Category Archives: hays code

Breathing life into drama: A Streetcar Named Desire

Posted on by under 5-star films, brandie's faves, drama, hays code, lit adaptations

Each September, the life and career of renowned playwright Tennessee Williams is celebrated in his birthplace, Columbus, Mississippi. As I’ve mentioned multiple times on this blog, Carrie, Nikki, and I are proud alumnae of Mississippi University for Women, which is located in Columbus and has an active hand in this event every year. In the wake of that annual celebration (and regrets that I couldn’t be there), Williams has been on my mind somewhat as of late, leading me to revisit some of my favorites from his body of work. For one reason or another, I’ve always felt a bit of a connection with many of Williams’ plays–Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, The Night of the Iguana, and The Glass Menagerie among them. But his 1947 masterpiece A Streetcar Named Desire, which I’ve discussed previously on this blog in the context of the 1951 film version’s challenges to the Production Code, is my favorite Williams play by far.

Streetcar is doubtlessly one of the best American plays ever produced–one of the best plays ever written, period. It is a searing, uncompromising, painfully honest examination of a group of broken, utterly fucked-up people. I mean, there’s really no better way to put it: these characters are less than whole, filled with weakness and depravity in almost equal measure. And yet, at the same time, they are intriguing, and their interactions completely engrossing, because the way in which Williams paints these characters is unerringly lively and vital–ripe for interpretation on stage and screen, as befitting the dramatic genre.

Drama, as a literary form, has appealed to writers practically since the dawn of written language. There is a reason that it has remained an unfailingly popular genre for centuries upon centuries, from the times of the ancient Greeks through the days of Shakespeare and Marlowe, from George Bernard Shaw to Eugene O’Neill to Henrik Ibsen and countless others. And it is summed up pretty succinctly by an African-American playwright, Amiri Baraka, whose work came to prominence in the midst of the Civil Rights Movement. In his 1984 memoir The Autobiography of LeRoi Jones, Baraka, in discussing the genesis of his controversial 1964 play Dutchman–in which a young white woman encounters a young black man on a train and engages him in a flirtatious, heated conversation, only to (spoiler alert!) viciously stab him to death in the end–explains his own initial attraction to the field of drama:

“I can see now that the dramatic form began to interest me because I wanted to go ‘beyond’ poetry. I wanted some kind of action literature, and the most pretentious of all literary forms is drama, because there one has to imitate life, to put characters upon a stage and pretend to actual life.”

In referring to drama as an “action literature,” Baraka makes a solid point about the nature of dramatic characters and storylines. When the words of playwrights are actually performed for an audience (whether that audience sees it live in a theater or projected onto a screen), those lines gain a power and a life that is sometimes inaccessible when merely reading them for oneself. And, I would argue, nowhere is this more evident than in Elia Kazan’s cinematic adaptation of Streetcar, starring Marlon Brando and Vivien Leigh. Brando, one of the most renowned devotees of the Method brand of acting, brings a raw, sexualized energy to the role of Stanley that is described, but not fully embodied, by the words in Williams’ play. Likewise, Leigh, a more classically-trained actress, lends the character of Blanche DuBois a subtle kind of dignity that is only hinted at in the play. Drama, by its very nature, allows readers to act out the lives of characters by placing them squarely in the character’s shoes and letting them vicariously—and temporarily—experience the action for themselves. By fleshing out these two fictional characters and presenting them on the screen, the filmed version of Williams’ play reveals the limitations of other forms of literature–those that are bound to the static page–by demonstrating the unparalleled power of fully-animated interpretation.

Characterization is highly important to the success of drama, particularly as a form of “action literature.” Dynamic characters are vital to move the plot of the play along, and when an equally dynamic actor is matched to an appropriate part, the performance only heightens our enjoyment and our understanding of the character’s actions and motivations. The antagonist of Streetcar, Stanley Kowalski, is a loathsome, cruel character in Williams’ play. But when the character is brought to life through the machinations of Brando, we begin to see new facets to the man. He is still loathsome—no mistake about that.  But certain elements of Brando’s portrayal of the character elicit new interpretations of Stanley’s behavior.

Stanley, Williams tells us, is a brute. His first action in the play, tossing a slab of meat to his adoring wife, Stella (Kim Hunter in the film), gives us the first hint of the primitive, Neanderthal-like nature of his physicality—the hunter has returned home to provide for his family. In fact, most of Stanley’s interactions throughout the play reflect this same primitive mindset: his questioning of Blanche’s story about the loss of the DuBois family home, Belle Reve; his drunken attack on Stella, culminating in a series of primal screams in the street; and, most telling of all, his almost nonchalant raping of his sister-in-law. That Stella endures his abuse says more about her reliance on him than any true remorse on Stanley’s part—for we see a definitive lack of remorse in the way in which he continues to bait and torment Blanche, finally sending her over the edge through his brutish attack. In the play, when he tells her, “We’ve had this date with each other from the beginning,” this adds an even more chilling, sinister twist to his machinations, as it becomes clear that Stanley has been planning his attack for weeks, lying in wait for the perfect opportunity.

When Brando slips into Stanley’s tight-fitting t-shirts, however, he adds an element of slyness and winking humor that is not fully evident within the text. Through Brando’s performance, we see the satisfaction he feels when Blanche fails to convince Stella to leave him. We experience the gleeful derision Stanley heaps upon Blanche, and the sheer joy he takes from reporting his findings about her past, including the affair with the young student: “They kicked her out of that high school before the spring term ended—and I hate to tell you the reason that step was taken! A seventeen-year-old boy—she’d gotten mixed up with.” There is an element of intelligence to this Stanley—he sees things in Blanche that are not evident to us, at least initially, and he knows how to manipulate a situation.

Furthermore, in actually seeing someone fill Stanley’s shoes, we are impressed anew by the sheer presence of the man. When he is in the same room with Stella and Blanche, he overshadows them easily, even when he is not speaking. Leigh underscores this in her performance, as many scenes find her cringing away, putting space between her oppressive brother-in-law and herself. When reading the play, however, these little elements are unclear, and Stanley is not as imposing on the page—his small actions have the effect of making the written character seem equally small in his pettiness.

The physicality of the character in the film is a necessary element to explain to contemporary audiences why the Kowalski marriage continues to thrive. True, Stella and Stanley share a strong sexual bond, and Stella herself tells Blanche that her husband’s brute strength tends to excite her more than frighten her: “Stanley’s always smashed things. Why, on our wedding night—soon as we came in here—he snatched off one of my slippers and rushed about the place smashing light bulbs with it … I was—sort of—thrilled by it.” Still, when Stanley pummels her after a long night of drinking, Stella leaves initially only to come back soon after, forgiving him without question. Such an action may seem impossible to fathom for some readers. Sexualizing Stanley by placing his lines in the mouth of a charismatic Brando, however, makes it clearer why Stella endures a relationship that is so unpredictably reliant on her husband’s moods. When Stanley, filled with remorse after beating the pregnant Stella, bellows her name from the street, collapsing at her feet–shirt torn, muscles bulging, and eyes brimming with torment–it’s such a powerful, erotically-charged moment that it’s easy to see why Stella wraps her arms around him and so readily brings him back to her bed.

The protagonist, Blanche, has come to her sister’s home in New Orleans to escape from the shame of her past. Her faded Southern belle act is convincing enough to fool Mitch (Karl Malden), at least for a while, and to convince her sister that all is well. But Stanley is no fool, and Blanche realizes she is up against a master. Leigh’s portrayal of Blanche illuminates the trapped quality of the character much more so than mere stage directions ever could. Her aversion to light is not only physical but mental; we see her withdrawal occurring by inches, with each expression of wide-eyed disbelief and almost childlike fear.

When the truth of her past comes to light for the audience, it is through Blanche’s interaction with a young newspaper boy with whom she flirts while waiting on a date with the much more age-appropriate Mitch. Leigh’s delivery of the line, “I want to kiss you just once, softly and sweetly on your mouth,” is almost innocent in its wistfulness, making it seem like nothing more than a foolhardy attempt for Blanche to grasp her youth once more. But the next line indicates that there is something much more disturbing at the heart of her flirtation: “Now run along, now, quickly! It would be nice to keep you, but I’ve got to be good–and keep my hands off children.” With this statement, our suspicions are aroused, a sense that is doubled in Leigh’s calculated portrayal, as the predator almost immediately gives way to the simpering Southern belle upon Mitch’s imminent arrival at the apartment.

Just as physicality is vital to the embodiment of Stanley on the screen, so, too, is it important in crafting the character of Blanche.  Although Leigh’s performance may at times elicit thoughts of another infamous Southern belle whom she portrayed on the big screen—the erstwhile Scarlett O’Hara of 1939’s Gone with the Wind—the world-weariness she brings to the role is a fitting interpretation of the character’s continued fall from grace. Her constant need to take baths—attempting to cleanse herself of her past sins—and the resistance she shows to being seen in the full light of day are mentioned in the play, but to actually watch Leigh attempt to dodge any source of potentially unflattering illumination and, very literally, hide from the light of truth, heightens the sense of fear and fragility that clings to Leigh’s portrayal of the character. Stanley approaches and Leigh’s Blanche visibly shrinks, as if trying to blend in with the furniture. Her overt femininity is a stark contrast to his oppressive masculinity, making the demonstration of the disparity between these characters’ physical presence much more viable on screen than in print.

Even though the end product was heavily censored, and some of the most unsavory scenes (such as the potentially graphic rape) were muted or otherwise completely excised from the film at the time of its release, A Streetcar Named Desire still embodies Baraka’s assertion that drama is an “action literature” that more closely imitates reality than any other literary form. Drama by definition reflects society’s values perhaps more so than any other type of literature because it is linked so closely to performance—to living, breathing life. In Kazan’s version of Streetcar, seeing Brando and Leigh spar on the screen underscores the importance of “action” in enhancing our understanding of some of the subtler themes of the play … which is just as it should be. When the lines of a play are performed for an audience, the viewers are subjected to an experience that closely mirrors their own, for drama, at its heart, is nothing less than an all-encompassing human experience.

Play it on the G-string.

Posted on by under hays code, B is for B-movie

“I wasn’t naked. I was completely covered by a blue spotlight.”
–Gypsy Rose Lee

The roots of modern theatrical burlesque can be found as early as the mid-nineteenth century, emerging first in the deceptively-straitlaced Victorian period in England, and then traveling across the Atlantic to American shores not long after. The concept of burlesque did not start out with the same connotations that have been assigned to it over the years. It was originally a theatrical variety show: a mixture of comedic and musical commentary on class issues and the entertainments of the day, humorous recreations of the work of noted playwrights (Shakespeare was a particularly popular source for material), and attractive, minimally-clothed young ladies. But even though humor was ostensibly the main goal of each show, at its heart, burlesque was always about sex–not the actuality of it, but more the suggestion of it. In a time when Victorian morality dictated women fully clothe themselves from head to toe in public, here were girls who wore flesh-colored tights on stage to give the appearance of nudity. And audiences loved every minute of it.

Lydia Thompson, leader of the "British Blondes," a London burlesque troupe popular in the 1860s.

The Americans, in tried-and-true fashion, put their own spin on the burlesque show, replacing the satirical and parodic bon mots that populated English burlesque with lowbrow humor and slapstick episodes interlaced between saucy dancing vignettes. Stripping was not originally part of either nation’s version of the show, but throughout the 1920s and 30s, especially in the United States, striptease eventually began supplanting the other elements of the burlesque show, becoming the big draw for most performances. Burlesque was about putting on a show–an illusion of illicit behavior, a promise that was never fully fulfilled. At least, that was the original intent. Over the years, however, the “tease” gave way to blatant, bawdy bump-and-grind numbers that eschewed comedy and entertainment in favor of pure titillation.

Minsky's, the fabled "home" of American burlesque.

In the 1930s, concerns about indecency led to crackdowns on theaters featuring burlesque acts–most notably in New York City, where mayor Fiorello LaGuardia embarked on an ultimately successful personal crusade to close down all burlesque clubs in the city, including the popular Minsky’s. Within two decades, the art of the show was largely forgotten. “Burlesque” became something of a dirty word, indicative of seediness and tastelessness (in fact, LaGuardia went so far as to ban the use of the term in public). Later, the proliferation of pornography in the free-swinging 1960s further spelled the end of burlesque’s relevance in the entertainment landscape. But in the past decade or so, interest in burlesque has been revived due to the emergence of new burlesque clubs and troupes and the growing popularity of stars such as Dita von Teese and Immodesty Blaize. This new generation of performers pays generous homage to the tradition of burlesque in a relatively faithful way, complete with the lavish costumes, healthy mix of upbeat musical numbers and torrid torch songs, winking humor, and artful stripteasing that marked their forebears.

The legend: Gypsy Rose Lee.

Back in its early twentieth-century heyday, the undeniable shining star on the burlesque circuit was Gypsy Rose Lee. Lee and her sister, June (later billed as screen star June Havoc), prodded by their ambitious mother, had a singing and dancing act as children, which they performed on the vaudeville circuit. When June, in an effort to escape their mother’s control, left the act at age 15, Lee moved into the world of burlesque (spending a few years at Minsky’s in the process) and revolutionized the art of the striptease. She played her performances as an act of seduction, enticing the audience with a sultry glance here, a teasing glimpse of skin there, all while infusing the production with sly wit and humor. She was, in short, a sensation.

Lee eventually tried to parlay her burlesque fame into a movie career (billed under her real name, Louise Hovick), but was ultimately unsuccessful on the big screen. She turned to writing books in the early 1940s and, all told, published three works in her lifetime: pulp novels The G-String Murders (1941) and Mother Finds a Body (1942), and her memoir, Gypsy (which was the inspiration for the musical and 1962 film of the same name). G-String and Mother are murder mysteries featuring a fictionalized, same-named version of Gypsy Rose Lee solving crimes with the help of her comedian sidekick and love interest, Biff Brannigan.

In 1943, The G-String Murders was adapted into the film Lady of Burlesque, with the original intention that Lee herself would star in the lead role (though the screen adaptation would change the protagonist’s name from “Gypsy Rose” to “Dixie Daisy”). Given Lee’s track record as an actress (read: virtually nonexistent), it should come as no surprise that such plans did not ultimately come to fruition. But considering the very “B” nature of this particular picture, it is surprising to realize who actually starred in the final product: popular leading lady Barbara Stanwyck.

At the time Lady of Burlesque was filmed, Stanwyck was one of the biggest stars in Hollywood. The former Ruby Catherine Stevens had been a star since the pre-Code days of the early 1930s, and she had already racked up two Academy Award nominations for Best Actress, for 1937′s Stella Dallas and 1942′s Ball of Fire. Her filmography was filled with hits such as Meet John Doe and The Lady Eve (both in 1941). And more major successes, in 1944′s Double Indemnity and 1948′s Sorry, Wrong Number (both of which brought her additional Oscar nominations), were just around the corner. Arguably, Stanwyck was entering the apex of her career in 1943.

So why, at this point in her life, did Stanwyck decide to do a low-budget, no-frills “B” production? And for that matter, why did William A. Wellman–a noted director and Academy Award-winning writer who helmed such classics as Wings (1927–the first winner of the Academy Award for Best Picture), The Public Enemy (1931), Nothing Sacred (1937), and the original 1937 version of A Star is Born (for which he won the Oscar for his writing)–take on directing such a small-time picture? Well, by all accounts, it appears that the making of Lady of Burlesque was like a vacation for these two. For her part, Stanwyck, who was widely recognized for her ability to win over just about everyone she ever worked with, was pleased to have the chance to be directed by the notoriously difficult Wellman again (over the course of their careers, Wellman eventually directed the actress five times, and she later called him one of her favorite directors that she ever worked with). As for Wellman, he had just completed a difficult shoot for the 1943 film The Ox-Bow Incident, an atypical Western he had fought to be allowed to direct for more than three years. In the end, Lady of Burlesque provided the opportunity for a relatively lighthearted, easy shoot, thereby giving both its director and its star a much-needed “break.”

While by no means the best or even the most unique of Stanwyck’s many film roles–after all, she had already played a burlesque star named Sugarpuss O’Shea in Ball of Fire two years earlier–it’s nonetheless an interesting diversion. The movie is a murder mystery set in the backstage world of a popular burlesque theater. Dixie Daisy (Stanwyck) is the headliner at Broadway’s Old Opera House. One night, the theater is unexpectedly raided, and while trying to escape the cops, Dixie is strangled from behind, but survives when the attack is interrupted. Dixie later finds the body of one of her costars, dancer Lolita La Verne, who has been strangled with a G-string. The subsequent murder of a second dancer leads Dixie, her best friend Gee Gee Graham (Iris Adrian), and comic Biff Brannigan (Michael O’Shea), on a hunt for the killer before the show is shut down for good.

Stanwyck is, per usual, a charming presence in the film. She brings a vulnerability to the tough-talking Dixie that gives the character more depth than was likely called for in the script. You have to hand it to the actress–even in a middling picture such as Lady of Burlesque, Stanwyck doesn’t just phone in her performance. She’s the liveliest part of the picture, and she is what ultimately makes the movie worth watching despite its other issues. Also worth noting is the performance of Adrian, a prolific actress perhaps best known for her appearances in several live-action Disney films over the years (among them 1968′s The Love Bug, 1975′s The Apple Dumpling Gang, and 1976′s The Shaggy D.A. and Freaky Friday), who is quite appealing in the role of Dixie’s friend and confidant, Gee Gee.

The movie suffers, however, in the casting of Stanwyck’s male lead. This film marks Michael O’Shea’s debut, and his relative inexperience shows in every single one of his scenes with the much more capable Stanwyck (O’Shea’s film career was, in the end, quite limited–he found most of his success on the stage and later in television). At the time the movie was being cast, the Hollywood Reporter indicated that Joseph Cotten was being considered for the male lead, which to me seems like an odd choice for the role, at least in retrospect. Still, it would have been interesting to see him opposite Stanwyck in this role and to see if he could have brought anything to a thinly-characterized part (Stanwyck and Cotten would later star together in 1951′s mystery The Man with a Cloak).

The Hays Office likely had palpitations when it came to adapting Lee’s book for the screen and, in fact, they registered several objections to the script. First and foremost, the book’s title, The G-String Murders, could not be used for the movie. Additionally, some of the bawdier jokes had to be excised from the film. Furthermore, the Hays folks objected to the use of the titular item as the murder weapon, claiming that using a feminine undergarment in such a manner would likely be considered “offensive” by a certain segment of the public (it stayed in the picture anyway). And finally, the striptease scenes could not show “excessive” amounts of skin, nor could blatant bump-and-grind motions be shown on camera. Still, though the movie is quite tame (at least in comparison to the things filmmakers can get away with in modern film), director Wellman manages to convey the spirit of the naughty dance moves through reaction cuts to the audience during the hottest parts of the number (and yes, you can practically see the drool on the men’s faces).

Despite the limitations imposed by the Code, the movie manages to convey a realistic depiction of the goings-on behind the scenes of the burlesque industry. The relationships between the performers–the friendships and petty jealousies that develop between women fighting for attention and sustained popularity on the stage, the rivalries between comedians, the tension brought on by the fear of being raided and shut down at any moment–are deftly laid out on the screen. The film truly captures the atmosphere of the burlesque theaters of the early 1940s, an uncertain time when success and longevity were far from guaranteed.

Believe it or not, Lady of Burlesque was nominated for an Academy Award … for its score (by Arthur Lange). The film features two songs co-penned by Sammy Cahn, “So This is You” and the hilariously suggestive “Take It Off the E-String, Play It on the G-String.” However, the movie really didn’t have a shot in hell of actually winning–it was up against some heavy competition, including Max Steiner’s score for Casablanca, and ultimately lost to Alfred Newman’s score for The Song of Bernadette.

Stanwyck is not the best singer in the world, but it’s hard to take your eyes off of her once she gets going, isn’t it?

Lady of Burlesque has long been in the public domain, so there are quite a few cheap copies of the film floating around out there. And the entire movie is available on YouTube, so if you’re interested in (almost) seeing Barbara Stanwyck bump and grind in skimpy costumes, there is ample opportunity for you to do so. Overall, though it’s far from a masterpiece of film, there is a certain amount of entertainment to be found in watching this movie. In a strange way, it reminds me a bit of 1995′s Showgirls–decent talent (Kyle MacLachlan, Gina Gershon) mixed with inexperienced performers (Elizabeth Berkley), all taking on a not-great script, set in a world of dancing in little to no clothing, with a bit of “dirty deeds” thrown in for good measure. Okay, so maybe it’s stretching it a bit to compare the two. But then again, these movies do share the same “cultish” quality, and (let’s face it) the copious consumption of alcohol does greatly enhance your enjoyment of each film …

Censorship and a Streetcar: Part Two

Posted on by under 5-star films, brandie's faves, from stage to screen, hays code, lit adaptations

Note: you can find the first part of this entry here.

Joseph Breen’s second caveat in adapting Streetcar revolved around the character of Blanche, whose more sexually predatory side could not be fully explicated on the screen per Production Code regulations. The faded Southern belle’s lack of sexual satisfaction in her marriage and her guilt over Allan’s suicide lead to an overcompensation, of sorts, as she is unable—and perhaps unwilling—to control her urges, engaging in a series of illicit affairs that tarnish her reputation beyond repair.  In the play, this hypersexuality (which could be technically be labeled nymphomania) is much more explicit.  But Blanche’s desire is not only sexual–she also demonstrates an overwhelming desire to find some kind of redemption in the arms of another man.

Blanche’s encounter with the young newspaper boy in the play reflects both sides of Blanche’s desire—the sexual longing and the need for salvation—but the film’s version of the scene somewhat blurs her sexual urges for the boy.  When Blanche says, “I want to kiss you just once, softly and sweetly on your mouth,” it seems at first wistful and innocent, and Vivien Leigh’s delivery of the line neatly avoids the crass implication that seducing young men is a regular exercise for Blanche.  However, the subsequent line, “Now run along, now, quickly! It would be nice to keep you, but I’ve got to be good–and keep my hands off children,” suggests that this is not the first time she has found herself desiring the company of a younger man.

Blanche’s preference for the younger male set is later confirmed by Stanley, who gleefully reports that Blanche was fired from her teaching position for dallying with a teenage boy, and further hints that Blanche even dabbled in prostitution while living at the Flamingo Hotel—something that is spelled out more clearly in the play.  Her motivations are muddled in the film adaptation, as per the strictures of the Code; instead of painting Blanche as an unmitigated whore, as Stanley does in the play, the film depicts the character in a somewhat melancholy, romantic light.  Blanche is portrayed as being so damaged by her role in causing her young husband’s suicide that she seeks him in every new man she encounters–neatly circumventing the insinuation that Blanche merely desires sex for sex’s sake.

Blanche’s sexual proclivities apparently run in the family; as Blanche says in the play, when questioned about the loss of the DuBois family mansion, Belle Reve, her “improvident grandfathers and father and uncles and brothers exchanged the land for their epic fornications—to put it plainly.”  And like the rest of her kin, Blanche’s sister, Stella, seems to be guided, in large part, by her sexual desires, as her relationship with Stanley revolves around the excited sensation his overtly masculine and animalistic behavior arouses within her.  When Blanche questions Stanley’s temper, Stella dreamily relates a tale from their honeymoon when Stanley went around smashing lightbulbs with Stella’s slipper, implying that such scenes arouse her.

The mingling of violence and sexual arousal in Stella and Stanley’s marriage is not as explicitly depicted in the film, though the infamous scene preceding Stella’s story, where a drunken, remorseful Stanley screams Stella’s name in the street, demonstrates this effectively.  Stella dreamily wanders down the stairs at a languid pace, staring at Stanley silently until he collapses on his knees, and she finally surrenders to her baser instincts and embraces her bellowing husband, allowing him to carry her back into the apartment.  Stella’s blissful wallowing in the sheets the morning after “making up” with Stanley further indicates the ferocity of their sexual union, and though the carnality of their love is spelled out much more clearly in the original play, Kazan’s inventive staging of the scenes insinuates what the screenplay only dances around in a deliberately sly manner.

The violence inherent in the Kowalski marriage is heightened to disturbing levels when Stanley turns his predatory gaze toward the increasingly fragile Blanche.  As Stella is at the hospital giving birth to their child, a drunken Stanley returns home, encountering an even drunker Blanche.  A tentative camaraderie born of Stanley’s joy at his impending fatherhood quickly dissolves into menace: Stanley advances on Blanche, determined to break her once and for all while claiming, “We’ve had this date with each other from the beginning.” The music swells, and Stanley proceeds to rape Blanche, sending her over the edge into madness.

However, while the play makes it quite clear that Stanley has sexually assaulted his sister-in-law, Breen was insistent that the scene be completely removed from the screenplay, certain that audiences would not accept a film that depicted so horrific an act.  Kazan categorically refused, declaring that if the scene were eliminated, he would quit—and, as Kazan’s participation was a requirement for Williams’ allowing the play to be filmed, the playwright would leave as well.  In light of Kazan’s determination, Breen then suggested that the rape be portrayed as one of Blanche’s “delusions.”  Again, Kazan balked at the suggestion, and eventually, Breen conceded the point and allowed Kazan to film the rape—provided that 1) the rape be suggested, not shown, and 2) that the ending of the movie be changed so that Stanley would be “punished” somehow for assaulting Blanche. And indeed, the scene depicted on screen seems more of a physical beating than a sexual assault, thus toeing the PCA line.  The film also eliminates Stanley’s line about their “date;” to include the line in the movie would imply that Blanche welcomed the attack, and in order to adhere to the Code, Blanche could not be implicit in her own rape, nor could there be any suggestion that she desired Stanley on some subconscious level.

In Williams’ original ending to the play, Stella rejects Blanche’s claim of rape and forces herself to deny the truth in order to remain with Stanley.  Per Breen’s insistence, the ending was altered, and Stella purportedly leaves Stanley for good, taking her child and going to stay with the upstairs neighbors.  But the wily director indicates that Williams’ ending may still occur as the film winds to a close.  Though Stella claims she’s “never going back,” she doesn’t leave the premises–she goes to stay with the neighbors, as she always does when angry with Stanley.  It is inevitable—considering the pattern of behavior leading up to the end of the film—that Stella will, at some point in the future, go back downstairs to her man, regardless of what he has done.

Still, even with the required cinematic comeuppance for Stanley’s crime against Blanche, allowing just the hint of rape marked an unprecedented move on Breen’s part—for years, the Production Code’s self-proclaimed guru had steadfastly insisted that rape could not be portrayed on-screen, no matter how “delicately” it may have been filmed. His concession in regards to Streetcar enraged the PCA’s longtime allies, the Catholic Legion of Decency, who slapped the film with an initial rating of “C”—indicating that the film was “condemned” for Catholic viewers. 

But even the Legion was willing to compromise, promising if further cuts were made to the film, they would alter the rating to a more acceptable “B.” Jack Warner subsequently demanded those cuts, eliminating another five minutes of filmed material, and those alterations were not restored to the original print for more than forty years. 

The precedent was set: by permitting Kazan to present even the implication of rape, Joseph Breen and the Legion violated their own long-set interpretation of the Production Code, an allowance that would repeat itself with growing frequency in years to come, eventually contributing to the abolishment of the Code in the late 1960s.  The final cut of the film ultimately met with Breen’s approval, and he awarded A Streetcar Named Desire with a PCA seal before its release.  And despite its controversial subject matter, Streetcar went on to become a success both critically and commercially, receiving twelve Academy Award nominations and winning four Oscars (Vivien Leigh for Best Actress; Kim Hunter for Best Supporting Actress; Karl Malden for Best Supporting Actor; and Best Art/Set Direction—Black-and-White). 

It is a shame that A Streetcar Named Desire had to be censored at all, at least from a modern perspective; the harshness of Williams’ vision, so poignantly clear in the play, loses some of its hopeless verve in the watered-down ending of the movie.  But examining the Code-dictated differences between the play and the film gives current audiences a glimpse at life in the 1950s, in which the American culture, by and large, both expected and purportedly desired a rather insipid look at stark reality.  That we are still given a glimpse of the cruel truth through Kazan’s gifted direction and the stellar performances of its lead actors, however, indicates that some facets of American society were fully prepared for—and eagerly anticipating—the cinematic changes to come in the next decade, as the Production Code gave way to the current motion picture rating system, allowing filmmakers much more freedom in the subjects brought to the silver screen.

Censorship and a Streetcar: Part One.

Posted on by under 5-star films, brandie's faves, from stage to screen, hays code, lit adaptations

We’ve previously touched on issues of censorship here at True Classics, but our next two entries this week will take a more in-depth look at the Hays Code, particularly in regards to the struggle to adapt the controversial source material of A Streetcar Named Desire for the big screen.

By 1950, Hollywood had reached an impasse.  For nearly twenty years, the movie industry had largely been under the control of the studio system and bound to follow the rules of the Production Code, a set of regulations and standards designed to limit the corruptible influence of entertainment on American society.  But as the new decade dawned, a young, fresh group of filmmakers began to emerge who, in the ensuing years, would challenge the status quo and lead to the abolishment of the Code and a broader definition of what would be deemed “acceptable” on film.

Enter Elia Kazan, an Oscar-winning director of controversial films such as 1947’s Gentleman’s Agreement, which deals with anti-Semitism, and 1949’s Pinky, a race-relations drama.  Never one to shy away from divisive subject matter, Kazan directed the Broadway version of Tennessee Williams’ Pulitzer Prize-winning play A Streetcar Named Desire, and in 1951, brought the material to the big screen with much of the original play’s cast intact (save Vivien Leigh, who replaced Jessica Tandy in the role of Blanche DuBois). 

Yet the version seen on the Broadway stage was far from the same story seen in the film version.  While Broadway plays were not, by and large, subjected to the rigors of censorship, Hollywood was a different matter altogether: mirroring the purported whims of a conservative American society, films were regularly edited to remove supposedly unsavory or contentious elements.  By sanitizing controversial material for film audiences, however, the Production Code did viewers a grave disservice; in the case of A Streetcar Named Desire, the adult nature of the original story was watered down into something decidedly blander and less powerful.  Ultimately, the differences between Williams’ original play and the bowdlerized screen version demonstrate the limits censorship places on filmmakers and artists who strive to portray the sometimes brutal honesty of reality.  At the same time, these differences also illustrate the ways in which filmmakers could creatively side-step the restrictions placed upon them and still get “salacious” or “troublesome” points across to viewers.

Censorship in the American film industry originates almost from the inception of the first movie picture houses in the early twentieth century.  But the all-encompassing Production Code—sometimes referred to as the “Hays Code” after the first president of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America (MPPDA), Will H. Hays—did not actually originate from the desire to censor films, but rather from efforts to prevent such censorship and interference in the film industry by the United States government.  Hays, who served as Postmaster General during the administration of President Warren G. Harding, was brought into the position in 1922 by film industry leaders who sought to head off federal attempts at censoring films.  Hays and the MPPDA maintained that the American public did not need nor desire censorship of films, and thereby set out to circumvent the possibility.  But within a decade, religious groups within the country had mobilized vocal anti-Hollywood efforts, and calls for government regulation of films had grown more adamant.  It soon became clear to Hays that self-regulation of the industry had become a necessity, and in 1930, the Production Code was established.

The Code begins with the creed, “No picture shall be produced that will lower the moral standards of those who see it. Hence the sympathy of the audience should never be thrown to the side of crime, wrongdoing, evil or sin,” and outlines the things filmmakers cannot express on the screen, including: depictions of murder, detailed crime, sex, childbirth, adultery, sex “perversion,” vulgarity, obscenity, profanity, nudity, explicit dancing, ridicule of religion, and unpatriotic feelings, among a laundry list of other offenses.  The second part, labeled “Reasons,” outlined why adherence to the Code was tantamount; this section clearly demonstrated the influence of religious dogma—particularly Catholic religious dogma—on the development of the new industry standards.  In fact, the Catholic Legion of Decency was a particularly strong influence on the development of motion picture censorship, able to quickly mobilize vociferous publicity campaigns in opposition to films deemed too inappropriate or vulgar for viewing.  By 1934, through a series of cultural and economic developments—the advent of sound, the Great Depression, growing Legion-led outcry over the moral bankruptcy of the movie business—the film industry was forced to cave, and a Production Code seal of approval became absolutely vital to ensure a film’s success at the box office.

Joseph Breen

That same year, Joseph Breen, one of the driving forces behind the formation of the Legion of Decency, became head of regulations for the newly-established Production Code Administration (PCA).   He was a polarizing figure in Hollywood, gaining a reputation in some circles for being … well … an asshole. But Breen was nevertheless supported by a majority of the big studio heads, who knew that after the fight to gain PCA endorsement of their films was done, he would then fight for those films in the face of opposition or disapproval from both religious groups and the government. Indeed, Breen was often one of filmmakers’ most valuable allies, as he would generally offer suggestions as to how directors and producers could work around Code-violating material in their scripts.

Breen’s willingness to work with filmmakers was perhaps most evident in the fight to bring A Streetcar Named Desire to the screen.  When approached by Jack Warner in 1950, Breen outlined three major problems in translating Williams’ play to film: the homosexuality of Allan Gray, Blanche’s ex-husband; Blanche’s perceived nymphomania; and the rape scene at the end of the play, in which Stanley forces himself on his sister-in-law.  Other minor changes occurred throughout, including the elimination of “vulgar” language and innuendo that were judged inappropriate for film audiences.  Though Breen insisted that changes be made, he offered ideas for alterations while conceding on several points at the demand of Warner, Kazan, and Williams.  Indeed, in large part, the ultimate success of the film comes in spite of the obstacles that had been placed against it.

On Breen’s first point—Allan’s sexuality—the ruling was absolute: there could be no mention of the character’s so-called unnatural sexual perversion in the film.  In the sixth scene of Williams’ play, Blanche, who had always realized there was “something different” about her husband, tells Mitch of the night she discovered Allan in bed with an older man.  After pretending that nothing had happened, the trio went dancing, and as a polka played (the “Varsouviana,” the same tune that recurs throughout the play as Blanche slips closer to madness), she snapped, telling Allan, “You disgust me,” and causing him to run out of the room and shoot himself in the head.  Blanche’s judgment of her husband’s sexuality reflects the same judgment faced by other gay men in the 1950s—including the playwright himself—and her attitude would not have been an unfamiliar one to audiences of the time.  But the idea of allowing a reference—even a judgmental, biased one—to a homosexual character was verboten according to the rules of the Code.

Breen’s solution, therefore, was relatively simple: any explicit reference to Allan’s homosexuality or the exact circumstances of his death was forbidden.  Instead, Blanche’s ex-husband was described as “weak” in the film.  But savvy viewers can read between the lines; Blanche’s claim that her young husband cried himself to sleep at night hints that he could not sexually perform with her, and the tender nervousness which she attributes to him indicates a stereotypically effeminate homosexual man.

Friday: part two of our examination of censorship and A Streetcar Named Desire.

Christmas Classics: Susan Slept Here

Posted on by under brandie's faves, hahas, hays code, holiday picks

Susan Slept Here (1954) is a delightful, if somewhat creepy (by today’s standards, anyway) bit of holiday fluff.  Starring Debbie Reynolds and Dick Powell, the film played with the censors at a time when it seemed everyone in Hollywood was determined to give the Hays Office its share of hell.

Reynolds stars as the titular Susan, a seventeen-year-old “juvenile delinquent” (which, in this movie, is essentially a fancy term for “vagrant”) who is picked up by a pair of cops on Christmas Eve. The policemen take Susan to the apartment of Mark Christopher (Powell), an Oscar-winning screenwriter who had used the cops for research in the past. The two flatfoots convince Mark to take Susan in for the night so that she need not spend Christmas alone, but his charitable gesture soon creates havoc and turns his entire life upside-down when Susan falls in love with him.

This marks the final big-screen performance for Powell, who had made his name initially as a song-and-dance man in a number of 1930s musicals (42nd Street, Gold Diggers of 1933) before reinventing himself as a noir anti-hero in the 1940s, originating the role of Philip Marlowe in 1944′s Murder, My Sweet. After completing work on Susan Slept Here, Powell retired from movie acting and concentrated his efforts on directing and producing for television, serving as one of the founders for Four Star Television.

In Susan Slept Here, the fifty-year-old Powell attempts to pass for thirty-five, with mixed results. Still, the age difference between Mark and Susan–a good eighteen years–is an almost insurmountable one for the film. It’s the one true weakness of an otherwise endearing storyline. Reynolds, who was twenty-two at the time of filming, was more than game, and it shows. But there is still an element of creepiness to the older Mark marrying an underage Susan.

The film alludes to this fact in several instances, most blatantly when the cops warn Mark and his “right-hand man,” Virgil (Alvy Moore), “Remember, you guys, she’s underage. Lay one hand on her and that’s all, brother.” And there are reminders of Susan’s youth sprinkled throughout the film, adding to the uneasiness. Yes, Mark marries Susan to protect her and keep her from being returned to jail, but still–he’s marrying a girl, not a woman. There’s a bit of an “ew” factor there, and it’s a little surprising that the film was approved according to the strictures of the Production Code. A young girl spending the night, unchaperoned, in the apartment of a committed bachelor, to whom she then ends up a teen bride? Ten years before, Joseph Breen and company would have been yelling their fool heads off.

My favorite aspect of the film is the way it slyly plays with the censors in constructing some of the dialogue. For instance, when Susan notices a picture of Mark’s longtime lover, Isabella (Anne Francis), it leads to this hilarious exchange:

Susan: “You know, I’d like to get a dye job and a facial like her.”
Mark: “Isabella is a natural blond.”
Susan: “You sure?”
Mark: “We’re very good friends. [pause] She told me.”

When I first heard this line, I practically gasped with laughter at the little hint of naughtiness in Powell’s delivery of that last line. The meaning he injects into that weighted pause is just one of the things that makes him a severely-underrated actor.

A note of interest: this may be the only film ever narrated by the Oscar statuette–at least, I can’t think of another one! Mark’s Oscar sits on the mantel, introducing us to the players and occasionally commenting upon the action. It’s a gimmick, yes, and the film could likely do very well without it. But it’s still a fun little element of an already enjoyable movie.

One thing I could do without is Susan’s dream sequence, which is a little too overwrought for my taste. As Susan pictures herself locked in a cage, strangling Virgil to get the key and “rescue” Mark from Isabella’s spidery clutches, I found myself waiting impatiently for the film to get back to the action. Sometimes, these little asides work (the extended dance/dream sequences in An American in Paris and Singin’ in the Rain come to mind), but when not done effectively, such scenes tend to bog down the entire film.

That being said, Susan Slept Here is ultimately a charming little picture, despite the “ew” factor of the age gap in the characters. And though only the first half of the film involves Christmas, it is still a nice little flick to watch by the fire as you wait impatiently for Santa this month. It’s playing again on Christmas Day, so try to catch it if you can!

Code breakers.

Posted on by under hays code, tcm spotlight

This evening, TCM is featuring three films labeled “code breakers,” movies whose provocative, mature themes and scripts contributed to the breakdown of the Production Code Administration’s influence in Hollywood.

I’ve made my feelings about the Production Code clear in the past; censorship may seem to be a necessary evil to some, but in my eyes, deliberately stifling the creative spirit over the moral qualms of a few is tantamount to impeding (and sometimes, outright destroying) art. Still, it’s interesting to look back at Code-era films and see the deft ways in which filmmakers subtly (or in the case of tonight’s lineup, not so subtly) challenged the moral strictures of the Code, whether through innuendo, camera tricks, or other means.

The lineup tonight features three films from the 1950s, the decade in which the first really substantial challenges to the Code emerged.

First up is The Moon is Blue (airing at 8PM EST), released in 1953 and starring William Holden and David Niven as a couple of Lotharios determined to rid Maggie McNamara of her pesky virginity. Director Otto Preminger had a fight on his hands with the Production Code office from the very beginning–the movie was based on a controversial play of the same name by F. Hugh Herbert, and Joseph Breen, the head of the Code office, objected to the racy material and the use of terms such as “virgin” and “mistress” in the script.

Preminger made the movie anyway, and when it was denied a seal of approval from the PCA, the studio behind the movie, United Artists, used the controversy as a selling point for the film. And it worked: The Moon is Blue was a smash hit.

Though this was the first time a studio had ever dared to release a film without PCA’s seal of approval, it would hardly be the last. The next film in tonight’s lineup, 1955′s The Man with the Golden Arm (airing at 10PM EST), also directed by Preminger, faced some of the same difficulties with Breen’s office based on the source material.

The film stars Frank Sinatra as heroin addict Frankie Machine, with Eleanor Parker as his crippled wife, Zosh, and Kim Novak as his disapproving girlfriend, Molly. It is based on the notorious 1949 bestselling novel of the same title, written by Nelson Algren. As the book (and, subsequently, the film’s script) deals with the effects of drug abuse and addiction in a gritty, somewhat realistic manner, the PCA was not exactly eager to grant the film its seal of approval. Once again, Preminger made the film he wanted to make, and as with The Moon is Blue, United Artists released the picture without the Code seal. And, as before, the film was a great success despite this lack of approval.

Also in 1956, director Elia Kazan adapted a screenplay by Tennessee Williams (based on his one-act play 27 Wagons Full of Cotton) into a black comedy named Baby Doll (airing at 12:15AM EST). Starring Karl Malden as Archie Meighan, the ineffectual, sexually frustrated husband of child bride Carroll Baker (the titular Baby Doll), the movie flirts with the themes of pedophilia, adultery, and sexual deviance.

And yet, surprisingly, the film was awarded a PCA seal of approval. Don’t ask me how; maybe Breen was off that day. Despite this, though, the film reaped its share of controversy when the Catholic Legion of Decency (one of the driving forces behind the establishment of the Code in the first place, interestingly enough) condemned the film. Several Catholic leaders even forbade their congregants from seeing it. Because of the Legion’s movement to ban the film, Baby Doll was ultimately the only one of these three films not to turn a profit.

As you will see while (hopefully!) watching tonight’s lineup, in various ways, each of these films contributed to the eventual collapse of the Production Code’s influence in Hollywood. Thanks to directors like Preminger and Kazan, who were willing to challenge the status quo in an effort to put more realistic portrayals on the big screen, cinema today has very few–if any, really–boundaries. And though some arguably take that freedom too far, and the debate between morality and artistic liberty continues, at least we moviegoers have the option to watch more “adult” fare if we so choose.

And isn’t that what it’s all about, truly–the choice to watch whatever floats your particular boat, and to ignore whatever sinks it?

Feminist Fridays: Flesh and the Devil (1926)

Posted on by under brandie's faves, feminist fridays, hays code, silence = golden

Welcome to the introductory post for our Feminist Fridays series! Keep in mind that many of the comments contained herein are tongue-in-cheek in nature and are not intended to offend or inflame those who may take them otherwise. Also, these posts are not intended to be scholarly or academic or otherwise “learned” reviews, but are merely chock full of opinion and plain ol’ conjecture.

Also, let me just insert a quick “spoiler alert” here–I will be discussing specific details of this film, including the ending, so if you have not seen it and do not want the ending ruined, do not read any further. Until, you know, you’re done watching it. Then come back and read this.

Recently, I re-watched the 1926 silent film Flesh and the Devil after recommending it for John Gilbert’s Summer Under the Stars tribute last month on TCM. And the first thing that came to mind when I was done was, “Daaaaaaaaaaaaaamn.”

You see, in the years since I had first seen it, I had forgotten some of the less-than-palatable elements of the film, the elements of sexism and hyper-judgment that make a modern-day self-ascribed feminist want to punch something. Or perhaps this is just what grad school has done to me–made me a hypercritical, overanalytical mess of a human being who can no longer enjoy even the most inane entertainment because the vestiges of underlying thematic elements–and the need to comment upon them–practically ruin the viewing experience.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

Now, I want to preface this discussion by saying that I really do enjoy this movie. Criticizing Flesh and the Devil, as I am about to do, for its somewhat sexist themes and motifs, does not mean that the film is necessarily a “bad” one. Like many films of the early Hollywood era, this movie is, in large part, a reflection of the times in which it was made. And while 1926 was positioned slap-dab in the middle of the Roaring Twenties, a somewhat progressive decade (at least by the standards of the years that came before), it was still guided by the mores of what constitutes so-called “proper” behavior. Even seven years after the passage of the Nineteenth Amendment, and seven years before the enactment of the Hays Code in Hollywood, the double standard separating and defining the parameters of male and female behavior was well in place and not budging an inch.

We begin the film at a military academy, meeting Leo (Gilbert) and Ulrich (Lars Hanson), young cadets and lifelong friends. Leo is nowhere to be found in time for morning drills, so Ulrich nervously covers for his friend. And when the two are assigned manual labor for their insubordination, Leo completes the work for the weary Ulrich. So sweet. Yes, the first twenty minutes or so set up the strong bond of friendship between the two men–a prototypical “bromance,” to borrow a 21st-century term–a relationship that is rife with underlying homoerotic tension, as such relationships are wont to be. In fact, at one point in the film, we see a flashback of the young men as boys, pledging their troth–I mean, cementing their friendship–on the island near their childhood home, which they called, appropriately, the Isle of Friendship.

Blood brothers, through and through, pledged to have each other’s backs no matter what may come.

You just know what’s coming next.

That’s right … a WOMAN.

Dun dun DUN.

Leo meets Felicitas (Greta Garbo). She’s married; he’s unaware. The force of attraction is strong between these two. Cue the illicit lovemaking.

Cue the angry husband and the gauntlet across the cheek.

Cue the pistols at dawn.

Cue the unlucky husband’s death.

Oops.

Leo is sent to Africa for three years because the military wants to avoid a scandal. He entrusts Ulrich with watching after his victim’s widow, without telling Ulrich the entire story behind the duel and his relationship with Felicitas (instead, he blames the duel on a dispute over cards). All things considered, this a bad move on Leo’s part, as Ulrich is immediately mesmerized by the beautiful widow.

See? Mesmerized. Or ... something. Wow, that's a creepy look.

Leo endures his time in Africa with the thought that, upon his return, he can finally be with his one true love. Well, both of them, actually–for not only does he pine away for the woman, but he really, really misses his bro.

Leo finally returns home, only to discover that in his absence, Ulrich has married Felicitas. And all of Leo’s fanciful dreams come crashing down. His BFF is married, and to his former lover and the cause of his banishment.

"A toast ... to how much you guys SUCK!"

What does any sane man do? Well, he doesn’t accept responsibility for his own part in the (admittedly) crappy turn his life has taken. And he certainly doesn’t suck it up, congratulate the happy couple, and build a new life with his friend’s so-obviously-in-love-with-him-it’s-downright-painful-to-watch little sister, Hertha (Barbara Kent).

No, he isolates himself upon the advice of his “well-meaning” pastor.

Oh, that pastor.

Of course, the film must have a religious voice of reason, because otherwise the themes of adultery and lust and hate and violence remain unchecked. The filmgoer must be reminded that the actions of these people are not merely human. They are WICKED. They will be PUNISHED. By a VENGEFUL GOD. Who put us on this earth to be MISERABLE, because seeking happiness for happiness’ sake is WRONG.

I think you get my drift.

The pastor advises Leo that he must stay away from Felicitas, because her influence will lead to sin:

He continues: “Once before, that woman lead you into temptation … and you sinned … Aren’t you afraid of what she may do to you a second time?”

Note that Pastor Voss does not chastise Leo for his own part in their mutual sin–no, the power lies solely in Felicitas, the evil woman whose devilish flesh causes men to lose control of their minds and their faculties.

And they say women are the weaker sex.

Now, let me interject here and say that Felicitas is not solely without blame in any of these scenarios. She is a devious little thing, vain and spoiled, more concerned with her own beauty and comforts than with a little thing like a dead husband or three. She relishes the drama that is left in her wake–to her, it’s romantic, in a sense, to have men fighting and willing to die over her.

But Felicitas, more so than the men with whom she surrounds herself, is at least somewhat self-aware. She knows exactly what she’s doing when she plays Ulrich against Leo, or Leo against her first husband. And she’s unapologetically self-absorbed. When she goes into mourning after Leo has won the duel, she sits before her mirror, silently and almost cheerfully gauging her reflection as she tries on a series of veiled hats (a scene that was almost certainly borrowed thirteen years later in Gone With the Wind, as Scarlett does the same thing after the death of unloved first husband Charles Hamilton).

Felicitas is not above using her second husband as an excuse to ensnare her former lover’s attention, either. When Leo separates himself from the couple on Pastor Voss’ advice, Felicitas sends Leo a letter to guilt him back into her company:

She is also quite the smartass. In the church scene, the pastor, infuriated to see Leo walking in with Felicitas and Ulrich, thunders on about the evils of lust and sex.

“My sermon this morning will be: ‘David hath done evil in my sight, and his deed stinks before Heaven!’ … For David hath seduced Uriah’s wife! … And David hath slain Uriah … so that the woman might tarry with him! … And I found David not repenting in sackcloth and ashes! … but flaunting his sin in public places … and on his right hand was Uriah’s wife! … Yea, David, thou hast broken the Lord’s holy commandment! … and a fire from Heaven shall consume thee! … thee and that woman who sits in sin by thy side!”

Again, note that it is only the pastor’s anger at Leo’s flagrant disregard for his advice that finally leads Voss to assign him blame in the situation. Previously, the responsibility lay solely with the woman; now, the defiant man receives his slap on the wrist.

While Leo alternately looks down at his feet in shame and stares back at the pastor in utter horror, Felicitas displays a vastly different reaction … at least initially. She calmly stares right back at Voss and proceeds to put on another coat of lipstick, which only seems to inflame him further, as his voice reaches a thundering crescendo. Her bravado is shocking, in a sense, yet ultimately invokes a laugh (at least for me), as while she is basically being labeled a harlot, she responds by slapping on some more feminine warpaint.

Of course, this effect is ruined when Felicitas, finally overcome by the pastor’s bombastic lambasting and the sudden realization of her own inherent evil nature, faints in the midst of his sermon, because a female character simply cannot be portrayed as overly defiant. At least, not in 1926. Knuckle under, girl.

Yet even this brief demonstration of … well, whatever you want to label it–remorse, regret, contrition, penitence … does not last long.

Immediately afterward, as Leo and Felicitas kneel side by side at the altar, receiving their communion, Felicitas deliberately places her lips on the wine goblet precisely where Leo’s had just been, much to his dismay.

Throughout the film, it is evident that the jealousy Leo feels is not merely based on his lust for Felicitas. By marrying his “bro,” the woman has usurped his position as the most important person in Ulrich’s life. This is what ultimately fans the fire–he cannot stay away from his friend, no matter how much he may want to, so he must endure the horror of his former lover’s company.

And when Leo succumbs to temptation, his reaction is not to question his own behavior, or to lay the blame upon himself for being unable to resist Felicitas’ charms.

To do so would be to admit failure–his inability to restrain his baser emotions. Instead, he allows those baser emotions to take control, in the only way he knows how–to (literally) strangle the life out of the blasted woman, to somehow relieve the spell she has wickedly cast upon his very soul.

Kind of poetic, in a sense, isn’t it? Except for the whole “hands around the throat” thing.

When they are discovered, mid-strangle, by Ulrich, Felicitas naturally appeals to her husband, despairing that she has no idea why Leo would want to  kill her. At this point, we see Leo shut down. He will not defend himself; he will not explain his actions. The woman has won. He will accept defeat.

But! Guy Love is stronger, by far, than womanly charms.

As the two men stand across from one another on a snowy field on the Isle of Friendship (now the ISLE OF MANLY DEATH), pistols drawn for the duel to come, the memories of their friendship are replayed across the screen. Simultaneously, we see Felicitas, who has come to stop them at the urging of Hertha, fall through a patch of ice into the water below; unable to pull herself out, she drowns.

Flash back to Leo and Ulrich. They shake their heads, widen their eyes, as if awakening from a deep sleep (“Leo, everything is suddenly clear to me … as if a veil had lifted …”). Unknown to them, the object of contention between the two is dead, and somehow–magically!–they have realized the foolishness of letting a woman get between them. We’re friends! Bros! Forget the woman; it was all her fault! Let’s never fight again! Hug. The end.

So, kiddies, heed the lesson well. If a woman comes between you and your best friend, just off the bitch. Problem solved.

But in all seriousness, Garbo’s character in this film is a perfect example of early Hollywood’s “woman dilemma;” that is, how to deal with the independent, unconventional woman. She is not the home-and-hearth type; she cheats on both of her husbands (with the same man, true, but still) and is less concerned with the needs of her men than her own desires. What do you do with such a creature?

Well, you can reform her, turning her into the loving, devoted wifely figure, or you can destroy her, removing her influence altogether. Films such as 1931′s The Divorcee choose the former tack, as the adulterous Jerry is reunited with her equally adulterous husband, and we are lead to believe (in one of the most unbelievable fantasies early Hollywood has to offer) that their remarriage will be a happily-ever-after scenario. But Flesh and the Devil chooses the latter, which, if truth be told, is the only one of those options that would actually work in light of the film’s storyline, because reformation would be so unlikely a development for the character of Felicitas.

And, as in many similarly-themed films, the “hero” … well, he gets off relatively scot-free, his friendships and his family intact, happier than ever before.

Ahh, the joys of white male privilege.

SUtS: Paul Newman

Posted on by under 3-star films, drama, from stage to screen, hays code, lit adaptations, summer under the stars

Our choice: Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1958)

Airing at 1:45PM EST

Once we realized this movie was in the queue for Paul Newman’s Summer Under the Stars tribute, we knew we had to recommend it. We have a connection to this film–tenuous, but important nonetheless–or, at least, to the source material of the movie.

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof is based on a play by Mississippi-born playwright extraordinaire, Tennessee Williams. The story centers around married couple Brick and Maggie (also called “Maggie the Cat”), whose marriage has crumbled because of a betrayal on Maggie’s part. Brick has succumbed to the lure of alcohol while mourning the recent suicide of his best friend, Skipper–a relationship that both Maggie and Brick’s father (“Big Daddy”) question as having been more amorous and friendly. As the members of the family fight over the inheritance of their dying patriarch, Maggie fights for a toehold in her relationship with Brick while trying to ensure Brick receives the bulk of the inheritance.

Williams was born in the town of Columbus, Mississippi, which also happens to be home to the first state-supported college established for women in the United States. That wonderful school, Mississippi University for Women, is our lovely alma mater.

I cannot tell you how many times I’ve driven past Williams’ birthplace, which sits on Main Street in downtown Columbus and serves as the welcome center for the city (it always makes me smile, because seeing that house, in a sense, is like a big ol’ “welcome home”). I have spent time sitting on his porch, watching the traffic go by. And I have repeatedly marveled at the fact that a city that once shunned its connection to the overtly homosexual Williams and his scandalous, outrageous body of work has now so thoroughly embraced the man that an entire week in September is dedicated to his memory and his work every year.

The play Cat on a Hot Tin Roof won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 1955 and premiered on Broadway that same year. The play was both celebrated and reviled for its frank depiction of homosexual lust and its blatant sexism in regards to the character of Maggie. Williams possessed a gift for honestly portraying some of the less attractive aspects of humanity (see also Stanley in A Streetcar Named Desire, or Violet in Suddenly, Last Summer), and in Cat, he constructs one of the most mendacious families to ever appear in literature. In the Pollitt family, everyone lies to everyone else, every person lies to him or herself, and truth is a commodity that no one seems to think even exists.

Yet, of course, when the play was adapted for the screen, changes were made to diminish nearly all of the references to homosexuality and sexual frustration per the rules of the Production Code, and the portrayal of some characters (particularly that of Brick and Maggie) was softened to make the characters seem more sympathetic to the audience. And in the end, the movie version suffers from those changes, because the searing intent of the original material was lost. In fact, Williams hated this film version so much that he actively encouraged people not to see it.

In this film version, Brick is played by Paul Newman, and this performance earned him his first Academy Award nomination (he would later win Best Actor for 1986′s The Color of Money). Newman portrays Brick with a barely-leased sensuality that ultimately works well for the character. His interactions with Elizabeth Taylor, who plays Maggie, provide some of the best moments of the film, particularly when he is rejecting her advances outright–he makes it seem like the most natural thing in the world to rebuff your beautiful wife when she’s offering herself to you without reservation. Marvel at the restraint.

For her part, Taylor delivers one of the strongest performances of her career as Maggie, brilliantly moving from bewildered hurt to strong-willed determination almost seamlessly (Taylor, too, was nominated for an Oscar for her performance–she would win her two statues a few years later, first for 1960′s Butterfield 8 and later for her monumental performance in 1966′s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?). Taylor fully embodies Maggie, who is, to say the least, a difficult dramatic character to play, and she makes her real without engaging in histrionics (which, let’s face it, would be an easy thing to do with this material).

The supporting cast features excellent turns by Burl Ives as Big Daddy and Judith Anderson (so chillingly perfect as Mrs. Danvers in 1940′s Rebecca) as Big Mama. Jack Carson effectively steps out of his typical buddy-sidekick roles as Brick’s brother, Gooper, and Madeleine Sherwood is appropriately annoying as Gooper’s greedy (and perennially pregnant) wife, Mae.

Though it is far from loyal to the original text, the movie is nonetheless entertaining on its own merits. And though Williams will likely roll over in his grave at any indication of approval, we do suggest you give it a shot. At the very least, you can stare at Paul Newman’s gorgeous mug for two hours. Let’s face it … there are worse ways to spend your time.