Category Archives: lit adaptations

To Kill a Mockingbird: Five Reasons It’s Wonderful

Posted on by under carrie's faves, lit adaptations

It’s been a while since I’ve written… apologies! I’m back in school, etc. I hope to post more this summer. Fortunately, we have awesome (and much more disciplined!)  bloggers.

From smushnoses.blogspot.com

However, I wanted to jump in and do one. You can say procrastinating. I’ve been wanting to review To Kill a Mockingbird for over a year, so now I’m doing it. Finally.

If you haven’t seen this movie… shame on you. Seriously. Go watch it.  Because the film and the novel are so iconic, I am not going into a lot of plot detail. For information about why the story is awesome, those comments are here.

So, without further ado, here are five reasons why this is one of the best films ever–ever.

1) Gregory Peck. I love him always, and Atticus Finch was just “the role.”  He gives an amazing performance and embodies Atticus as no one could have. It is a true “moment” in film, except it’s throughout the movie, so a long moment.

Atticus owning the courtroom! from johneaves.wordpress.com

2) Story. The story is touching and outstanding (see link above).

3) Nostalgia. I know this sounds redundant on a classic film blog (who of us isn’t nostalgic?), but it’s more than a yearning of the past or excellent film (which this fits), but it’s a nostalgia for childhood. This growing-up story is purely childhood, for all of its dark details. Scout grows up in a serious and still very special way, and watching the film, you feel Atticus is your father and that you’re growing up with her. That is great filmmaking.

Atticus and his children from lauricewithlove.blogspot.com

4) Setting. This film is set perfectly. You get the full feeling of the time and place, which is paramount to the story. If you’ve read the book (which you must), you’ll recognize it immediately. You get to know the place as well as the people.

Icons of the story from watchesinfilms.info

5) Tone. From the credits of a child humming and coloring icons from the story to the manner of speech to the speed at which they unfold the story. The film moves steadily and maintains interest, but at the same time it gives the feeling of quiet. It feels like the iconic positive childhood: passing too quickly and too slowly, but still smooth and steady.

Fix some lemonade or ice tea (or mix them, which is my favorite) and sit down with this one, especially as this weather gets warmer. It’s perfect for the muggy setting!

“If that don’t beat all. I never saw such a dog.”

Posted on by under child stars, classic disney, kiddie faves, lit adaptations, maudlin mondays, sarah's faves

This week, I bring you an animal edition of Maudlin Monday. I can be deeply moved by films about wars or tragic romances, but few things disturb me greater than stories about innocent, loving animals that lose their lives. Animals have brought me so much joy in life, whether I’m running in the yard with my happy-go-lucky dog or cuddling with my affectionate cat. It is my sincere belief that if everyone had an adoring pet in their lives, the world would be a much better place. There have been so many touching films about animals–The Adventures of Milo and Otis (1989), The Fox and the Hound (1981), The Three Lives of Thomasina (1963)–but none demonstrates the loyalty and friendship shared between human and animal quite like Disney’s 1957 film Old Yeller.

old yeller poster

The story begins with a Texas frontier family whose father, Jim (Fess Parker), leaves Travis (Tommy Kirk), his oldest son, in charge of the farm and home as he goes to drive cattle. Travis is a young boy who takes on the responsibility of protecting and caring for his younger brother Arliss (Kevin Corcoran) and their mother, Katie, played by the beautiful and serene Dorothy McGuire. As Jim says his goodbyes to his family, his son reminds him that he wants a horse.

Travis: “Now, Papa, you know I been achin’ all over for a horse to ride. Now I told you time and again.”

Papa: “What you’re needin’ worse than a horse is a good dog.”

Travis: “Yessir, but what I’m wantin’ worse is a horse.”

Papa: “Alright boy, you act a man’s part, and I’ll bring you a man’s horse.”

The father has not even been gone more than a day when Old Yeller shows up on the family farm causing trouble. He frightens Jumper the mule while Travis is plowing the field, which causes the mule to drag Travis and knock down the fence. Old Yeller has unknowingly made himself an enemy. Travis is convinced that the dog will be nothing but trouble: “I know one thing: that old dog better not come around here while I got me a gun in my hands!”

When younger brother Arliss meets the dog, he instantly falls in love with the prospect of a new friend. Mama scolds Travis, explaining to him that his younger brother is lonely without a companion to entertain him. She reminds him that he had a dog when he was Arliss’s age.

Younger brother Arliss and Old Yeller become inseparable. Yeller becomes the boy’s companion, swimming, hunting, and even fishing with him.

old yeller

The faithful dog dives into the pond to catch a fish for Arliss. Arliss thanks the dog, and then proceeds to tell his mother that he was the one who caught the fish in a fantastic tale:

Arliss: “Mama, Mama, look at this fish that I got; ain’t he a whopper?! … I had to dive way down deep under to catch this fish. He was way down deep under … there was this cave and it was real dark and muddy. And there was about a million other fish, and they all tried to eat me! And I had to throw rocks at’ em, and then there was these two big snakes …”

Travis: “Mama, you know them is just big windies Arliss was tellin’.”

Mama: “Now, Travis, let him tell his stories the way he wants to.”

Travis: “But Mama, I just seen that old yellow dog catch this fish.”

Mama: “Arliss is just a little boy with a big imagination. Won’t hurt him to let him use it.”

Travis: “We keep that old yellow dog much longer and it’s going to make Arliss the biggest liar in Texas!”

Travis is not a fan of the dog, believing him to be a bad influence on his younger brother. But Travis finally changes his mind about the dog when Yeller saves Arliss from an angry mother bear. Arliss tempts a young cub with bread, then attempts to capture it. The mother bear hears the cub calling for help and comes charging toward the small boy. Although Travis and the mother come running to Arliss’s aid, it doesn’t seem like it would have gone well for the child had his courageous dog not intervened and fought off the mother bear.

old_yeller

Once Travis realized the dog’s bravery in defending Arliss, he allows the dog to begin sleeping in bed with him and his brother. Unfortunately, it isn’t long after the event that Travis learns from a neighbor, Elizabeth Searcy, that Yeller is indeed the thief that he originally believed him to be. She explains that she has seen Yeller stealing food from her family, but she promises not to tell on him.

Elizabeth: “I didn’t want to tell you at the house … but it was him what done it …what stole all the eggs and bread and meat and stuff … I seen him swipe a pan of grandma’s cornbread, too. But I ain’t gonna tell.”

Travis: “I bet you do.”

Elizabeth: “No, I won’t. Wasn’t goin’ to, even before I knowed it was your dog.”

Travis: “How come?”

Elizabeth: “Because Miss Priss is gonna have pups, and your dog will be their papa, and I wouldn’t want him to get shot for stealin’.”

Elizabeth Searcy isn’t the only person who has heard of Old Yeller’s thievery. At one point, the dog’s former owner comes to claim him. He tells the family that although the dog robs everyone blind, he’s great help to him. Arliss refuses to allow the stranger to take Old Yeller back, throwing rocks at him and demanding that he leave the dog. Luckily for the family, the man is kind and allows Arliss to keep Old Yeller, trading him a toad and a warm meal.

The kind Mr. Sanderson warns Travis that he has seen multiple cases of hydrophobia (rabies)  in the region. He instructs Travis that he will have to act quickly in killing any animal that he suspects is infected.

One day, Travis and Old Yeller go on a mission to mark the Coates family hogs. Old Yeller does a fantastic job herding the hogs for Travis, but when Travis falls from a tree, he is viciously attacked by one of the hogs. The hog rips his leg to the bone, but Old Yeller comes running to save him. Travis is able to get away, but poor Old Yeller is injured even worse. The family nurses the pair back to health, and Old Yeller has once again successfully saved a member of the Coates family.

old yeller

It isn’t long before Old Yeller has saved every single member of the Coates family. While Mama and Elizabeth are standing next to a fire, burning the carcass of the rabies-infected family cow, they are jumped by a rabid wolf. Luckily for the women, Old Yeller comes to their defense. Travis is able to shoot the wolf, but not before it has bitten and scratched Old Yeller repeatedly. Mama believes that no healthy, sane wolf would have attacked them, and therefore she fears that they will have to kill Old Yeller, as he is likely to have been infected as well.

Mama: “I’ll shoot him if you can’t, but either way we’ve got it to do.”

Travis: “Mama, listen, Old Yeller just saved your life, and Elizabeth too, and he saved mine and Arliss’s. We can’t; we don’t know for certain. I’ll pen him up where he can’t get out, and then we’ll wait. We can’t just shoot him like he was nothin’! Don’t you understand?”

Mama: “Alright, son, if you think there’s a chance.”

After two weeks of keeping Old Yeller penned up, he shows no signs of the suspected infection. The family is hopeful that he is not suck. But a few days from when the family plans to release him from his dog prison, Travis brings Yeller some food, only to discover the dog growling maliciously. Travis tries to deny to himself and his family that the dog is ill, but when young Arliss sneaks out at night to try to set the dog free, the family is forced to confront the heartbreaking situation. Mama gets the gun, knowing what painful but necessary event must unfold.

Travis: “No, Mama.”

Mama: “There’s no hope for him now, Travis. He’s sufferin’. You know we’ve got to do it.”

Travis: “I know, Mama, but he was my dog. I’ll do it.”

With a single blow from the shotgun, Old Yeller is gone, and a young boy is devastated.

old yeller

Following the heart-wrenching scene is a happy reunion, as Mr. Coates returns to his family bearing gifts and affection. His wife relates the story of Old Yeller’s impact on their family, and the father attempts to comfort his grieving son with a speech about loss:

“That was rough, son … but I’m mighty proud of how my boy stood up to it. Couldn’t ask no more of a grown man … Life’s like that sometimes. Now and then, for no good reason a man can figure out, life will just haul off and knock him flat, slamming him in the ground so hard it seems like all his insides are busted. But it’s not all like that. A lot of it’s mighty fine, and you can’t afford to waste the good part frettin’ about the bad. That makes it all bad. You understand what I’m tryin’ to get at? … When you start lookin’ around for somethin’ good to take the place of the bad, as a general rule, you can find it.”

Old Yeller is as maudlin as they come, demanding tears from all viewers, young or old. This was one of my favorite films as a child, and it is no less moving to me today than it was all those years ago. It teaches children about the importance of responsibility, about losing those we love, and about loyalty. It’s one of the saddest movies ever produced, but definitely one of the most important, in my humble opinion.

maudlin tear rating 5Old Yeller earns a big fat maximum of five (heaving, sobbing) teardrops on the Maudlin Meter.

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.

The early days of animation at Paramount, courtesy of the Fleischer brothers.

Posted on by under animated shorts, animation, blogathon, classic cartoons, hahas, lit adaptations, pioneers of animation

By 1927, Adolph Zukor, the Hollywood mogul behind the rapidly-expanding Paramount-Famous Lasky Corporation, had built a veritable entertainment empire. The studio had moved into a new, multimillion-dollar twenty-six acre lot off Melrose Avenue. They had amassed a chain of nearly two thousand theaters across the country, called Publix Theatres, in which to screen their many productions. Paramount was the home of some of the most popular films and biggest stars of the silent era–Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, Rudolph Valentino (before his unfortunate early death in 1926), Clara Bow (star of 1927′s Wings, the first film to win the Academy Award for Best Picture), and Gloria Swanson among them. By the end of 1928, Paramount would move forward technologically with the release of their first all-talking film, Interference, starring William Powell. It was a time of success and unchecked progress, but Zukor wasn’t through expanding his empire. His ambitions soon led him to the one area Paramount had yet to conquer: animation.

Meanwhile, in New York, the Fleischer brothers, Max and Dave, had themselves built an animation studio that garnered much acclaim for their wildly inventive cartoons. In 1914, Max invented the rotoscope, which allows an artist to trace over live-action footage to create realistic-looking animated movement. Dave would don a clown costume, and Max would trace over his movements to produce the antics of a character they christened “Koko the Clown.” This gave rise to a series of animated vignettes called Out of the Inkwell, which depicted the adventures of Koko and his companion, a dog named Fitz. The Inkwell shorts were not just animated, however; they typically began with live-action footage of Max Fleischer interacting with his characters, much in the way Winsor McCay had done with his legendary dinosaur, Gertie, in 1914. The Inkwell cartoons were initially distributed through Bray Productions, a studio that focused singularly on producing animated content, and were included regularly in Bray’s newsreel features for Paramount. By 1921, the Fleischers (along with their brother, Lou) took control of production and formed the Fleischer Studios. The move was a prolific one for the brothers, as they produced more than sixty animated Inkwell shorts between 1921 and 1926, which were distributed by several studios, including Warner Bros.

But the Fleischers’ output didn’t stop there; in addition to the Inkwell cartoons, Max had begun to dabble in combining sound and animation in a series of shorts called Song Car-Tunes, beginning in 1924. While Walt Disney’s 1928 classic Steamboat Willie is generally recognized as the first cartoon to feature synchronized sound and music (even though Paul Terry’s Dinner Time technically premiered–and failed at the box office–more than a month before Willie), it’s important to note that the Fleischers were experimenting with the combination of animation and sound years before Mickey Mouse was created. The Car-Tunes soon employed a new gimmick created by either Dave or Max (there’s some dispute as to who actually came up with the idea)–the “follow the bouncing ball” routine. As the lyrics to a popular song appeared on the screen, the ball would bounce across the words to indicate the proper rhythm and cadence of the song, so viewers could follow and belt out the tune along with the rest of the audience. The first short to utilize the technique was the 1925 entry My Bonnie Lies Over the Sea, featuring the Scottish tune of the same name.

In 1927, Paramount made a deal with Fleischer Studios to distribute their cartoons. It would be a lucrative partnership. Out of the Inkwell became Inkwell Imps, producing over four dozen more Koko-starring shorts before being discontinued in 1929. Song Car-Tunes (which ended its run by the end of 1927) was then reborn as Screen Songs in 1929, and featured appearances by Paramount-contracted entertainers like Rudy Vallee, Cab Calloway (who also appeared in several other cartoons for the studio), and Ethel Merman. At the same time, Max and Dave collaborated on a new series of shorts called Talkartoons, in which Koko’s sidekick, Fitz (now rechristened Bimbo) became a star. Max’s preferred method of rotoscoping was eventually phased out in favor of more ambitious, stylized animation, led by the talented, young animators who flocked to the Fleischer studio, allowing Paramount to compete on the same level as animation giant Disney. And one of those fresh new cartoonists–Grim Natwick–produced Paramount’s first bona fide animated star in 1930, when Bimbo was given a girlfriend named Betty Boop.

Betty Boop wasn’t just popular; she was a phenomenon. Originally starting out as a canine companion to Bimbo, in 1932, Betty was made over into a human character, a flapper girl with naughty hemlines and a heart of gold. She sang and simpered her way through dozens of adventures–usually involving a lecherous threat to her treasured “boop-oop-a-doop.” By 1932, Talkartoons ceased to exist, and Betty was given her own series, with Bimbo and Koko as her frequent companions. She remained a popular figure and sex symbol until 1934; when strict enforcement of the Production Code took effect in July of that year, Betty’s hemlines were lowered, her overt sexuality was greatly tamped down, and the endearing naughtiness that made her cartoons so appealing was essentially gone. The Fleischers continued to produce Betty Boop cartoons through 1939, but the character never regained the same wild level of popularity that she had enjoyed in the early 1930s, and the series was finally discontinued.

In 1933, a Betty Boop short was used as a platform for the animated debut of a popular comic strip character, Popeye the Sailor. The comic strip depicted the love triangle between Popeye, his “goil” Olive Oyl (originally voiced by Mae Questel, who also voiced Betty Boop), and his rival, Bluto, a buff bully. The character immediately took off, and the Fleischers gave Popeye his own series two months later. As Betty Boop’s popularity waned, Popeye’s grew exponentially, and within three years, he was Paramount’s number-one animated star, even rivaling Mickey Mouse at one point as the most popular animated character in the world. Popeye was also notable for being one of the few cartoon characters to have his own theme song, which has remained a well-known tune since its introduction in the first Popeye short, I Yam What I Yam. More than one hundred black-and-white Popeye shorts were released between 1933 and 1939; between 1936 and 1939, the series also featured three double-length color features, which inserted the Popeye characters into the Arabian Nights tales.

Max Fleischer had long sought to secure funding from Paramount to create a feature-length animated film. But it was not until the groundbreaking success of Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs that Zukor and company agreed to give the animator free reign to complete his dream project: an animated film based on Jonathan Swift’s 1726 novel Gulliver’s Travels (but only the first part–the most famous part, featuring the tale of Gulliver’s encounter with the tiny Lilliputians). The catch? Fleischer’s film would have to be ready in time to be released at Christmas in 1939, and, more importantly, he would have to sign over the Fleischer Studios’ assets to Paramount in order to secure the loan–a move that eventually came back to haunt Max.

Paramount built a new animation studio for the Fleischers in Miami, and in 1938, they left New York and took up residence in Florida to complete the work on Gulliver’s Travels. In order to complete the film by Paramount’s imposed deadline, Fleischer Studios welcomed an influx of new artistic talent, and poached animators from Disney and other animation studios. The new team faced many issues, not the least of which was rivalry between different factions of animators within the studio, creating an air of discord throughout the film’s production. Still, despite these issues, Gulliver’s Travels was indeed completed on time and released by Paramount on Christmas Day, 1939. Though it was successful at the box office, however, it did not reach the same heights as its Disney-produced predecessor, and it did not quite recoup the costs of its production. The Fleischer studio had to swallow the loss.

In 1941, Fleischer Studios tackled another comic character, Superman, in a series of gorgeously-animated shorts. The Superman comic books were immensely popular, and Paramount salivated over the idea of cashing in on the superhero phenomenon. But the Fleischers were reluctant. The infighting among the animators had spread to Max and Dave; neither could stand to be in the same room with the other. On top of that, Paramount essentially owned the studio by this point, having called in its loans. And on top of that, they were finishing the production of their second animated feature, Mr. Bug Goes to Town. The brothers decided the best course of action would be to overestimate the necessary budget for adapting the comic book, but Paramount agreed to their terms and they were forced to undertake the series anyway. The first cartoon in the new series, simply titled Superman, debuted in September of that year, and was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Animated Short.

Mr. Bug Goes to Town had the great, unforeseen misfortune of being released in theaters two days before the bombing of Pearl Harbor. This essentially killed its chances at the box office; the film was an unmitigated flop. And it spelled the end for Fleischer Studios–Dave left to take control of Columbia’s animation division, Screen Gems, which put him in violation of the brothers’ contract with Paramount, and in return, Paramount forced the brothers out of their own studio and took full control. Fleischer Studios was renamed Famous Studios (in honor of Paramount’s origins), production was moved from Miami back to New York, and Max Fleischer joined the animation arm of the Jam Handy Corporation, producing military training films and eventually overseeing the 1944 animated version of the tale of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (which was re-released in 1948 with the addition of the popular Johnny Marks-penned song of the same name).

Without the Fleischer brothers, Paramount was unable to attain the same level of animated success. Famous Studios continued producing Fleischer creations Popeye, Screen Songs, and Superman, but the heyday of those series were soon behind them. Newly introduced characters such as Casper the Friendly Ghost and Baby Huey (whose adventures comprised a new series of cartoons under the heading of Noveltoons) were no match for Disney stars like Donald Duck and Goofy, or Warner Bros. stalwarts like Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck. In the mid-1950s, Paramount sold most of its pre-1950 animated library, excluding Popeye (which had been sold to Associated Artists) and Superman (for which Paramount’s rights had expired); many of those cartoons have been severely edited in the ensuing years, and most are now in the public domain in one butchered form or another. By the late 1950s, Famous Studios had been downsized into a smaller unit called Paramount Cartoon Studios, and the quality of production dropped steeply.

In 1967, a year after Gulf+Western acquired Paramount, the studio’s animation department was shuttered completely. By then, it was a pale ghost of what it had been under the Fleischers. But once upon a time, Paramount was a leader in the animation business, and the only serious challenger to the Disney conglomerate in the 1930s. Five Paramount-distributed Fleischer shorts appear on animation scholar Jerry Beck’s seminal 50 Greatest Cartoons list–Popeye the Sailor Meets Sinbad the Sailor (#17, 1936); Snow White (#19, 1933); Minnie the Moocher (#20, 1932); Superman (#33, 1941); and Bimbo’s Initiation (#37, 1931). It’s undeniable that, at the height of the Golden Age of Hollywood animation, Zukor’s studio empire presented moviegoers with some seriously entertaining, beautifully-drawn, and thought-provoking cartoons–animated gems that are, to this day, recognized and celebrated for their intelligent composition and artistic value.

 

This post is our contribution to the Paramount Centennial Blogathon, hosted this week by The Hollywood Revue. There have been some great contributions in the past two days, so head on over there and check them out!

Celebrating 100 Years of Chuck Jones: The Dot and the Line (1965)

Posted on by under animated shorts, animation, classic cartoons, kiddie faves, lit adaptations, saturday morning cartoons

After Warner Bros. terminated his long-term contract in 1962, Chuck Jones moved on to MGM, producing a series of cartoons featuring that studio’s famed pair, Tom and Jerry. Jones’ time wasn’t completely consumed by the antics of the cat and mouse, however; the animator/director worked on several other projects for the studio, one of which–The Dot and the Line: A Romance in Lower Mathematics (1965)–won Jones his only competitive Academy Award as a producer.

The Dot and the Line, as its full title indicates, tells of the romance between a dilettante dot and the straight line that loves her. While the dot is initially enamored of a “wild and unkempt squiggle” (whose wildness is underscored by a clamorous rock-and-roll tune that sounds every time it is onscreen), the “stiff as a board” straight line tries to adapt himself into something else in order to entice the dot back to his side. After struggling a long time, the line finally learns to form himself into an angle, which then allows him to form an unending series of increasingly complex shapes that, in the end, are much more appealing to the dot than the “chaos” presented by the squiggle. The cartoon concludes with the tongue-in-cheek moral: “To the vector belong the spoils.”

Norton Juster, the author of the book on which the short is based, also wrote the screenplay for the cartoon. The short is narrated by English actor Robert Morley (whom some might best remember as Katharine Hepburn’s ill-fated brother in 1951′s The African Queen), who gives an appropriately lively voice-over performance. It’s somewhat lengthy for a cartoon short–at ten minutes long, it’s about three minutes longer than the typical Jones cartoon–but the cartoon hardly drags, for the animation, marked by a multitude of colors, shapes, and intriguing visuals, is simply too engaging.

The cartoon is somewhat similar to the Walt Disney production Donald in Mathmagic Land (1959) in that it attempts to present mathematics–specifically the art of shapes–in an interesting and entertaining way, and indeed, The Dot and the Line accomplishes this handily (and in much less time than its Disney counterpart–although, granted, Donald’s journey into mathematics is much more detailed than that of the latter cartoon). But The Dot and the Line is also more than a “math cartoon”: it’s also a grand vocabulary lesson. For example, after his success, the narrator tells us, the line becomes “dazzling, clever, mysterious, versatile, erudite, eloquent, profound, enigmatic, complex, and compelling”–and when’s the last time you heard some of those words used in a children’s cartoon?

The language and wordplay in The Dot and the Line owes something of a debt to the playful sing-song rhythms of Dr. Seuss. And there’s no shortage of puns in the cartoon; for instance, when the line becomes despondent at having been ignored by the dot, his friends, worried about “how thin and drawn” he is, try to lighten the mood, proclaiming, “She lacks depth!” This type of math-related humor is far from heavy-handed, however; it’s supplemented by topical humor, particularly one gag that is my favorite moment in the cartoon: the morning after the line has finally discovered the trick to forming into an angle, he’s bent himself in such a fervor of movement that he has the nerd equivalent of a hangover. “Freedom,” the line admits, “is not a license for chaos.”

Though the language and the concepts may be a little “above” younger viewers, The Dot and the Line succeeds in making a sometimes unpopular subject (ugh, math, yuck!) a rather absorbing one. Incidentally, this would not be the only collaboration between Jones and Juster–five years later, Jones adapted Juster’s popular children’s novel, The Phantom Tollbooth, into a live-action/animated film for MGM. That movie would mark the final production of the studio, as MGM shuttered its animation unit soon after. Jones went on to found an independent production company, Chuck Jones Productions, and continued creating for another thirty years until he passed away in 2002. Still, his subsequent work never quite reached the peaks he had ascended during his days with Warner Bros. and MGM. With both of those studios’ animation divisions closed by 1970, it truly marked the end of an era in Hollywood animation.

 

Today is the last day to enter our drawing for two Looney Tunes compilations on DVD! Leave a comment on this post (or any of our Chuck Jones posts from the past week) to be automatically entered for a chance to win!

Bringing The Scarlet Letter to (silent) life.

Posted on by under lit adaptations, silence = golden

Nathaniel Hawthorne’s 1850 novel The Scarlet Letter has apparently long stymied filmmakers, because there has yet to be a cinematic version that fully adapts the material without changing the tone or intent of the author’s original novel.

Not to be overly sarcastic about it or anything.

It’s a damn shame, too, because Letter is truly a masterwork of American literature. The story of Hester Prynne, whose clandestine affair with retiring and troubled minister Arthur Dimmesdale leads to her giving birth to a daughter, Pearl, out of wedlock (and thus being forced to bear the titular “A” on her chest as a symbol of her sin), has been studied, analyzing, critiqued, and otherwise extensively examined in the 160+ years since its initial publication. It’s a book that I first encountered in high school, one that I liked but never fully appreciated until graduate school (in fact–humblebrag alert!–my very first conference presentation was drawn from a paper I had written about Letter). Hawthorne’s novel is nothing less than a literary marvel–an intricate patchwork of transcendentalist-type musings on human nature, questions about the true nature of morality, and the psychological repercussions of religious persecution. This has (rather unfairly) gained the novel a reputation as being something of a dense and depressing wasteland of a book (when that description is really more appropriate for something like the GAWD-awful soul-sucking mess that is Robinson Crusoe).

Nonetheless, this is heady stuff, to be sure, and, admittedly, incredibly difficult to translate to the screen. Though the subject matter itself is enthralling–Sex! Adultery! False identities! Strange, bastard children!–it somehow remains tempting for filmmakers to alter the book’s storyline to suit their own desires. Changing important elements of the plot, however–whether to escape the wrath of censors or to give audiences a somewhat jarring “happy ending”–ultimately devalues the complexity of Hawthorne’s carefully-crafted narrative. The Scarlet Letter does not aim to titillate (despite what those behind the 1995 “let’s find an excuse to show Demi Moore’s tits” version might have thought), but rather to elucidate the dangers of blind adherence to the strictures of Puritan society (granted, this in itself is just the nutshell version of Hawthorne’s ultimate point, but I’ll spare you my full treatise on the novel).

In the early days of Hollywood, literary adaptations were something of a no-brainer: taking a popular piece of American culture and acting it out for the screen was an easy way to entice people into theaters, to give them something with which they were (at least somewhat) familiar. Within the nearly two-decade period between 1908 and 1926, seven silent screen versions of The Scarlet Letter were reportedly produced, many of which no longer seem to exist. But through the combined efforts of Swedish director Victor Seastrom and leading lady Lillian Gish, the final silent adaptation, released in theaters in 1926, comes closer than any existing version in capturing the spirit of Hawthorne’s novel.

In 1922, the Hollywood “powers that be” established the MPPDA (Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America), a self-imposed watchdog group intended to alleviate concerns that the film industry was a disreputable hotbed of sin and immorality. The head of MPPDA, former United States Postmaster General Will Hays, would eventually give his name to the Production Code, the set of rules, regulations, and strictly-enforced moral guidelines that would dictate film content for more than three decades. In the years leading up to the Code’s formalization, Hays promoted an outline of what he called the “Don’ts” and the “Be Carefuls” for film content. This included a list of books that were deemed “inappropriate” for film adaptation–and The Scarlet Letter was near the top of that banned-book list. But Gish had her heart set on playing Hester, and eventually persuaded Hayes–and the religious organizations whose beck-and-call he was subject to–that the film would adhere to Hayes’ moral strictures.

The resulting movie is lyrical and resonant; though it is undeniably more the love story of Hester and Dimmesdale as opposed to a stinging critique of Puritan morality, it remains more faithful to Hawthorne’s intent than any other existing film version of the novel, at least in my estimation. Part of the reason for this may be due to the efforts of screenwriter Frances Marion, who neatly manages to avoid overt melodramatic flourishes in favor of genuine human emotion. But much of the credit belongs to Gish, for the movie truly belongs to her and her alone.

Not for nothing was Gish considered the “First Lady” of American film; the camera positively adores the woman, focusing on her almost lovingly in certain scenes, highlighting her gorgeous features and the emotional tide bubbling beneath her appropriately-puritanical facade. Gish makes for a luminous Hester–she’s perhaps a little too innocent and girlish at times for such a knowing character, but there is a beautiful and compelling forthrightness about her portrayal that is quite effective. To put it bluntly, Gish’s Hester is a take-no-bullshit type of woman–ferocious in defending her child, and more concerned with Dimmesdale’s fate than her own, for she instinctively knows that she has the stronger backbone of the two.

Playing opposite Gish is Lars Hanson, a Swedish actor perhaps best known as one of fellow Swede Greta Garbo’s paramours in the deliciously naughty 1927 silent film Flesh and the Devil. The wide-eyed Hanson is a good choice for weak-willed Dimmesdale; though there are moments in which he nearly delves into hand-wringing caricature, it’s still somehow strangely befitting. And when the character does have moments in which his concern for Hester (and his “devil child”) outweigh his infirmity, Hanson’s Dimmesdale is fully capable of growing a pair (so to speak), throwing one hell of a dirty look at some of his more judgmental peers. Interestingly, Hanson spoke no English (still, he could obviously take direction from countryman Seastrom well enough), and thus performed his scenes in Swedish while Gish responded in English, making for what was likely a very unusual shoot.

The Scarlet Letter was not wholly successful upon its initial release, though it is recognized now as a silent film classic, marked by one of the best performances of Gish’s career. It’s worth noting that The Scarlet Letter was one of the last films Gish made in the silent era, and one of the last she made as a full-fledged leading lady. After her final silent, 1928′s The Wind (also directed by Seastrom), failed critically and commercially at the box office, Gish took a break from movie-making. She made her “talkie” debut in 1930′s One Romantic Night, and starred opposite Roland Young in 1933′s His Double Life. Most of her performances in the 1930s were on the stage; Gish did not make another film for nearly a decade, only returning to the screen in the early 1940s. Her later career was marked by notable character roles in a number of films, among them Duel in the Sun (1946)–for which she received an Academy Award nomination–Portrait of Jennie (1948), and Night of the Hunter (1955). Though she never won a competitive Oscar, Gish received an honorary Academy Award in 1971. But Gish was not content to rest on her laurels–she continued acting well into her 90s, both on television and in film, and made her final onscreen appearance at the age of 93, in the 1987 film The Whales of August (opposite fellow Hollywood icon Bette Davis). By the time Gish passed away in 1993–eight months shy of her one hundredth birthday–her career had extended into its eighth remarkable decade, with nary a sign of any decline in the great actress’ talents.

 

Note: This post is an entry in the ongoing 2012 TCM SUTS blogathon hosted by Sittin’ on a Backyard Fence and ScribeHard on Film. I was originally going to write about the 1919 film Broken Blossoms, which is airing on TCM at 6AM EST tomorrow morning and is, far and away, my favorite Gish film. However, the Mythical Monkey has posted an utterly phenomenal treatise on that film that blows away whatever I was planning to write (and you should all definitely go read his thoughts right now!). 

The Scarlet Letter will air later in the day, at 12:15PM EST.

“Successful angels do not use sarcasm!”

Posted on by under hahas, lit adaptations, supernatural films

Charles (Clifton Webb) and Arthur (Edmund Gwenn) are an unlikely-named pair of angels who are sent down to earth to fetch a young soul named Item (Gigi Perreau). Item has been hanging around the home of the Boltons, Jeff (Robert Cummings) and Lydia (Joan Bennett), for seven years, waiting to be born. But the show-biz couple are too busy to have a baby–even though Lydia says she is ready to have a child, Jeff insists that they dedicate themselves to the theater and their new play instead.

Charles and Arthur try to convince Item to come back to heaven with them, but she steadfastly refuses, because she has grown to love the Boltons and wants them to be her parents. Charles decides that the best way to convince the Boltons to start a family is to materialize into human form and pose as an “angel investor” to back their new play. Item takes him to the movies to see a Gary Cooper film, The Westerner (1940), and Charles bases his new persona around the actor, taking on a cowpoke accent and claiming to be a sheep rancher from Texas named “Slim Charles.”

Jeff is thrilled by the prospect of finding someone willing to fork over the funds, and he invites Charles to join him and Lydia at their dairy farm in Pennsylvania, which the pair has converted into a summer home. When Charles seems less than willing to write a check for the play, Jeff tells the playwright, Daphne Peters (Joan Blondell), to cozy up to “Slim” and convince him to sign on the dotted line. Charles finds himself enticed by Daphne, and experiences the first stirrings of love. Arthur, who has tagged along to keep an eye on Charles, tells him that falling in love would be the worst thing he could do, and puts him back on track to complete his mission.

In a private moment, Lydia confesses to “Slim” that she thinks her marriage may be over and she regrets never having had a child. Charles convinces her to fight for her marriage, and that she needn’t consult Jeff first if having a baby is what she really wants. Charles and Arthur set the mood for the couple that evening, hoping for the best. But soon enough, trouble arrives in multiple forms: Daphne’s ex-boyfriend, B-movie actor and wannabe gangster Tony Clark (Jack La Rue) arrives to win her back; a former angel investor, Tex Henry (Harry von Zell) arrives, interested in financing the play himself; the IRS gets involved when no record of a “Slim Charles” can be found; more marital tensions build between the Boltons as their anniversary approaches; and Charles finds himself corrupted by some very human temptations as his plot goes off the rails. It’s up to Arthur and Item to remind Charles of who he really is and help him get his plan back on the right track.

For Heaven’s Sake (1950) was adapted from Harry Segall’s 1949 play May We Come In? by writer/director George Seaton. Segall was well-versed in the topic of angels–his play Heaven Can Wait was adapted for film three times, as Here Comes Mr. Jordan (1941), Heaven Can Wait (1978), and Down to Earth (2001), and Segall won an Academy Award for Best Original Story for that first picture. Nor does this film mark Seaton’s first go-round with fantastical or supernatural elements; his screenplay for the perennial Christmas classic Miracle on 34th Street (1947) won Seaton the first of two Oscars for Best Adapted Screenplay (the second, incidentally, was for his decidedly non-whimsical script for 1954′s The Country Girl).

Clifton Webb was at the height of his immense stardom at the time he made this film. After becoming an almost overnight sensation as viperous Waldo Lydecker in Laura (1944), Webb had reached new heights of stardom with the introduction of Lynn Belvedere, know-it-all extraordinaire, in 1948′s Sitting Pretty. The naturally sarcastic and biting edge that marks those roles works well for him here, too, as the impatient angel who finds himself tempted by the spoils of humanity. Though he’s surrounded by a capable supporting cast (including lovely performances from Joan Bennett and an always cheeky Joan Blondell, as well as a nice turn by Seaton’s former Santa Claus, Edmund Gwenn), Webb is the center of the film, and he carries it with an air of suppressed glee that underlies many of his scenes.

Take, for instance, the sequence in which Charles plays the blues on his harp. As the camera pans around the room, we see all of the decadence to which Charles has aligned himself as a human–cigarettes, booze, glossy-mag photos of beautiful women, a copy of Flaubert’s Madame Bovary … it’s a veritable den of iniquity. There’s a hilarious double-take by the camera as it passes over a photograph of Marilyn Monroe, stops, and jerks back to bring the picture into frame once more. Then we finally see Charles, clad in a silk dressing gown, plucking his harp and scatting, throwing around slang, and giving himself over to the “musical profanity” (as Arthur calls it) without a care in the world. As he plucks and sighs and hums along to the tune, waving his hands in the air and rolling his eyes in ecstasy, it’s obvious that Webb is having quite a bit of fun in his role (to say the least).

The other highlight of this film is a delightful sequence in which Daphne’s ex-boyfriend, Tony, confronts “Slim” over Daphne’s affections, while Daphne reacts with sarcastic commentary and ample eye rolling. It’s a bit of a “meta” moment: the actors are playing characters who are themselves playing roles and maintaining a certain facade within the movie, with Charles (the angel) playing the Western hero, and Tony (the B-movie actor) portraying the hardened gangster. The scene is an entertaining mash-up of genre cliches and hackneyed impersonations:

Charles: “I wouldn’t try to molest the little lady if I was you.”

Tony: “Out of my way, stupid.”

Charles: “When you say that, stranger, smile.”

Tony: “If you wanna collect your old age pension, you better not start nothing, see?”

Charles: “Now, I ain’t a-looking for trouble, stranger, but if trouble comes a-looking for me, I won’t be hard to find.”

Tony: “Tough, huh?”

Charles: “When I’m riled.”

Tony: “Yeah?”

Charles: “Yeah!”

Daphne (mockingly): “Yeah!”

As if the dialogue isn’t perfect enough, the staging of this scene is hilarious. The two men, clad in their respective cliched garments–Charles in a plaid shirt, Tony in a suit and fedora–get right in one another’s faces. Tony hulks menacingly and pulls a knife, while Charles puffs out his chest and nonchalantly rolls a cigarette. Tony threatens to cut a button off Charles’ shirt, and Charles, forgetting all angelic decorum, blows the tobacco in Tony’s face and decks him. Daphne is thrilled–”Beautiful, Slim! Gary Cooper couldn’t have done it any better”–and Charles stands tall, a satisfied smirk on his face as he hitches up his pants and tosses her a wink. Beautiful, indeed.

All in all, For Heaven’s Sake is a delightful entry in the “supernatural fantasy” genre that found such popularity in the 1940s. Like many of its brethren, this film succumbs to sentiment in the end–almost cloyingly so–as Charles finds redemption and Item’s dream comes true. Still, despite the mushiness of the ending, the story leading up to that inevitably sappy finale is an entertaining one, and the film is well worth a viewing or two, especially for Clifton Webb fans. I wouldn’t call this his best role, but as a cinematic brother to Webb’s far superior Mr. Belvedere, Charles the angel is undeniably appealing.

The little foxes that spoil the vines.

Posted on by under blogathon, hey y'all ... you're in the south, lit adaptations

Early in the 1941 film The Little Foxes, there is a brief, exquisitely-crafted scene that tells us everything we need to know about these characters. The Hubbard family, having just finished dinner with a wealthy guest and potential business partner, has gathered in the parlor for a musical performance. But this is no pleasant interlude; the entire scene is fraught with tension, with multiple characters precariously balanced on tenterhooks–albeit for different reasons. Alexandra, or “Zan” (Teresa Wright), the young daughter of Regina Hubbard Giddens (Bette Davis), sits at the piano with her Aunt Birdie (Patricia Collinge). Alexandra, miserable at being put on display, is overly nervous and misses the final notes of the tune. For her part, Birdie, already tipsy from the wine that accompanied dinner, just wants to get through the piece so she can have another drink. Regina sits on the sofa with William Marshall (Russell Hicks), the Chicago industrialist whom the family is trying to convince to partner with them in starting up a cotton mill. She reclines back with seeming ease, languidly waving a black fan in front of her face as if she hadn’t a care in the world. But Regina’s ease is superficial–her eyes dart around the room constantly, telegraphing her disapproval at any perceived misstep that might ruin the deal. Regina’s brother, Oscar (Carl Benton Reid), having just snapped at his wife, Birdie, for her liquid overindulgence at dinner, leans against the mantel, stern and unrelenting. His son, Leo (Dan Duryea), is in his own little world, and can barely hide his boredom. And Regina’s other brother, Ben (Charles Dingle), reluctant to pause his “hard sell” of Marshall for a little chamber music, fidgets and tries to start up the conversation once more in the middle of the song … only to close his mouth when Regina reaches out and kicks him in the shin. And thus, in the course of a mere three minutes of brilliant staging, director William Wyler manages to reveal the personality and motivations of every person sitting in that room, with barely a word spoken between them.

Over the course of a career that spanned five decades, William Wyler directed some of the most popular and enduring films to come of out the classic Hollywood period. To this day, he remains the most nominated director in the history of the Academy Awards, having been nominated twelve times, and winning three awards: for Mrs. Miniver (1942), The Best Years of Our Lives (1946), and Ben-Hur (1959). Wyler was known–to put it politely–as a persnickety director (let’s just say, they didn’t call the man “Once-More Wyler” for nothing). He was sometimes demanding and exacting, challenging his actors to put aside mere pretense and bring more to their performances. And while he may have pushed his cast and crew hard during filming, the results cannot be denied. Even a quick glance at his impressive filmography indicates that whatever Wyler did, it was entirely effective–some of the additional noteworthy films that can be found on his resume are 1936′s Dodsworth (for which he received his first Oscar nomination), The Heiress (1949), Roman Holiday (1953), and Funny Girl (1968), among more than three dozen others.

In filming The Little Foxes, Wyler got more behind-the-scenes drama than he likely could have ever anticipated. The movie is adapted from the same-titled 1939 play by Lillian Hellman, who also worked on the screenplay for the film before handing writing duties over to Arthur Kober (Hellman’s ex-husband) and Dorothy Parker and her husband, Alan Campbell (still, credit for the screenplay–and an Academy Award nomination–were given solely to Hellman, despite her having to bow out of the production of the movie to prepare for the debut of her next play). Several members of the Broadway cast reprise their original Broadway roles in the film, including Collinge, Duryea, Reid, and Dingle. But the main roles were recast, with newcomer Wright cast as Zan (for which she would receive her first of three consecutive Oscar nominations); Herbert Marshall taking on the part of Regina’s sickly husband, Horace; and Davis replacing the play’s star, Tallulah Bankhead, in the lead role.

Bankhead, a native of Alabama (like the character of Regina), was by all accounts a natural fit for the role. But Bankhead had two strikes against her that cost her the part: first, for all her stage acclaim, she had not proven herself to be a bankable film actress; and second, Wyler, who had worked with Davis previously on the films Jezebel (1938) and The Letter (1940), wanted Davis for the role.  Despite the difficulties between Davis and Wyler on the set of The Letter (they are pictured above during the making of that film)–and the memories of a heated love affair that had begun and ended during the filming of Jezebel–each looked forward to working with the other again … at least initially. But when star and director began to clash over the portrayal of Regina, the production of the film reportedly went to hell.

The Little Foxes tells the tale of perhaps one of the most dysfunctional fictional families ever devised. The Hubbard clan reveres one thing above all else–money. In the end, the family is completely torn apart by their greed–particularly Regina, whose ambition leaves her incredibly wealthy, and incredibly alone, by the end of the film. The Hubbard brothers are far from princely, but Regina is in a class all her own. She is an utterly fascinating character, all harsh angles and pettiness under a charming facade, and yet there is a slight (at times almost minuscule) vulnerability to her that blunts her edges somewhat by the end of the film. As the daughter in the family, Regina was not included as part of her father’s will; she was forced to marry into money in order to have any at all, and her scheming could be viewed as simply a survival technique, taken to unforgivable extremes when she essentially sits by and watches her husband die, all so she can have the leverage she needs to blackmail her brothers for a bigger share of the mill. (However, if you have read Hellman’s prequel to The Little Foxes, 1946′s Another Part of the Forest, you know that pretty much any sympathetic view of Regina in this film is called into question by her somewhat harsh characterization in that play. The Hubbard clan was rotten to the core, from the very start.)

Davis and Wyler each had their own ideas about how Regina should be depicted onscreen. Davis found Regina to be cold and calculating, and wanted to play her in full-out “bitch” mode. Wyler, on the other hand, thought there was more to the character than bad behavior; he wanted Davis to inject sexier elements into her portrayal, giving Regina a more saucy and appealing air and a sly sense of humor in an attempt to make her more relatable to the audience. On stage, Bankhead had played up Regina’s heartlessness and frigid countenance, and Davis took this as her cue in taking on the role. Ultimately, Wyler lost that particular battle, and Davis played Regina the way she had envisioned. But this would not be the first skirmish to which the director would fall prey. Not long into filming, another big blow-up occurred over, of all things, Davis’ makeup. To try to make herself look older than her thirty-three years, Davis wore rice powder on her face, making her appear so white that Wyler derisively told her to take it off because it made her look too old. Davis refused. Two weeks later, she took an unscheduled “vacation” from filming, claiming to be a “nervous wreck” as a result of the ongoing tension with Wyler, and there was speculation that she would be replaced by another actress.

Eventually Davis returned to the set, and though the remainder of filming was far from pleasant, The Little Foxes was finally completed and released to much acclaim for everyone involved. Still, after the combative experience filming this movie, Davis and Wyler never worked together again (though according to Davis, the two of them had discussed the possibility of doing yet another picture together in the late 1940s, possibly an adaptation of the 1890 Ibsen drama Hedda Gabbler). But for all the trouble during filming, the final result was worth it. Davis is her typically impressive self; the supporting cast, most notably Collinge and Wright, match Davis note-for-note (not something that can be said about many co-stars the actress had over the years), and the movie–marked by Gregg Toland’s incomparable cinematography–is just plain lovely to look at. The Little Foxes is a consistently entertaining movie, populated with nasty folks whose dirty dealings are somehow infinitely enjoyable to watch, and it remains one of Wyler’s more indelible dramas.

 

This post is our entry for the William Wyler blogathon, hosted this week by the incomparable R.D. Finch of The Movie Projector. There is an excellent lineup of contributors for this event, so make sure to check out the list throughout the week and peruse all of the submissions!