’s not progressively transferred, the image is still very good and incredible when compared to other versions. Lang scholar David Kalat also provides a knowledgeable commentary on the Kino release.
While the qualifications that comprise the film noir label may be increasingly widening, there’s no doubt that Scarlet Street would fit under even the tightest restrictions. Its dark, cynical world is easily recognizable to noir devotees. The somewhat exaggerated characterizations of bad and worse, the shadowy lighting familiar from Lang’s German films, and the general sense of gloom and despair are all here. It’s a fairly uncompromising film and perhaps the best of Lang’s output in the United States. While the film was already well-regarded, the transfer from the Library of Congress negative proves it to be near the very top of Lang’s filmography.
(To read my review of The Woman in the Window for DVD Times click here)
