Category Archives: 5-star films

No, sir, I will not yield!

Posted on by under 5-star films, brandie's faves, politics ... not as usual

Frank Capra’s indelible brand of feel-good morality tales, sprinkled with romance and humor, has led to his films being labeled as “Capra-corn” by some critics. And it’s true that some of his most beloved and well-known movies tend toward the sentimental. But to deride Capra’s work as mere schmaltz is to ignore the sheer talent and craftsmanship that drove each of the director’s creations.

Though the perennial Christmas classic It’s a Wonderful Life (1946) is perhaps Capra’s best-known film, it is by no means his greatest. In my mind, that honor belongs to 1939′s Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, a patriotic, heartfelt American celebration featuring one of Capra’s most effective casts, including James Stewart, Jean Arthur, and Claude Rains.

Stewart stars as Jefferson Smith, a young, idealistic leader of the Boy Rangers, who is tapped to replace the recently-deceased junior senator of his state. The head of the state’s political machine, Jim Taylor (Edward Arnold), pressures the state’s senior senator, Joseph Paine (Rains), one of Jeff’s heroes, to keep the young man in line to ensure that Taylor’s political schemes remain in play. Paine tries to distract Jeff with his alluring daughter, Susan (Astrid Allwyn), and convinces Jeff to sponsor a bill in order to keep him busy. Jeff’s secretary, Clarissa Saunders (Arthur), who is initially skeptical about her new boss’s ability to do his job, is eventually won over and assists him in crafting a measure to build a national boys’ camp on some land near Willet Creek in his home state. However, unbeknownst to Jeff, Taylor has his eye on the same property, and has buried the graft in a Public Works bill being supported by the crooked Paine. When the Taylor machine goes to work destroying Jeff’s credibility, he takes over the Senate floor via filibuster in an effort to convince his fellow senators–and his constituents–that there are corrupt forces at play within the government.

This movie is, for all intents and purposes, a political fairy tale, wrapped up neatly–and somewhat unbelievably–at the end. Are we to believe that Paine, a seasoned politician with years’ worth of political shenanigans under his belt, is so moved by Jeff’s efforts that he first attempts suicide, and then confesses the entire scheme? It seems too far outside the realm of possibility to be realistic.

And yet, we believe anyway. This is a grown-up fairy tale, and one that those of us who have become jaded by “politics as usual” wish could come true. How different would our government be if all politicians believed as Jefferson Smith does–that liberty is both our right and our privilege, and that it is their sacred duty to uphold that construct on behalf of all of us, the forces of corruption be damned?

Smith shares several themes with the aforementioned Life, the most prominent of which is the notion that one person has the ability to make a difference in the world. But Life has a more cynical take on man’s existence than does Smith; amidst the subtle digs at government corruption and the political machine, there is an innocence to Jefferson Smith that Life’s George Bailey decidedly lacks. It’s fitting that both roles are played by Stewart, the everyman to beat all everymen. We believe Smith–believe IN Smith–because of Stewart’s very capable and passionate portrayal, and we feel for him and his fight as much as we feel for George’s despair in the latter film. Stewart was nominated for an Oscar for his role as Jefferson Smith, but lost to Robert Donat for Goodbye, Mr. Chips. He went on to win the Academy Award for Best Actor the following year for his performance in The Philadelphia Story–an award many in the industry felt was not so much for his comedic turn as Macaulay Connor in that film, but as an overdue recognition of the brilliance of her performance in Smith.

This film also marks one of Jean Arthur’s best roles as the street-smart Capitol Hill insider won over by Jeff’s corn-fed “hokum.” Arthur is sometimes overlooked in the annals of film history–for instance, it remains inexplicable to me how AFI could list the supposed “25 greatest film actresses” and NOT include Arthur–and to modern audiences, she is not among the more well-known film legends. It’s a shame more people aren’t familiar with her work, because Arthur was a truly great actress. More known for her comedic roles, particularly her deft hand at screwball comedy in films such as 1937′s Easy Living and her two previous films for Capra, Mr. Deeds Goes to Town (1936) and You Can’t Take It with You (1938), she was also quite good in more serious roles, particularly her final turn in the seminal 1953 Western Shane.

Her performance in Smith is no exception; as Clarissa, Arthur is the perfect combination of the lover and the cynic, demonstrating a tenacious spirit that lights up the screen during her scenes. Watch her face as Jeff expounds on the preciousness of liberty. You can literally see her shift from skepticism to disbelief to a dawning sense of wonder. Simple, heartfelt, marvelous.

The supporting cast is equally admirable, led by Rains as the conflicted, yet determined Paine. Arnold provides one of his typically bullfrog-esque performances as the loathsome Taylor. And Harry Carey is a delight as the winking, far-seeing President of the Senate, whose quiet interference keeps Jeff on his fighting path.

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington is airing on TCM on Wednesday (the 10th) at 9:30AM EST. If you have yet to catch this lovely slice of film history, take advantage of the opportunity to do so, and see if you’re not cheering for Jeff, too, by the end of the movie.

She might have fooled me, but she didn’t fool my mother.

Posted on by under 5-star films, best.films.ever., brandie's faves, remakes suck, the horror!

It felt appropriate to talk about this film today of all days. What’s Halloween without a little mother-love and murder, courtesy of the great Hitch?

Psycho marks Alfred Hitchcock’s first tentative steps into the horror genre. By today’s standards, in which the amount of gore and viscera is directly proportional to box-office performance, it’s virtually tame. Yet at the time of its production, Psycho was utterly revolutionary. Its success contributed to the decline of the Production Code, loosening the bonds of censorship in Hollywood and leading to more graphic depictions of adult themes on the silver screen.

Psycho stars Janet Leigh as Marion Crane, a young woman from Phoenix who longs to marry her lover, Sam Loomis (John Gavin). They cannot wed, however, until Sam pays his debts. In a weak moment, Marion steals $40,000 from her employer and hits the road to meet Sam at his home across the state, but gets lost during a storm and ends up at the Bates Motel. The proprietor, a nervous young man named Norman (Anthony Perkins), strikes up a conversation with Marion and later spies on her through a peephole in the bathroom as she prepares to take a shower. Marion, who has resolved to return to Phoenix and return the money, is then murdered by an unseen woman, whom we are led to believe is Norman’s mother. Norman covers up the crime, but as an investigator, Milton Arbogast (Martin Balsam), Marion’s sister, Lila Crane, (Vera Miles), and Sam all converge on the motel in search of Marion, “Mother” is far from happy …


The movie has become such legend by this point in time that it’s no shock to say that “Mother” has been dead for some time, and “she” is killing people through her seriously disturbed son. People who have never even seen the movie know the truth about Norman Bates, and the surprise element of the film that was so effective upon its release has been diluted over the years.

But what a shock for 1960 audiences! Not only the twist ending; I’ll get to that in a moment. But who sitting in the audience for one of the initial viewings of Psycho expected the star of the film, Janet Leigh, to perish with two-thirds of the movie left to go?!? It was unheard of–and it was an absolutely brilliant move on Hitchcock’s part (one that would be borrowed extensively in the horror genre in years to come, most blatantly by 1996′s Scream, in which Drew Barrymore’s character is killed within the first fifteen minutes of the movie). Psycho is truly the most suspenseful movie Hitchcock ever crafted–because if the star of the movie isn’t safe, who is? It removes any expectation the audience may have had about who will survive Norman’s rampage, making every death and every twist and turn of the plot an utter surprise to viewers. Not for nothing is Psycho a master class in how to construct an effective horror film.

The thing I appreciate the most about Psycho is that Hitchcock is able to convey the absolute horror of Marion’s murder without ever once resorting to outright gore. Obviously, the director couldn’t have done this even if he had wanted to, considering the limitations of the Code. But the unparalleled shower scene, constructed in a rapid-fire series of cuts and close-ups, only shows one instance in which the knife penetrates Marion’s flesh, and it flashes by so quickly that many viewers miss this moment. The horrific nature of the act is suggested more so than laid bare for our viewing; that in itself makes it ten times more effective, at least in my mind (this is, in essence, the issue I have with horror films–you can show me things that will make me want to vomit in my own shoes, but even the most disgusting things shown on screen are no match for what I can imagine in my own head. That’s where the true horror lies–in the things we cannot fully see, and thus cannot fully quantify).

As in most of his films, Hitchcock uses symbolism to build the mystique surrounding his characters. First and foremost, he plays with shadows and light to heighten the tension in the film. This extends from the more obvious instances (the darkened house on the hill; the shadows created by Norman’s beloved stuffed birds), to such seemingly mundane things as the characters’ wardrobes. Much as he did with Grace Kelly in Rear Window, Hitch uses dark and light clothing to depict the shifting attitudes of his female protagonist, dressing Marion in white in her initial appearances in the film, and then putting her black clothing after she steals the money. And speaking of Norman’s birds, they are representative of not only his talent as a taxidermist (important considering what he does to his mother’s corpse), but of his own stifled ability to “fly from the nest,” bound as he is to “Mother’s” whims.

Water, too, plays a large part in the film, symbolizing different things to different characters. A rainstorm causes Marion to stop at the Bates Motel, where she is “reborn,” in a sense, making the decision to stop running and return to Phoenix to face the consequences of her actions. She then “baptizes” herself in the shower after making the decision to return, cleansing her soul before her untimely demise. And Norman uses water as a cover-up, sinking Marion’s car into a swamp, using the water to hide the evidence of his … er, “Mother’s” crime.

Though the psychology behind Norman’s condition is suspect–it’s all Oedipal and Freudian to these people, isn’t it?–this film boasts one of the greater twist endings in all of moviedom. That shot of Norman, dressed in his mother’s clothes, knife raised to attack Lila just after she’s discovered the preserved (and disgusting) corpse of Mrs. Bates, is one of the most chilling scenes in the film. You realize, finally, that this unassuming young man, so devoted to his bat-shit crazy mother, is seriously bat-shit crazy himself. And at the end of the film, after the psychiatrist’s rather mundane explanation of Norman’s behavior, “Mother’s” closing speech about her son’s “badness” contains one of the best closing lines ever:

“It’s sad when a mother has to speak the words that condemn her own son. But I couldn’t allow them to believe that I would commit murder. They’ll put him away now, as I should have years ago. He was always bad, and in the end he intended to tell them I killed those girls and that man … as if I could do anything but just sit and stare, like one of his stuffed birds. They know I can’t move a finger, and I won’t. I’ll just sit here and be quiet, just in case they do … suspect me. They’re probably watching me. Well, let them. Let them see what kind of a person I am. I’m not even going to swat that fly. I hope they are watching … they’ll see. They’ll see and they’ll know, and they’ll say, ‘Why, she wouldn’t even harm a fly …’”

Everything comes together in this movie–a phenomenal story; great performances (particularly from Perkins, whose take on Norman evokes precisely the right mix of sympathy and horror); the black-and-white cinematography (done, by most accounts, as both a cost-cutting measure and to lessen the impact of the bloody scenes), which contributes to an edgy, noir-ish feel that serves to increase the tension; and a killer soundtrack (horrible pun intended). Bernard Herrmann’s score is a masterpiece, and the screeching violins accompanying the murderous acts in the film are an excellent counterpoint to the action on screen, ratcheting up the audience’s fear and making the film a thousand times more effective than it would have been otherwise.

The impact of the original was lessened, in later years, by a series of unnecessary sequels, all produced after Hitchcock’s death in 1977. Perkins, who had become inextricably associated with Norman in the eyes of the viewing public, returned to the role in all three sequels (and even directed Psycho III), and Miles returned as Lila Crane in the first of them. Trust me: if you don’t want to see the brilliance of Hitchcock’s film tarnished and trampled to death, don’t watch the sequels. While Psycho II has an interesting premise, following Norman after his release from the mental institution 22 years after the events of the first film, it quickly delves into shlock. And don’t get me started on the last two films in the series; quite simply, they suck. A lot.

Nor, in my opinion, is Gus Van Sant’s 1998 shot-for-shot remake of the film worth a look. While some critics have praised Van Sant for the artfulness with which he put his version together, the film is severely lacking, particularly in the performances of Anne Heche (as Marion) and Vince Vaughn (whose Norman never quite connects in the brilliant way Perkins’ did). Hitchcock’s magical touch is missing, too; the elements of black humor that make his Psycho a creepily fun mixture of suspense and uneasy laughter are missing in Van Sant’s take on the material.

No, nothing beats the pure, unadulterated original. One of Hitchcock’s finest films, Psycho paved the way for some of the great horror classics to come, all of which have tried to recapture the shocking, scintillating magic of this film, but few of which have even come close.

Then again, I’m rather biased in that respect.  :)

This post is part of an ongoing countdown of Hitchcock’s twenty greatest films. Psycho is number five on that list. For other entries in this series, check out our category devoted to “Hitch.”

There’s something wrong with Uncle Charlie.

Posted on by under 5-star films, best.films.ever., brandie's faves, LAMB

Being an inveterate Alfred Hitchcock fan, when someone asks me to name my favorite film from the prolific director, I find it a difficult question to answer at first. I can give a top five quite easily: North by Northwest, Strangers on a Train, Notorious, Rear Window, and Shadow of a Doubt. Each of these, I feel, is a perfect example of what makes Hitchcock so fascinating a filmmaker–every film an unparalleled concoction of mystery, suspense, romance, humor, and unrelieved examinations of human behavior.

The final two on that short list, I believe, far and away represent the best movies Hitchcock ever directed. I can make a pretty decent case (I think) for both of these movies as the pinnacle of Hitch’s repertoire. But choosing between these two to name “the” best Hitchcock effort? Seemingly an insurmountable task.

If I had to make a choice, though, I would choose Shadow of a Doubt, one of Hitch’s more subdued, and thus more sinister and insidious, Hollywood productions, as not only my favorite of Hitchcock’s films, but as the best (I believe) he ever made.

Now, I recognize that Psycho and Vertigo have their champions, many of whom fervently believe that one or both of these films are far superior to the rest of Hitch’s body of work. And while I enjoy Psycho quite a bit, and respect the charms Vertigo has to offer, so much critical attention has been paid to these two films that it’s safe to assume many casual film fans consider these movies the “best” because … well, because they’ve been told, by critical minds far superior to my own, that these films define Hitchcock’s artistic milieu.

Hitchcock certainly considered Shadow to be a highlight of his career, though whether he labeled it his personal favorite is questionable. Several reports over the years indicate that Hitchcock did, in fact, make the claim, but in his celebrated 1967 interviews with French filmmaker (and self-professed fan) Francois Truffaut, the director clarifies, “I wouldn’t say that Shadow of a Doubt is my favorite picture; if I’ve given that impression, it’s probably because I feel that here is something that our friends, the plausibles and logicians, cannot complain about.”

It is true that Shadow presents one of the more plausible plots in the Hitchcock repertoire. Charles Oakley (Joseph Cotten), a charismatic bachelor, arrives in beautiful, charming Santa Rosa, California to visit his sister, Emma (Patricia Collinge) and her family. “Uncle Charlie” is especially beloved by Emma’s oldest daughter, eighteen-year-old namesake Charlie (Teresa Wright), who shares an almost abnormally close connection with her uncle. Charlie greets her uncle enthusiastically, certain that his presence will be the cure for the “rut” in which she feels the family has fallen. But unbeknownst to them, Uncle Charlie is an itinerant killer nicknamed “The Merry Widow Murderer” and is on the run from detectives seeking evidence of his guilt. As Uncle Charlie’s behavior grows more suspicious, young Charlie finds herself wondering if her uncle’s loving façade hides a more dangerous side.

Shadow of a Doubt is one of Hitchcock’s most meticulously-crafted films, and he coaxes career-highlight performances from his two stars: Cotten and Wright are essential to the movie’s success, and the two actors deliver, serving as brilliant counterpoints for one another on screen. The film is a deceptively simple and forthright depiction of the story; take a closer look at the way in which Hitchcock constructed his narrative, however, and you can see the layers and details used to put together one of the most symbolic and, frankly, twisted movies in his catalog. There are so many observations I could make about this movie; re-watching it recently, I wrote down five pages of notes about the themes, the symbolism, and the things that made me geek out like … well, a geek.

Near the start of the film, when Charlie receives a telegram from her uncle informing the family of his impending arrival, she marvels that she must share some sort of “telepathy” with Uncle Charlie, as if he can read her mind—and her desperation—across the long distance between them. Hitchcock does not do much with this idea, though: the director is more concerned with crafting the complex relationship between uncle and niece. Their bond is characterized as not merely familial, but filial in nature. Much like a parent would teach a child, Uncle Charlie takes it upon himself to indoctrinate his niece into adulthood, forcing her to accept grown-up truths about the world while introducing her to areas of Santa Rosa to which she had never been previously exposed, such as the seedy dive bar that marks their big confrontation. This parental inclination is underscored by Uncle Charlie’s telegram, in which he sends “a kiss for little Charlie,” a move that both infantilizes his niece and elicits a whisper of uneasiness … for there is an uncomfortable indication of incestuous lust in the relationship between the two Charlies.

Whether intentional on Hitchcock’s part or not (and when was anything Hitchcock ever did as a director “accidental?”), the undertones of sexual tension between the two is hard to ignore. When Cotten’s character presents young Charlie with the emerald ring that belonged to his most recent victim—both a gift and a trophy of his “victory” over its previous owner—there is a matrimonial import in the way in which he places it on Charlie’s finger, as if he is forcibly “wedding” himself to her, despite her protests. By giving Charlie the ring, Uncle Charlie inextricably links the two of them: she becomes implicit in his crimes through her soon-to-be-gained knowledge of what he has done.

The familial links do not end here. In many ways, Uncle Charlie functions as a mischievous sibling; he and young Charlie are in a silent conspiracy to brighten Emma’s life, and his initial interactions with the girl are disarmingly childlike, as he teases her much as a brother would. And to Charlie, her uncle is less an “uncle” than a peer:

“We’re not just an uncle and a niece. It’s something else. I know you … we’re sort of like twins, don’t you see?”

"You've nothing on me."

This sense of duality permeates the film, as Hitchcock very deliberately builds the story around mirror images and doubles. This manifests itself in several ways, most notably in the manner by which people are regularly paired throughout the movie. Of course, the most explicit example of these pairings is the two Charlies, but other pairings include: two suspects in the Merry Widow killings; two detectives pursuing Charles; Charlie’s two younger siblings and her two girlfriends; and the bumbling pseudo-murderous duo of Charlie’s father (Henry Travers) and their neighbor, Herb (Hume Cronyn), to name a few. These pairings underscore the coupling that is so central to the film: that of young Charlie and her uncle, who are, in essence, two sides of the same coin—she the innocent, he the corrupted. Young Charlie provides a link to the past, however tenuous, for her uncle; older Charlie unceremoniously ushers his niece into adulthood, with all its troubles, heartbreaks, and dangers:

“You think you know something, don’t you? You think you’re the clever little girl who knows something. There’s so much you don’t know, so much. What do you know, really? You’re just an ordinary little girl, living in an ordinary little town. You wake up every morning of your life and you know perfectly well that there’s nothing in the world to trouble you. You go through your ordinary little day, and at night you sleep your untroubled ordinary little sleep, filled with peaceful, stupid dreams. And I brought you nightmares. Or did I? Or was it a silly, inexpert little lie? You live in a dream. You’re a sleepwalker, blind. How do you know what the world is like? Do you know the world is a foul sty? Do you know, if you rip off the fronts of houses, you’d find swine? The world is hell. What does it matter what happens in it? Wake up, Charlie. Use your wits. Learn something.”

Hitchcock loved to invoke the downward-stairs camera angle; see Notorious, Vertigo, Psycho ...

By the end of the film, as Charlie becomes aware of her uncle’s true nature and survives his attempts on her life, she becomes “corrupted,” too, her innocence lost in the face of the evil to which she has been exposed. She turns from being the one who is threatened to the one doing the threatening:

“Go away, I’m warning you. Go away or I’ll kill you myself.”

And in essence, she does just that, foiling Uncle Charlie’s machinations to preserve her own life. She loses a “twin” only to regain control of her own soul, and the young detective, Jack Graham (Macdonald Carey), returns to Santa Rosa at the end of the film, having accepted the role of a more suitable, equitable partner for Charlie.

To heighten the sense of duality, Hitchcock deliberately frames the film in mirrored scenes: two scenes at the Santa Rosa train station, marking Charles’ arrival and his demise; two dinner table scenes; two scenes in the garage; two scenes of a traffic cop guiding pedestrians in town—and, later, two scenes of the traffic cop stopping Charlie as she rushes down the street; two scenes at the church. This is extended even further to include the set-pieces; there are two staircases in the house, and both Charlies hover on the stairs at different times in the film in order to listen to conversations going on below them.

"He hated the whole world."

Symbolically, smoke plays a large part in Hitchcock’s depiction of Uncle Charlie on screen—at multiple times throughout the film, his influence in a scene is marked by the presence of smoke, lending a devilish connotation to Cotten’s performance. Even the most seemingly innocuous moments in the film are smoke-filled; as the movie introduces us to Charles Oakley, lying on his back in the darkened boardinghouse room, a curtain of smoke hangs above his head; a similar cloud of smoke surrounds Charles’ head as he discovers the newspaper article about the Merry Widow Murderer; a haze surrounds him during both major confrontations with young Charlie (in the dive bar and in front of the house after church, when the Charlies discover that the other Merry Widow suspect has died).

In fact, throughout the movie, there are few scenes in which Charles is not shown to be smoking. That in itself is not entirely strange; it’s not unusual to see copious smoking in films from the 1940s. But rarely has it been so essential to the development of a character. Charles does not smoke merely for enjoyment; the smoke signifies deeper aspects of his character. The smoky haze that surrounds him throughout the movie obscures our view (and that of the other characters), indicating the success of Charles’ charade; and it becomes an effective weapon for him—when he locks young Charlie in the garage with the running car, the smoky exhaust from the automobile nearly kills her. And it is hard to ignore the thick, black smoke bellowing from the train as it pulls into Santa Rosa at the start of the film, heralding the metaphorical devil’s arrival.

The ennui that has seemingly driven Uncle Charlie to murder is marked by an enmity for humanity that is both startling and appropriate, considering the film’s production took place in the midst of World War II, when views of the world were far from happy-go-lucky. Charles has little consideration for this world, or for his fellow man … and fellow woman. The misogyny inherent in Charles’ murderous acts is highlighted by his comparison of wealthy widows to animals:

Uncle Charlie: “The cities are full of women, middle-aged widows, husbands dead … husbands who’ve spent their lives making fortunes, working and working. And then they die and leave their money to their wives, their silly wives. And what do the wives do, these useless women? … horrible, faded, fat, greedy women.”

Young Charlie: “But they’re alive, they’re human beings!”

Uncle Charlie: “Are they? Are they, Charlie? Are they human, or are they fat, wheezing animals, hmm? And what happens to animals when they get too fat and too old?”

Charles stares directly into the camera, implicitly indicting the audience in his accusations.

But Charles is not merely misogynistic—he professes a bone-deep hatred for people in general and the world itself in particular. His view of the past is strangely contradictory; while Charles protests that there is little use in “looking backward,” his reminisces with Emma about their childhood are relatively idyllic:

“Everybody was sweet and pretty then … the whole world … not like the world today. Not like the world now.”

Even his affection for his daffy sister and his nieces and nephew is, at best, a surface emotion; he chides Emma sharply for what he sees as her gullibility and, when threatened by young Charlie’s knowledge of his crimes, does not hesitate to try to remove the threat by killing his own niece.

In short, Shadow of a Doubt, perhaps more so than any other Hitchcock film, effectively portrays the sociopath as the complex, multilayered creature he typically is. There is no sense of exaggeration; Cotten’s performance does not delve into overacting or melodramatic hysterics. He is charming, matter-of-fact, and clinically precise in his actions, more realistic than most of the villains in Hitchcock’s expansive rogues’ gallery.

And therein lies the strength of this movie. Shadow of a Doubt is all the more chilling because it’s a realistic portrait of a relatively innocent small town being infiltrated by an evil so insidious that most of the people there never even realize how close they have come to danger. And it proves that Hitchcock does not need twisting plots or “shock and awe” to get his point across—sometimes, all it takes to frighten someone is to show them what could be lurking in the next house, the next street, the next neighborhood.

This post is part of an ongoing countdown of Hitchcock’s twenty greatest films. Shadow of a Doubt is tied for #1 on that list. For other entries in this series, check out our category devoted to “Hitch.”

Watch what I can do!

Posted on by under 5-star films, best.films.ever., brandie's faves, classic cartoons, classic disney, saturday morning cartoons

I cannot tell you how much I adore this week’s Saturday Morning Cartoon. This is one video that I practically wore out as a kid from repeated viewings. I can quote this movie verbatim while watching. It has one of my favorite animal characters of all time: Thumper, the adorable, smart-assed rabbit. As a child, this movie both haunted me and delighted me. And from a very young age, it instilled in me a hatred for casual game hunting.

As you’ve no doubt figured out, I’m talking about 1942′s wonderful animated classic Bambi, Walt Disney’s fifth full-length feature.

Ahh, Bambi. So cute. So furry. So innocent and gangly.

He has no idea what’s to come, does he?

When Bambi was initially released, Disney advertised the movie as a full-out romance, focusing on the happier aspects of the film with little warning to parents about the deeper themes involved.

All of us who grew up watching this movie realize that such billing is not exactly true. Yes, there is romance in the latter third of the movie. But to get to the romance, we have to make our way through those deeper themes of death and destruction … and even after we’re rewarded with the romantic coupling of the film’s characters, “happily ever after” does not immediately follow, as more trouble awaits.

The movie is based on Austrian Felix Salten’s novel Bambi. Eine Lebensgeschichte aus dem Walde (Bambi. A Life in the Woods), published in 1923 to great critical acclaim. The book is considered one of the first “environmental” novels ever to be written (a genre that would later come to be defined by more scientific-minded works such as Rachel Carson’s seminal 1962 treatise Silent Spring).

As such, Salten wrote the novel for an adult audience, and the original story is rather grim compared to Disney’s lighter take on the material.

  • In Salten’s original story, Bambi is a roe deer, not a white-tailed deer as depicted in the film. Disney animators made the change after studying two live white-tailed deer for inspiration during the making of the film (roe deer are native to Europe, while white-tails are native to the United States).
  • The “sidekick” animals are given personality overhauls–nowhere is this more evident than in Disney’s adaptation of the novel’s “Friend Hare” as Thumper, a fun-loving, rambunctious burst of childlike frivolity intended to further dilute the grim nature of the original story.

  • In the book, Faline, Bambi’s eventual mate, is actually his cousin, and after mating, Bambi leaves Faline, as his own father had done, and she rears their fawns alone. Also, in the film, Faline is the pursuer in their love match; in the book, however, Bambi pursues Faline doggedly, fighting off two rival suitors to claim her.
  • The character of Gobo, Faline’s twin brother, is left out of the movie. In the novel, Gobo is thought to be dead but is later revealed to have been taken in by a kindly human when he is injured. He is later killed when he naively approaches a hunter, thinking he will be safe because of his previous experiences.
  • The novel follows Bambi through his adulthood, as he learns from “the Prince” about the ways of the forest and takes over the role of protector of all the creatures that live there after the Prince has died. Whereas in the movie, Bambi learns the identity of his father when he is still young, in the book, Bambi does not know the Prince is his father until the very end.

As I’ve already mentioned, the animators studied live animals in order to achieve a heightened sense of realism in the film, and the detail shows in the end product. When comparing the animation of the woodland creatures in this film to their counterparts in Snow White, for example, the difference is quite clear.

The rounded edges and oversimplified features of the animals in the earlier movie have given way to sharper lines, more detailed expressions, and more realistic movements. Disney’s insistence upon realism pays off in a big way, and it is obvious that the methods used in creating Bambi greatly influenced future animated depictions of animal characters.

The well-chosen voice cast compliments the animation beautifully. Four separate young actors portray Bambi throughout the film, one for each “age.” The cast also features Sterling Holloway (one of Disney’s favorite go-to voice actors) as the adult Flower, prolific radio and television actress Paula Winslowe as Bambi’s mother (she is also the voice of the pheasant), and the recently-departed Cammie King, Gone With the Wind’s Bonnie Blue Butler, as young Faline.

Bambi was released in the midst of World War II and thus did poorly at the box office in its initial theatrical run, though its subsequent re-release in 1947 recouped Disney’s losses from the film. The movie was nominated for three Academy Awards: Best Score, Best Sound, and Best Song for “Love is a Song” (though, to be perfectly honest, I don’t think this film is one of Disney’s better musical productions). It has since become one of Disney’s most beloved films; in fact, the American Film Institute chose Bambi as the third-greatest animated feature in film history, behind its predecessors Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and Pinocchio.

Beloved though it may be, the film is not without controversy in some circles, for yet again, we have an entry in the early Disney canon that seems to almost revel in its ability to frighten the young ones in the audience. Snow White had her murderous stepmother, Pinocchio had Pleasure Island and one big-ass whale, Fantasia had the demonic Chernabog, and Dumbo had the traumatic separation of mother and child. And Bambi … well, Bambi has to deal with the most frightening creature of all … man.

As a child, the implications are terrible. Man killed Bambi’s mother? Man destroyed the forest? Man pursued the cute, fuzzy animals and tried to massacre them? But … I am human. I am man. Am I … bad? It’s enough to send an overly sensitive child (like … well, me) into the self-analytical morass of some very adult questions.

The existential crises of children aside, the film does manage to impart several lessons about the importance of friendship and being kind. One of these lessons has since become known to some as the “Thumperian principle”:

Thumper: “He doesn’t walk very good, does he?”
Mama Rabbit: “Thumper!”


Thumper: “Yes, mama?”
Mama Rabbit: “What did your father tell you this morning?”
Thumper: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothing at all.”

Bambi’s themes centering on the “circle of life” and the rules of the natural world would be echoed more than fifty years later in 1994′s The Lion King. And though the idea of a mother’s all-encompassing love is a holdover from this film’s immediate predecessor, 1941′s Dumbo, subsequent Disney films–particularly more modern entries into the canon–tend to focus more on the influence of father figures than on the constancy of a mother’s adoration (see Disney Renaissance pictures The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, The Lion King, Pocahontas, and Mulan, among others).

It’s a rare film that can combine the innocence of childhood and the wisdom of adulthood in a vehicle easily accessible to audiences of all ages. Bambi accomplishes this, and more. A heartfelt and decidedly wonderful viewing experience (despite the potential trauma of dead mothers, forest fires, and hunting dogs), Bambi is one of those films that has truly earned its reputation as a prototypical “great movie.”

When you wish upon a star.

Posted on by under 5-star films, best.films.ever., brandie's faves, classic cartoons, classic disney, saturday morning cartoons

This week for Saturday Morning Cartoons, we’re taking a look at Walt Disney’s second full-length animated feature–the best production of his animation studio’s early years, in my ever-humble opinion–the wonderfully magical Pinocchio, released by RKO in 1940.

In this film, more so than in its predecessor, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, everything comes together as an overwhelmingly satisfying whole. The story, the music, the animation … each element of Pinocchio contributes to an excellent viewing experience all around. The sticky-sweet romanticism of Snow White is replaced by the love of a father for a son–still sentimental, certainly, but not as gimmicky, and definitely more moving than the prior film.

The story is familiar even to those who have never seen the movie–a lonely wordworker, Geppetto, crafts a wooden boy and wishes upon a star that the boy could be real. His wish is granted by the benevolent Blue Fairy, but his naive new “son” is easily led astray by conniving tricksters, getting into all kinds of trouble that even his “conscience,” in the guise of one Jiminy Cricket, cannot prevent: he joins a marionette show run by a domineering, maniacal old puppeteer; he becomes dissolute and nearly finds himself turned into a donkey; and he is swallowed by a mean, gigantic whale. And on top of all that, conveniently, Pinocchio’s nose grows every time he tells a lie, because it’s not enough that he’s, oh, also a FREAKING TALKING PUPPET.

Disney’s version of the tale is based on the Italian children’s book The Adventures of Pinocchio, written by Carlo Collodi and published in 1883. The original story is much darker than Disney’s take on the tale (as per usual): for starters, in Collodi’s version, Pinocchio is not so much mischievous as downright cruel. Among other things, the little bastard viciously kicks Geppetto and throws a hammer at the cricket, killing the hapless insect.

That cricket, by the way, was unnamed in Collodi’s tale, and was simply referred to as “The Talking Cricket.” His Disney-granted name, Jiminy Cricket, is a tongue-in-cheek reference to the epithet “Jiminy Cricket!” which was, itself, a less-salty version of the oath “Jesus Christ!”

Additional changes include:

  • In the original story, Geppetto and Pinocchio are not swallowed by a whale (called “Monstro” by the Disney folks) but by a shark, which Collodi calls “The Terrible Dogfish.”
  • Pinocchio is initially hung from a tree by the Fox and the Cat (called “Honest John” Foulfellow and Gideon by the Disney folks) and thought to be dead (Collodi originally wanted the marionette to die and have the story end there, but that ending was deemed too dark for his young audience).
  • The Blue Fairy (who is called “The Fairy with Turquoise Hair” by Collodi) plays a much larger role in the original story, really functioning as Pinocchio’s mother more so than mere benefactor.
  • In Collodi’s tale, Pinocchio becomes a full-on donkey, instead of just gaining donkey ears and a tail as per the Disney version. He is transformed back into a wooden boy when he is tossed in the ocean and the fish eat the donkey fur off of his body (yum).

  • Collodi’s original tale includes villains and adversaries left out of the Disney version. The most notable of these may be “The Green Fisherman,” an ogre-ish creature who coats Pinocchio in flour and attempts to fry and then eat him before being thwarted by one of Pinocchio’s allies, a dog named Alidoro whom Pinocchio had previously saved from drowning.
  • The endings of the two versions are different. In Disney’s version, Pinocchio sacrifices himself to save Geppetto and dies, before being brought to life as a “real boy” by the Blue Fairy. In Collodi’s version, Pinocchio and Geppetto escape the shark and go to live with the Talking Cricket (who is “resurrected” from the whole hammer incident earlier in the story). Pinocchio works as a farmer to support his father but ultimately gives his earnings to his “mother,” the Fairy, when she is supposedly in need. As a reward, she appears before Pinocchio in a dream and transforms him into a real boy while he is sleeping.

Even with the more frightening aspects of Collodi’s original story excised from the animated version, there are still enough thrills to scare the little ones. I particularly remember being horrified by the image of Monstro swallowing Pinocchio. I mean, look at it–

–that’s a massively monstrous maw right there!

And don’t get me started on the whole boys-turning-into-donkeys thing. If Disney’s intention was to scare straight an entire generation of ne’er-do-well punks, all I can say is, mission accomplished. At least, from my perspective–I certainly didn’t want to be sold to Pleasure Island to work in the salt mines … and as a friggin’ donkey, no less? No, thank you.

The movie functions primarily as an educational allegory, teaching children the value of making conscientious decisions and listening to their parents’ wise counsel. Using Jiminy Cricket as the stalwart outward manifestation of Pinocchio’s conscience, the film depicts the internal, universal human struggle to do what’s “right” in the face of the “easy” path. And I think this is why the audience–particularly younger viewers–can easily grasp the lessons of Pinocchio–everything is spelled out for you, not in a “geez, you’re so dumb” kind of manner, but a “wow, this cute little bug really knows what he’s talking about and maybe I should listen to him” sort of way.

Anthropomorphic bugs are so helpful when it comes to understanding human behavior.

The allegory functions on a religious level, too; in the Monstro sequence, it’s easy to see the Biblical parallels to the story of Jonah, and the Pleasure Island sequence is, in many ways, equatable to Hell, as the boys are punished for their “sins” (i.e. wastrel-type behavior) by being transformed into beasts of burden. The Blue Fairy is a God-like figure, or perhaps the Madonna, who “births” Pinocchio immaculately. But the similarities seem to end here; Pinocchio is far from Jesus-like, for while (like Christ) he faces a kind of metaphorical “temptation in the wilderness,” Pinocchio succumbs quite easily to it in the end.

Regardless of how you look at it, Pinocchio, though not quite human, nonetheless comes into being with all of our unfortunate little frailties fully intact, doesn’t he?

Pinocchio features the most annoyingly catchy tune in the Disney songbook–”I Got No Strings.” I hate this song. Hate it, hate it, hate it. And it’s not because it’s a particularly bad song. No, in the grand scheme of things, it’s quite an innocuous little tune. But it burrows into your head like a freaking earwig and will.not.let.go. (I bet you’re singing it right now, aren’t you? Good luck getting it out of your head today.)

On the opposite side, this film features one of the best Disney tunes, and one of the most recognizable songs in the history of music, if only for its rampant use as the theme song for all Disney enterprises. “When You Wish Upon a Star” is just a beautiful song, no matter how you look at it. It perfectly fits the hopeful feeling of the film, and as sung by Cliff Edwards (who plays Jiminy Cricket), it remains one of my all-time favorite movie tunes (and though many have tried, no one has ever sung it better).

Has anyone ever penned more hopeful, optimistic lyrics? Every time I listen to this song (forgive me for a brief, cheesy interlude), I feel my heart swell. If there is one singular theme to the movie, it is faith–faith in the wisdom of Fate, faith in your dreams, and faith in oneself–and “When You Wish Upon a Star” sums up that theme in utter perfection.

When it was first released, Pinocchio was critically adored, and it would go on to win two Academy Awards, for Best Song (the aforementioned “Star”) and Best Score. Still, the movie did not make money on its first run at the box office. Part of the blame for that rests on circumstance–the movie premiered as World War II was in full swing, not long before the United States would find itself drawn into the conflict as well.

Subsequent re-releases throughout the next several decades finally saw the film turn a profit for The Walt Disney Company. Today, the movie is recognized as one of the best in the Disney canon, and many (including myself) view it as the pinnacle of the early Disney repertoire, surpassing even Fantasia (and it kinda pains me to admit that, because I loves me some Fantasia, as you will see–again–next week).

I love everything about this movie. I love the story. I love the innocence of the Pinocchio character, and his heartfelt desire to be “good” even as he gets sidetracked from his chosen path. I love the supporting characters, particularly Geppetto’s pet cat, Figaro, and his smart-ass goldfish, Cleo (I once had a goldfish named Cleo in honor of this film).

I love the animation; it’s crisper and clearer than in Snow White, beautifully rendered and even haunting at times. The voice work is peerless, especially that of young Dickie Jones, who is utter perfection as the title character, and Edwards, who imbibes Jiminy Cricket with personality and verve–there’s a discernible twinkle reverberating in his voice. The film also features Walter Catlett, whom some (including myself) remember fondly as the constable who throws Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant in jail in Bringing Up Baby, as Foulfellow. And Evelyn Venable, who provides the voice of the Blue Fairy, was the model for the Columbia Pictures logo and also starred in films such as Alice Adams (1935) with Hepburn, Death Takes a Holiday (1934) with Fredric March, and The Little Colonel (1935) with Shirley Temple.

And yes, perhaps most of all, I love the happy ending. I never fail to shed a tear when Pinocchio’s (and Geppetto’s) dream comes true, and he finally becomes a real, live boy.

After all, if a piece of wood and an old Italian dude can find happiness and build a true family together in this crazy world, there’s just that much more hope for the rest of us, don’t you think?

SUtS: Peter O’Toole

Posted on by under 5-star films, epic epics, hahas, summer under the stars, they made movies after 1970?

Carrie’s choice: My Favorite Year (1982)

Airing at 10:00AM EST

Let’s lighten things up a little, shall we? In My Favorite Year (or My Favourite Year, as it was also billed), Peter O’Toole plays Alan Swann, a contemporary idol. A drunk. A womanizer. A guest on an upcoming variety show for TV. Oh dear. Benjy Stone is charged with keeping Alan Swann in line, and especially on time. Poor Benjy.

So, we’re getting back to the lighter side of life after a few darker posts over the past few days.  Alan and Benjy have a lot of adventures for our amusement, although it’s been said they learn a few things from each other, too. Isn’t that nice.

It’s also versatile: It’s a movie! It’s a musical! It’s been redone on stage (although I doubt with this exact horse scene, shown below):

This just speaks volumes.

A little later than many TCM pieces, this film from 1982 is pretty notable, nominated for a number of awards and several wins. And why not? After all, Peter O’Toole is in it. I probably don’t have to say too much more about it.

Brandie’s choice: Lawrence of Arabia (1962)

Airing at 8:00PM EST

I’m copping out again with today’s recommendation. I know, I know. I suck. But I have two (hopefully valid) excuses: first, things have been freaking busy as all get out this week; and second, I wanted to recommend this film more than any other on today’s schedule even though I’ve written a recommendation previously.

So check out this entry from earlier this year to see just why Lawrence of Arabia is a must-see-immediately movie, and make sure you catch it or set those DVRs.

SUtS: Olivia de Havilland

Posted on by under 5-star films, best.films.ever., brandie's faves, drama, summer under the stars

Brandie’s choice: The Heiress (1949)

Airing at 8:00PM EST

Since time has gotten away from me this week, I won’t be able to write a full recommendation for my second choice for today, 1946′s To Each His Own. So I will refer you to a review I wrote earlier this summer for my very favorite de Havilland flick (after Gone With the Wind, of course), The Heiress. Make sure you watch both of these movies: there’s a reason de Havilland won two well-deserved Oscars for these roles.

Carrie’s choice: The Snake Pit (1948)

Airing at 12:15AM EST

Why am I recommending this movie? Because Brandie said so.

Kidding. Mostly.

It’s pretty much a natural one for me, and I do completely intend to watch it. The psych geek in me can’t help herself. Yes, I’m a psychology geek, in case the perspectives in many (okay, okay, most) of my posts haven’t given it away by now.

Olivia de Havilland plays the sympathetic character in a semi-popular (at least in classic film) type of film where a woman endures a mental institution in some way. I’m not going to elaborate much more on the plot. I’m waiting, too.  However, I say a popular plot structure, because it is (was). Consider Bedlam, actually classified as a horror, but even though I’m not a big fan of modern horror, I liked this pretty well. A woman, hoping to help those in an asylum gets committed herself. Cold, I know. Suddenly, Last Summer, based on the play by Tennessee Williams has a young woman declared insane and the rantings of her story- actually shows the use of lobotomy and the environment of the hospital, something typically not done in the stage productions.  Hitchcock was unique with Spellbound because the “crazy” person was not actually the woman, although she began to feel she was. And other films, such as Gaslight capitalize on women feeling or being interpreted as insane, irrational, or otherwise mentally incompetent.

Interesting, isn’t it? Why did they do  this? Because they were telling a truth. For years, and even now some people still insist on an irrationality specific to women. It has a long history- since the Enlightenment era, in fact. It worked itself into the great mysteries and revolutions in mental health understanding and treatment. Insanity and the insanity of women became simultaneously romanticized and demonized. The prolific themes of these movies, even subtle ones speak to a culture and era and writers and artists trying to explore it. Some of them do so beautifully, while others may miss their marks a bit. But that is exploration.

These films demand something rather special of the actresses who perform in them, and it is my experience that many of these actresses do quite a job of it. It’s a very particular style that takes quite a lot to sell, and even more to draw in the audience and become demonized or sympathetic, as the scene or film may require. It’s unlike any other form of acting in much the same way, even in such films today. If it doesn’t work, it simply doesn’t work. So I say, extra kudos to these actors and actresses for making this work and expressing such a hidden part of human nature. It’s certainly not an easy thing to dig up and find.

That said, I’m looking forward to seeing this contribution to the film theme, era, and almost genre. Like the last post, I wouldn’t expect it to be so much feel-good as interesting, and hopefully very honest.

SUtS: Katharine Hepburn

Posted on by under 5-star films, best.films.ever., brandie's faves, carrie's faves, classic pairings, hahas, magnificent musicals, screwball legends, summer under the stars

Brandie’s choice: Bringing Up Baby (1938)

Airing at 12:00AM EST

There are a handful of movies I would personally label the funniest films of all time, and Bringing Up Baby would be near the top of that list. In fact, when I endeavor to introduce someone to the world of classic film, this is one of the first films I recommend viewing. It just sucks you in–in the very best way. And screwball comedy–of which this movie is one of the supremest examples–is always a great way to introduce a reluctant party into the world of classic cinema because … well, who doesn’t love to laugh?

Baby stars Katharine Hepburn as a dizzy heiress, Susan Vance, who falls head over heels in love with a hapless paleontologist, David Huxley (a sexily disheveled and bewildered Cary Grant). Through her machinations, David loses a very valuable bone–the “intercostal clavicle”–that belongs to the skeleton of a brontosaurus. Susan also inadvertently jeopardizes David’s attempts to secure a million dollars’ worth of funding for his museum. And to add to the craziness, Susan has recently received a rather intimidating gift–a large leopard named Baby–which she plans to take to her family’s farm in Connecticut, of all places. Add in a nosy aunt, a bumbling big-game hunter, a concerned psychiatrist, and an idiotic constable, and you can imagine the chaos that ensues.

Considering how hilarious and utterly charming this film is, it’s amazing to think today that this movie was once considered a notorious flop, even contributing to star Katharine Hepburn’s assignation as “box office poison” in the late 1930s. Hell, it’s difficult to think of a time when Kate Hepburn wasn’t considered a monumental success and a pinnacle of movie stardom. Her legendary career came complete with four Academy Awards for Best Actress–a feat unmatched by any other actress (or actor!) in the history of film–and a litany of iconic film roles opposite some of the biggest names to ever grace the screen. But once this film was completed, Hepburn, in the midst of a string of unsuccessful films, chose to buy out her RKO contract to avoid being cast in the low-budget drama Mother Carey’s Chickens (which had been assigned to Hepburn as a sort of studio punishment because of her poor box-office performance). She would spend the next two years on the stage until her triumphant return to the screen in 1940′s wildly popular The Philadelphia Story (also co-starring Grant; see Carrie’s rec below).

Hepburn and Grant made a total of four films together; in addition to Baby and Philadelphia, these included the delightful Holiday (1938) and the cross-dressing romantic comedy Sylvia Scarlett (1935). In each of their pairings, Hepburn and Grant are a wonder to behold–not only do they play off of one another very well, but their on-screen interactions demonstrate a true camaraderie and mutual respect that only heightens the chemistry between them.

And that chemistry was never more sparkling than it was in Baby. Grant, whose career began in vaudeville, takes a page from acrobatic silent screen legend Buster Keaton and throws his body around without reservation, all in pursuit of a laugh. And Hepburn is right there with him, shattering the normally reserved persona she had crafted in previous films and demonstrating a comedic timing that had heretofore only been hinted at in her career. Each brings out the best in the other, and neither was ever really able to capture that same effortless, effervescent magic with another co-star (though Hepburn came close with some of her later screen partnerships with Spencer Tracy, particularly 1949′s Adam’s Rib).

The film is not all about Hepburn and Grant, however; there are some great supporting performances, too. Charlie Ruggles is delightful as the befuddled Major Horace Applegate, who can’t understand why he’s hearing leopard calls in the middle of Connecticut. Walter Catlett, who plays the overzealous constable, Slocum, and May Robson, who plays Susan’s Aunt Elizabeth, are both sharply funny. And classic film fans might recognize the little terrier playing George, the dog who steals David’s bone: the same dog, Skippy, also played Asta in the Thin Man movies and almost stole the show in 1937′s The Awful Truth (also co-starring Grant).

It’s not hyperbole to say that Bringing Up Baby is one of the BEST DAMN FILMS ever made. If you have never had the opportunity to see this movie, this is your chance. You won’t stop laughing until the final credits roll.

Carrie’s choice: The Philadelphia Story (1940)

Airing at 2:00AM EST

I’m so excited- it’s Katharine Hepburn Day!!!!  Katharine Hepburn is one of my biggest heroines. She’s amazing, and I flat out adore her. The spunk. The attitude. The coolness. Her well-honed sneer and smooth sarcasm served her well in Hollywood, and especially in The Philadelphia Story.

I love this movie, and oddly, I love the remake High Society. It took me a while to decide which I preferred, and I’d like to take you through my debate very quickly. Actual debate took a number of years.

The Philadelphia Story has Katharine Hepburn playing a snide, wealthy young woman whose father has been discovered in a scandalous affair. To save face, her wedding (second marriage) is now open to the press, in particular a sleazy operation–with pictures. To make matters worse, her ex-husband is hanging around, “not” sabotaging the wedding. Father  believes he has done nothing wrong-no remorse–and Tracy (KH) wants to torture them all. Yes, cast KH, because, let’s face it, no one knows how to emotionally destroy with pitch-perfect style and class quite like her.  For this reason, she’s an awesome Tracy. Add to this that she’s starring …

… between Cary Grant and James Stewart, and the  most casual reader of this blog needs no further comments on the matter.

High Society: Bing Crosby, Grace Kelly, Frank Sinatra

Later, High Society does well, but Tracy, played by Grace Kelly (also talented and lovely, no argument) is not quite as, say, conniving and snarky as KH. Tracy is a little softer in this version, which has the added musical charms of Bing Crosby (Dexter, the ex), Frank Sinatra (Mike, the reporter) and Louis Armstrong (as himself, added to the plot because, let’s face it–he’s Louis Armstrong, and why not?) Because that trio is a trio I also adore, points to High Society. I also prefer the little sister (two different names in the different movies–go figure) in High Society. She’s just hilarious, and possibly a bit of a stronger character.

Yet, my winner is still The Philadelphia Story.  Don’t get me wrong–I’ll watch High Society any time I see that it’s on, and I own it. It’s great, but there is one essential element (other than the obvious–KH) that makes The Philadelphia Story work for me more than High Society.  That is a detail in the plot.

In the end (I guess a spoiler …), Tracy apologizes for her behavior and basically accepts a human fallibility. In High Society, she does this to her father, and while forgiving him and thus having a release would be acceptable, she actually capitulates and admits that she really is at fault and shouldn’t be angry that he humiliated the family by publicly cheating on Mother, even though he has never asked for forgiveness or admitted any wrong-doing. This bothers me. A lot. It always did bother me, but I pushed it aside.

Then I paid due attention to The Philadelphia Story. In this film, Tracy makes her admission to Dexter, who has actually done good things for her, and possibly was judged unfairly. He actually is there for Tracy and has some redeeming qualities, despite his imperfections.

Now, we can play philosophy a little here, for those who have seen these films. Part of the theme is loving someone unconditionally, even if unworthy. That’s great. Perhaps Tracy apologizing to her father was to solidify that, showing Tracy’s growth. She made a mistake and is still lovable, and so it’s a two-way street–Dad is lovable, too. Now, I’m great with forgiveness–it’s healthy. But they still went a little far. Tracy falls only short of condoning his behavior; she blames herself for how she felt about it and that actually seeing a problem with his long-term cheating is wrong, all the while actually taking responsibility for her single indiscretion. It does tie their parallels together, but not in any kind of realistic, human, very believable, or particularly healthy way (IMHO).

So, with her apology to Dexter, who actually is redeemed throughout the movie and who actually does show her unconditional love (which her father fails to do), I have to give the best of the two to The Philadelphia Story.

That said, definitely watch both. They’re fabulous.  And without question, make time for The Philadelphia Story. The lines are fabulous. The acting is fabulous. It’s a real winner and is Katharine Hepburn in a role written with her in mind–it simply can’t miss!