Category Archives: lit adaptations

Sanitizing The Children’s Hour

Posted on by under blogathon, hiding in the cinematic closet, lit adaptations, we're here we're queer

 

By some accounts a champion of female independence, playwright Lillian Hellman (1905-1984), crafted some of the most searingly honest plays ever produced by an American writer, beginning with her debut, the heart-wrenching 1934 drama The Children’s Hour (which was inspired by a true story). The play tells the story of two women who work hard to make their dream of creating a successful school for girls a reality. Their dreams are dashed as Mary, a malicious child, creates a lie claiming that the women are lovers. As the rumor spreads and society turns against them, the school is abandoned and the two women’s lives destroyed. Hellman’s play is a moving story of the devastating effects of a lie and the consequences of bigotry. An innocent woman takes her own life, and a prejudiced society thereafter has her blood on its hands.

Lillian Hellman

The Children’s Hour was a very controversial play when it was originally performed, being banned in Boston, London, and Chicago on account of the subject matter of homosexuality. Producers did not believe that American audiences were ready for the supposed lesbian relationship found in this play. Instead, in 1936, they released These Three, an altered version of Hellman’s play. Although Hellman herself wrote the screenplay, and although many of the scenes are nearly identical to those in The Children’s Hour, much of the story’s strength is lost because of the changes that were required due to the rules of the Production Code. Unlike the original play (and the film version of The Children’s Hour later produced in 1961), These Three is centered around a rumor of a heterosexual love triangle. Karen and Joe are in love, but in this version, Martha is secretly in love with Joe as well.

THESE THREE (1936)

These Three lacks the passion evoked in The Children’s Hour. The 1936 version begins with the college graduation ceremony of Karen (Merle Oberon) and Martha (Miriam Hopkins, who would later appear in the 1961 film as Martha’s Aunt Lily). We see a hasty, seemingly spontaneous idea between the two to start a school for girls:

Karen: “What are you going to do?”

Martha: “I don’t know; teach somewhere I guess, if I can get a job.”

Karen: “Do you think I could teach?”

Martha: “Maybe we could find someplace together. Two well-educated young women, also neat and clean, wish position.”

Karen: “Martha, that farm of mine. I haven’t seen it in years, but it’s a lovely old place. I used to spend my summers there when I was a little girl. We could go there. Why not? Why shouldn’t we? We could work there … Martha, we might start a school, something of our own. We’d be good at it, too.”

In the next scene, the two women travel to the house that Karen has inherited from her grandmother. They find it in a dilapidated state, full of rats and bees. It is in this scene that we first meet Dr. Joe (Joel McCrea). He is in the process of tearing down the roof and ridding the house of bees. He explains that, on his days off from the hospital, he comes to the old house to make repairs, simply because he likes the house. He is not the owner, nor does he have any ties to the family or house. Nonetheless, somehow he (a complete stranger to the women) is able to convince Martha and Karen to restore the old house in order to start their school:

Joe: “You know, my place was just as bad as this, but it didn’t cost much to fix it. Much less than you’d think. Borrow a little money from the bank, and it’s fun doing it. So much fun I’d like to start all over again … You know, I used to do an operation at the hospital and then run home to paint the left side of the house.”

Martha: “We wouldn’t starve anyway, Karen, we’d always have free honey.”

Joe: “And free help. I’m a good carpenter, a good house painter, and good plumber.”

Both women fall in love with Joe as they work together restoring the house, but it is Karen who wins his heart. Martha does not let either party know of her affections for Joe until the very end.

In this version, malicious little Mary (Bonita Granville) creates a rumor that Martha and Dr. Joe have had “relations,” although he is engaged to Karen. Instead of Joe defending the two women, as in the original play, we instead find Karen defending Joe and Martha. Mrs. Tillford (Alma Kruger), the women’s benefactor and Mary’s grandmother, directs a speech to Karen, advising her to “clean her house.” In the scene where Karen and Joe part ways, it is Karen who asks Joe whether the lie is true or not. Although they still break up as in the play, the couple ends up happily together in the end, after the truth comes out.

The 1961 version of The Children’s Hour, on the other hand, is a much darker, intensely passionate film, and much closer to the original intent of Hellman’s play. While These Three has a lighter mood and happy ending, The Children’s Hour is nothing short of utter tragedy.

The film begins with a happy, serene setting. There are schoolgirls riding their bikes in a single file line, running along a serene pond in the sunshine, a sweet piano recital. From the very beginning, however, it is Malicious Mary (Karen Balkin) who ruins the otherwise heavenly scene by frightening one of her classmates.

THE CHILDREN’S HOUR (1961)

In The Children’s Hour, there is a sense of the hard work that Martha (Shirley MacLaine) and Karen (Audrey Hepburn) have put into making the school a success. Near the beginning of the film, Karen and Martha are found drying dishes together as they discuss their progress with the school. Martha announces that for the first time ever, they have had a profitable month. It is clear to the viewer that these two women have invested their lives into making this school successful. Karen notes at one point, “I may be hasty, but I think it’s here to stay … it’s almost too good to believe.” Unfortunately, this is a dream that will be destroyed as a result of a child’s selfish lie.

Although many parts of these two films are nearly identical, and both were directed by the legendary William Wyler, the effect of each on the viewer is drastically different. Is it a result of the changes in the storyline? Is it the acting quality? To become fully invested in a film, the viewer needs to feel a connection to the characters–something that is admittedly easier with the latter version. The warmth and love associated with friendship is evident between Hepburn and MacLaine. The feelings that Martha has for Karen are also hinted at multiple times throughout the film. When they earn money, Karen suggests that they save it. Martha insists that Karen use the money to buy new clothes: “You’re a Fifth Avenue, Rue de la Paix. You need to be kept up.” Martha reminisces about meeting Karen: “I remember how you used to dress in college. The first time I ever saw you, running across the quadrangle, your hair flying … I remember thinking, ‘What a pretty girl.’” The love between the two women, romantic or otherwise, is much more evident in this film version.

The Children’s Hour ends with the death of an innocent woman, driven to suicide as the consequence of a child’s wicked and hateful nature. It’s a brutal, and brutally honest, ending. It is the colossal sense of grief demonstrated in the film–and in the original play–that leaves such a drastic and ultimately more profound impact on the viewer than does These Three.

This post is the first of several contributions True Classics will be making to the Queer Blogathon this week. Co-hosted by Garbo Laughs and Pussy Goes Grrr, the blogathon will feature posts about LGBT issues, images, and themes in films both classic and modern. Make sure to check out the wonderful entries that will be posted on each site!

Stella Dallas, or: All Your Tears Are Belong to Us

Posted on by under lit adaptations, melodrama

Stella Martin (Barbara Stanwyck), the ambitious daughter of a factory worker, falls for Stephen Dallas (John Boles), an executive at the factory whose former fiance, Helen (Barbara O’Neil) has recently married another man. Stella finagles a meeting with Stephen and the two of them begin dating. Before long, they are married with a young daughter, Laurel (Anne Shirley). Stella and Stephen clash when Stella longs to be a part of the social scene, much to Stephen’s displeasure, and she forms a friendship with Ed Munn (Alan Hale), a drunken layabout. Eventually, the Dallases separate when he takes a job in New York, and she remains behind in Boston with Laurel, upon whom she dotes. Stella aspires to provide Laurel with all of the opportunities she never had, but her lower-class vulgarity shocks Laurel’s upper-crust school acquaintances and their parents. Meanwhile, Stephen reconnects with the now-widowed Helen, and tries to convince Stella to give him a divorce so they can marry. Not wanting to stand in her daughter’s way, Stella makes the ultimate sacrifice and plans to send Laurel to live in New York with Stephen and Helen, thus giving up her role in her daughter’s life.

Stella Dallas (1937) is adapted from the same-titled novel by Olive Higgins Prouty, who also wrote the similarly-themed maudlin masterpiece Now, Voyager, which was made into a memorable Bette Davis vehicle in 1942. These two films are quintessential “women’s films,” domestically-centered melodramas targeting a predominately female audience that were immensely popular throughout the 1930s and 40s. The genre is relatively ill-defined (in fact, some critics would argue that there should be no subset of “women’s film” at all), but the main characteristic of these types of films seems to be the emotional manipulation of the audience. It’s almost as if it’s a point of pride for these films to wring their viewers dry by the time the end credits roll.

If that is indeed one of the main criteria in classifying a film as a “woman’s picture,” then Stella Dallas more than qualifies. The final third of the film seems determined to wrench tears from its audience through sheer emotional manipulation. And damned if it doesn’t work. A series of well-crafted melodramatic moments–the monologue in which Stella reveals to Helen the motivation behind her giving up Laurel; the goodbye at the train station, as you realize that Stella never expects to see her daughter again; and the gut-punching finale, as Stella watches her Laurel’s wedding through the window–all combine in a concentrated effort to reduce you to a puddle of goopy tears by the end of the movie.

But there is more to Stella Dallas than weeping and wailing. The strength of the film is found in Stanwyck’s role as the sacrificing mother to end all sacrificing mothers, a character who is far more complicated than the prototypical maudlin heroine of these types of “women’s films.” More than anything, Stella functions as an observer, always hovering on the edges, never fully “belonging” to any situation in which she finds herself throughout the movie. She doesn’t belong in the small house with her family; she has more ambition that that. She doesn’t belong with Stephen; in the end, her vulgarity–or, perhaps more precisely, her lack of worldliness–challenges her ability to “fit in” with the “right” people. And in her capacity as an observer, she serves, at least in part, as a stand-in for the audience. The movie was produced at the tail end of the Great Depression, in a time when filmgoers still sought out the movies as an escape for their own troubles. To witness Stella’s attempts to find a place within a strange, new world of privilege–for both herself and her daughter–is a reflection of what audiences had been trying to do for years: to see themselves, perhaps, as guests at the Grand Hotel or attendees at one of Nick and Nora’s lavish cocktail parties, knowing all the while that it was a world to which they could likely never belong.

This brings up one of the central tropes of the film, the issues of class difference that ultimately end Stella and Stephen’s marriage. Stella is brash and ambitious; she talks loudly, drinks copiously, flirts freely. At first glance, she is something shiny and new to Stephen: he’s just learned that Helen married another man, and he’s vulnerable–a fact that doesn’t escape Stella’s notice. She pounces and manages to hook him by taking on a demure, ladylike persona (one that she finds it difficult to maintain, as witnessed by her snappish response to a gossiping acquaintance outside the movie theater) that is similar to Helen’s bearing and attitude. Stephen is not completely oblivious to Stella’s true nature–he tells her to “be herself” instead of trying to be like the “educated,” nice-speaking people he’s always known. “Stay as you are,” he chides her. “Don’t pretend, Stella. Anyway, it isn’t well-bred to act the way you aren’t.”

And yet Stephen ultimately cannot accept Stella the way she truly is. He finds it difficult to handle her temper and even more difficult to handle her unladylike ministrations in public. He treats her like a child (and, truth be told, she acts it several times during the film), and does his best to stifle her when her behavior becomes embarrassing. Stephen is held up in the film as some kind of paragon of “proper” behavior, a height to which Stella–emotional, ruled by desire as opposed to cold, hard logic–can never aspire. Upper-crust women, the film tells us, don’t indulge in emotional displays. They maintain a calm, cool, judgmental facade. Stella’s lower-class forthrightness and nouveau riche approach is therefore not only out of place, but offensive to them.

This is not to say that the entirety of the blame rests on Stephen’s milquetoast-y shoulders. Stella is petulant and petty at times, selfishly wanting to have fun at the expense of her relationship with her husband. She is also not as self-aware as she should be–although she realizes early on that their different social statuses might create an issue later on, she is later unable (or, perhaps, unwilling?) to see that her behavior causes problems not only for Stephen but for Laurel as well … which makes her growth as a character and her sacrifice in the end all the more remarkable. Stella not only gives up the chance to live with her daughter and continue to raise her through her teenage years, but also sacrifices her daughter’s high opinion of her. She has finally grown up–albeit too late to find personal happiness, it seems.

The end of the film mirrors the scene of Stella and Stephen’s movie date near the start of the film, and underscores Stella’s role as observer. While watching the film, Stella–eyes widened, smiling–is enraptured by the figures on the screen, to the point that she absentmindedly brings a piece of popcorn to her mouth, too enthralled by the story to actually eat it. In the final scene, Stella watches her daughter marry her wealthy young suitor, her eyes shining with the same delighted fervor seen in the movie theater, as she grasps a piece of her handkerchief between her front teeth. Stella seems destined to witness other people’s happy endings without ever fully experiencing one of her own. Still, in the case of Laurel’s wedding, Stella is fulfilled in seeing her plan come to fruition–her daughter has found happiness, and as she walks away, smiling through her tears, her contentment with her sacrifice registers all over her joyful face.

The movie belongs to Stanwyck. There’s no other way to put it–she so thoroughly outshines every other cast member on screen. Stella is a tour de force performance for Stanwyck–which should come as no surprise for fans of the actress, who know full well how supremely talented she was. I would venture to say that Stanwyck delivers the strongest performance of her career in this film–yes, even more so than her villainous turn in Double Indemnity, or her deliciously conniving Jean in The Lady Eve, or her many pitch-perfect comedic roles. There is just something about her in this film that represents the pinnacle of her acting ability to me. She elevates the film beyond the melodramatic muck; by sheer force of will, almost, Stanwyck makes the movie better than it should be.

This is due in large part to her ability to so thoroughly embody the character. From head to toe, from vocal delivery to the most nuanced of expressions, when you watch Barbara Stanwyck as Stella Dallas, you aren’t witnessing a mere performance–you are watching the very art of acting, brought to vibrant, colorful life. She is not playing Stella; she is Stella. To me, she rivals the aforementioned Bette Davis for the ability to get under a character’s skin and will her to live. She even resembles Davis in fleeting glimpses throughout the movie–for example, in the scene in which Stella receives Helen’s telegram warning her of Laurel’s impending return, she’s almost a doppelganger of Davis’s Mildred in 1934′s Of Human Bondage (though the similarity is only in appearance, thank God, as Mildred is a nightmare of a character).

Stanwyck’s physicality in Stella Dallas is astounding. When I watch this film, I’m particularly struck by the way in which she moves across the screen. Stanwyck’s movements are an effective demonstration of her character’s constant attempts to aspire higher than her station. Stella’s walk isn’t gliding or graceful; she swings her hips stiffly, performing what she sees as a “proper” way of walking instead of moving naturally. By the time she makes the decision to give up Laurel, she’s stoop-shouldered with self-defeat. Her lack of makeup in these scenes draws attention to the world-weariness in her face. It is only at the end of the film, after watching her daughter’s happiness fulfilled, that Stella finally moves easily, freely, walking away with her shoulders back and her head held high, striding purposefully toward the camera with a joyful expression. It’s the perfect shot on which to end the film, and an intensely powerful moment for Stanwyck.

It’s little wonder this film provided her with her first of four Academy Award nominations for Best Actress. Stanwyck reportedly claimed that losing the Oscar for this film (which was ultimately won by Luise Rainer, for the second year in a row, for her role in The Good Earth) was more difficult than any other loss during her six decades-long career, because she truly felt it was her best work on-screen. Don’t doubt the woman’s word: while Stella Dallas may have its flaws (the rather wooden characterization of both Stephen and Helen comes to mind), Stanwyck herself is sheer, unadulterated perfection.

“You even have to murder a man politely!”

Posted on by under lit adaptations

Sometimes, a film comes along that seems to think of itself as far cleverer than it may actually be. I find this to be particularly true when considering some of the more popular films to come out of the past decade; ever since 90s hits like The Usual Suspects (1995) and The Sixth Sense (1999) delighted many viewers with their final, nifty twists, it seems like every Tom, Dick, and Shyamalan has tried to shock the audience with surprise endings. In fact, it seems damn near close to cinematic law nowadays that every horror movie released in the United States must feature a surprise ending in order to break even at the box office.

But the trend goes back much further. Filmmakers have long sought to excite audiences through trickery and surprise endings, and several notable classic films are marked by unforeseen twists. Some of these (Psycho, Chinatown, Les Diaboliques) are true shockers, while others fall decidedly flat by either not being all that surprising, being slightly more disappointing than they were built up to be (Rosebud was a f&*#%$g sled???!?!?!?), or by telegraphing the ending so blatantly that any element of surprise is lost well before the climax.

Such is part of the problem with 1951′s The Man with a Cloak, which attempts to leave the viewer with a serious “wow!” moment, and instead just invokes an eye-rolling “well, duh.”

[I'm going to throw up a little "spoiler alert" warning here, just in case it's not yet obvious that I'm going to over-analyze the crap out of this movie's ending.]

The Man with a Cloak sets up its mystery from the opening seconds–we see a darkened city street, and a title card informs us that the setting is New York City in 1848. Another title card appears to loosely set up the plot, stating: “In the lives of all men there are moments of mystery–for man often years, and sometimes chooses, to wander alone and nameless. This is the tale of such a wanderer, once little known and less respected, whose real name later became immortal.”

The wanderer in question watches young Frenchwoman Madeline Minot (Leslie Caron) pass by in a horse-drawn carriage before he enters a bar and orders a bottle of wine. The bartender, Flaherty, (Jim Backus) gently tries to get the man, who identifies himself as “Dupin,” to pay his increasingly large bar tab, but Dupin insists he is waiting on a check and has no money. Flaherty allows him to drink anyway.

Meanwhile, Madeline, believing she has gone to the wrong address, finds her way to the bar while looking for directions. Dupin rescues her from the unwanted attentions of several drunks and asks how he can help her. Madeline reveals that she is looking for a man named Thevenet. She has traveled to New York to solicit money from Thevenet on behalf of her fiance–his grandson, Paul–a young revolutionary and supporter of the Second Republic in France who is danger of being jailed for participating in the uprising.

Upon returning to Thevenet’s house, Madeline is first denied entry by the butler, Martin (Joe De Santis), and then again by the glamorous and steely Lorna Bounty (Barbara Stanwyck), the manager of Thevenet’s house (“manager” being code for “lover”). But she manages to force her way in to see the man of the house, and Thevenet (Louis Calhern) takes a liking to her and invites her to stay, angering the servants, who have spent years waiting for Thevenet to die so they might finally get their hands on his money.

But Thevenet is not ignorant of his servants’ plans; he visits Madeline in the middle of the night and warns her that she may be in danger in the house. He gives her a key to lock her door before bidding her goodnight. In the morning, she witnesses the cook, Mrs. Flynn (Margaret Wycherly), doctoring a glass of milk with a bottle of medicine. Suspecting it to be poisoned, Madeline sneaks the bottle out of the house and enlists Dupin’s help. When a pharmacist reveals it is nothing but sugar water, Madeline is initially relieved, until Dupin explains that giving Thevenet sugar water in lieu of his prescribed medication is just as deadly.

Dupin decides to investigate and goes to Thevenet’s house, encountering all three servants. Lorna is immediately attracted to the mysterious man in the cloak, much to Martin’s disgust, but she is disconcerted when Dupin recognizes her as a former critical darling of the stage. Later, Dupin crashes Thevenet’s booze-soaked Halloween party at Madeline’s behest. Dupin and Lorna flirt with one another, and she seductively sings a song to him.

Thevenet takes a liking to Dupin, and they wax about poetry and money–a rather philosophical discussion that, combined with the alcohol, encourages Thevenet to summon his lawyer, Durand (Richard Hale), so he can change his will and leave his money to Madeline and Paul. The combined efforts of Lorna and Martin temporarily delay Thevenet’s efforts, but eventually Durand is able to craft a new will in which the old man leaves all of his money to the young couple, and the house to the servants.

Immediately after signing the new will, Thevenet poisons a glass of liquor, intending to kill himself, but before he can drink, he suffers a stroke. Frozen and unable to speak, Durand drinks it instead and dies while Thevenet watches in horror. To top it off, Villon, Thevenet’s pet raven, flies off with the new will and hides in the fireplace in the bedroom. When Dupin comes to see Thevenet one last time, the old man tries to tell him with his eyes where the will is, but Dupin is initially unable to grasp Thevenet’s intent.

Despite the best efforts of the servants to impede his detecting work, Dupin solves the mystery of Durand’s death, finds the will, and restores order. And once his “job” is done, Dupin bids Lorna a bittersweet farewell and disappears. When Madeline tries to find him in order to thank him for his help, she discovers that Dupin left behind an IOU at the bar. A final close-up of the signature reveals the cloaked man’s true identity: Edgar Allan Poe.

This is the moment in the film where you, the viewer, are supposed to gasp in shock and awe and say to yourself, “What a marvelous twist!” But if you’ve been paying attention, that’s not bloody likely.

And that, for me, is the biggest problem with The Man with a Cloak. The movie relies so heavily on trying to set up this big surprise ending that, when it doesn’t pay off, it leaves you with a sense of “Huh?” Besides, for many viewers–even those with only a rudimentary familiarity with the real-life Edgar Allan Poe–the payoff just doesn’t suffice. There is no other mystery to the film–we know who the “bad guys” are from the start, and we know things that Dupin does not–the location of the will, for instance–so watching him “solve” the crime lacks a true sense of excitement or dramatic tension. Instead, the ending of Cloak hinges on the supposed mystery of Dupin’s true identity. But with so many BLATANTLY OBVIOUS clues hurled at us throughout (Dupin reads from “The Raven!” And there is an actual raven in the house! And for crap’s sake, the man’s name is DUPIN!), that mystery is ultimately no mystery at all, and because the ending is no huge surprise, the movie ends with a whimper, not a “bang” of revelation.

Furthermore, for those who are more familiar with the author’s life and work, watching the film–and accepting the denouement–requires a more-than-typical level of suspension of disbelief. Poe was far from unknown by this film’s time frame of 1848. His first collection of poetry, Tamerlane and Other Poems, was published in 1827, and his short stories began popping up in newspapers and magazines as early as 1837. The character of detective C. Auguste Dupin was first introduced in “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” in 1841, seven years before the same-named character in the film, and was featured in two other well-received, popular stories in 1842 and 1844. And Poe’s most famous poem, “The Raven” (referenced quite obviously through Thevenet’s pet bird, and in the snippet of the poem which Dupin reads to Mrs. Flynn), was published in 1845, and its popularity brought him great fame–though the film gets it right by painting him as being overly fond of booze and virtually penniless, as Poe’s literary success never translated into financial security.

As it remains, it is incredibly unlikely that none of the characters populating this film would know who “Dupin” really was the whole time. Madeline and Thevenet, particularly, should recognize him easily–recall that in their first meeting, Thevenet asks Madeline who the popular French artists and authors are. This indicates that both of them are familiar with the popular and learned writers of the time, of which Poe most definitely was one.

“But,” one might ask, “Thevenet and Madeline are French! So how can you expect that they would know an American author such as Poe?”

“Ahh,” I might reply, “but Poe’s work had been translated into French years before!” And it’s true–”Rue Morgue” was one of Poe’s first works to be translated into French, and was published in a Parisian newspaper in 1846, two years prior to the events of the film. Furthermore, the story was the subject of a legal dispute several months after its initial publication, when a rival newspaper tried to plagiarize Poe and published the story under a different title. The resulting trial garnered a great deal of publicity for Poe in France. And while Thevenet lived in New York, it stands to reason that Madeline, at least, should have been aware of the case, considering how much attention it received in her home country–indeed, in the very city in which she lived!

See, this is what you get when you allow English majors/nerds to critique films.

Besides the pseudonym of “Dupin,” the presence of the raven, Villon, is quite obviously meant to be the biggest clue as to the impoverished writer’s real identity. But the name of the bird indicates yet another literary influence on the plot. The raven is named after François Villon, the French poet/criminal whose life was heavily fictionalized and romanticized in the films If I Were King (both the 1920 silent version and the 1938 talkie with Ronald Colman) and the musicals The Vagabond King (a 1930 version with Jeanette Macdonald and a 1956 version with Kathryn Grayson). Villon was a criminal mastermind who plotted several robberies in his lifetime and wrote some of his most celebrated poems while incarcerated in various prisons around France. It’s appropriate, then, that the raven is named after Villon; after all, it is his “stealing” (read: hiding) of the will that precipitates the climax of the film and ultimately allows Dupin and Madeline to foil Lorna’s plans. And just in case there’s any question about the matter, Thevenet evens indicates the provenance of the raven’s name when he asks it, “Ou’ sont les neiges d’antan?” which roughly translates to “Where are the snows of yesteryear?” Thevenet invokes this phrase, a refrain from Villon’s poem “Ballade des dames du temps jadis,” in the wake of his first meeting with Madeline, as a bittersweet remembrance of times long past, and Dupin repeats it later in the film with an expression of cynical regret.

I refer you to my previous statement regarding English nerds and film criticism.

Edgar and his cinematic doppelganger.

The non-eventful conclusion and inaccuracies about the titular character aside, The Man with a Cloak is not a bad film, regardless of what the TCM article about the movie would have you believe. Yes, the ending is a clunky attempt at revelatory wonder, and yes, Joseph Cotten cuts a somewhat awkward figure as the erstwhile detective/writer (and it pains me to admit that, because I do adore Joseph Cotten so). He doesn’t resemble Poe all that much even with the author’s ubiquitous mustache–Cotten’s coloring is much lighter than Poe’s, and his manner is decidedly genteel for being as drunk as the character must have been. Despite these weaknesses, however, the film has some strengths, due largely to Stanwyck, a mostly able supporting cast, and some well-crafted, witty dialogue.

Was there ever anyone as good at playing the “bad girl” as Barbara Stanwyck? She has the Herculean task of taking a thoroughly unpleasant, scheming character and making the audience feel a measure of camaraderie with her despite her plotting nature. And damned if Stanwyck doesn’t pull it off, and then some. Lorna is reprehensible, true, but seeing her vulnerable side emerge with Dupin makes the character much more sympathetic. The relationship that develops between Lorna and Dupin is quite effective, due in large part to the great chemistry between Stanwyck and Cotten, and the scenes in which the two of them interact are some of the most entertaining of the entire film.

Despite this, Lorna is no innocent flower: in many ways, she is a half-sister to Phyllis in Double Indemnity–intent on willing a man to death, though not entirely evil as she refrains from actively raising a hand against Thevenet, preferring to allow him to commit suicide through drink and ill health (as Martin says, “Manners! You have to do everything politely. You even have to murder a man politely”). In the end, it is Stanwyck’s strong performance that anchors Cloak and ultimately makes it work despite its issues. The director of the film, the rather green Fletcher Markle, originally wanted Marlene Dietrich for the role of Lorna, but I just can’t imagine that Dietrich could have brought the same mix of quiet menace and regretful longing to the part that Stanwyck does.

The supporting cast, particularly Calhern as the recalcitrant expatriate and De Santis as the most unfaithful of manservants, hold their own admirably with Stanwyck; Calhern is especially deft in the role of Thevenet, and his French accent is surprisingly believable for a Brooklyn-born contract player. The only real downer among the cast is Caron; her Madeline has little to do, and yet comes across as nothing more than a mealy-mouthed bore. Frankly, Caron looks all of twelve years old as she wanders aimlessly through her scenes in flowered hats and hooded cloaks. And while this (at least visually) sets up the dynamic between strong-willed Lorna and the meeker young Frenchwoman, in the end, Caron is simply overshadowed, both physically and performance-wise, by the far more seasoned and–let’s face it–far more talented Stanwyck (don’t shoot me, Caron fans).

Later this month, on April 27th, Poe will once again be featured as a fictionalized, big-screen detective with the release of The Raven, a thriller in which Poe (John Cusack) must help the police track down a murderer who uses Poe’s stories as inspiration for his crimes. According to Rotten Tomatoes, it has received predominantly negative reviews thus far from critics in the UK, where it was released last month, which indicates that it’s likely not going to be all that good. But from the looks of the trailer, I think I might go see it anyway (provided it’s not too gory). Actually, the film sounds a bit like the premise for the pilot of the ABC series Castle–one of the collective favorites of the True Classics crew–which makes me wonder if the Raven screenwriters were more than a little influenced by their television precursor (and just to wrap up the whole, geeky circle, the show’s main character, Richard Castle, fittingly adopts the middle name Edgar in honor of–you guessed it–the honorable Mr. Poe).

Moustaches for Movember: Poirot

Posted on by under blogathon, lit adaptations, private eyes are watching you

Hello, blogosphere….

Taking a break from reviewing the great C.K. posts we’ve received to do a post for the “Classic Moustaches for Movember” blogathon hosted by Bette’s Classic Movie Blog. Brandie noted the event last week, and I’m going to put in my two cents. I’m also capitalizing on an opportunity here, because I’ve wanted to do a section on Hercule Poirot for a while. Now I have a great excuse. So, here is a warm-up for my NaNoWriMo-ing.

Here’s the donation link if you wish to contribute to the Movember cause!

Albert Finney as Hercule Poirot

I’m bringing forward the detective in general (most known for Murder on the Orient Express), who has been portrayed by several actors. In the 1974 film, he is played by Albert Finney, and joined by an amazing all-star cast. It makes the movie worth watching, even if it had been a disaster (which it wasn’t): Lauren Bacall, Ingrid Bergman, Sean Connery, and John Gielgud (one of my personal heroes as Hobson from Arthur) just to name a few. It’s an awesome cast. The movie is fun, moves pretty quickly and is told in a proper unravelling manner. There is no other proper way to film a Christie story.

However …

The ultimate Poirot is definitely David Suchet. The BBC group filmed Agatha Christie’s canon to completion in an amazingly long process. They did not have to change actors for characters, which makes the dynamics of the recurring characters even better.

How ELSE do you get the expression? David Suchet as Poirot.

David Suchet spent a lot of time developing his portrayal of the little Belgian and his idiosyncrasies.  One of his most famous is, of course, his moustache. He is very proud of it, and it comes into play in several films. In one, he will be forced to shave his moustache if a local detective solves a case to completion before he does (fortunately, Poirot wins). Poirot teaches Hastings the art of the moustache for disguise purposes to bring a dark case into the light.

See what I mean? The moustache!

Even when not central to the plot, we can see Poirot grooming his moustache to perfection in many of the films and episodes. His moustache, perfectly set, is as indicative of him as his modified English, cane, and bowler hat. We know the character by face. We can tell a parody of the character by hat and moustache alone. They say the clothes don’t make the man, but Poirot without a moustache would hardly be the same detective.

“It all went wrong, and I don’t know why. That’s what I want to know–why!”

Posted on by under blogathon, from stage to screen, lit adaptations

In 1949, twenty-eight year old British actress Deborah Kerr starred opposite screen veteran Spencer Tracy in Edward, My Son. Though Kerr had already won critical acclaim for a handful of popular films in her native England–among them I See a Dark Stranger (1946) and Black Narcissus (1947)–Edward was only her third American film, and in my mind, presented the young actress with one of the most interesting roles of her career.

The film is framed by narration from Arnold Boult (Tracy), who reflects upon his life from the birth of his son, Edward (who is never seen during the course of the movie), through Edward’s untimely death as a young man. The flashback begins in 1919: Boult (a native Canadian) lives in London with his British wife, Evelyn (Kerr), and their infant son. On Edward’s first birthday, Arnold decides to go into the furniture financing business with his old friend Harry (Mervyn Johns), who has just gotten out of prison, and is optimistic about the venture despite Evelyn’s hesitation about his working with a convicted felon. The happy couple celebrates the day with Harry and with their close friend (and family doctor), Larry Woodhope (Ian Hunter). Arnold toasts the sleeping Edward, stating, “To Edward … This is just to let you know that down here, we have the matter of your future well in hand, all four of us. Sleep safe, Edward. The world shall be your oyster.” Evelyn wonders aloud, “What does that mean, the world his oyster?” To which Arnold replies, “That means that nothing is going to be too good for him–ever.”

We jump ahead five years to Edward’s sixth birthday. A specialist diagnoses Edward with an “atrophy of nerves in the hip” and informs the Boults that the only cure is an expensive operation in Switzerland. Though Edward will eventually recover without the operation, the doctor tells them that the boy will have a permanent limp, much to Arnold’s disappointment, as he dreams of his son being active in sports. Arnold tells Larry that he will find a way to pay the one thousand pounds to cover the cost of the procedure: “Somehow or other, my son’s going to have what’s best for him.” Arnold’s solution is to burn down the furniture store and collect the insurance, and he convinces his business partner, Harry, to reluctantly go along with the scheme. The plan works, and Edward’s operation is a complete success.

Time passes in a montage of birthday cakes and the story picks back up again in 1930, around the time of Edward’s twelfth birthday. Edward is enrolled in prep school, and Arnold has, by this time, grown wealthy and become “Sir Boult.” According to the headmaster and Edward’s instructors, the boy is a disrespectful “little stinker” and they plan to expel him from the school. However, Arnold, who has also grown incredibly arrogant in the ensuing years, refuses to acknowledge Edward’s faults and instead reveals that he owns the mortgage to the school and that he will close the academy if Edward is not permitted to remain there.

By 1935, as Edward turns sixteen, Evelyn expresses concern to Larry that Arnold has spoiled Edward to the point of ruining the boy’s chances to be a “normal,” well-adjusted man. Larry, for his part, has distanced himself from the Boults due to his suspicions about Arnold’s behavior and his growing love for Evelyn. Harry, who had in previous years been implicated in the collapse of a business venture with Arnold, is released from prison and comes to Arnold’s office looking for work. But when Arnold indicates his unwillingness to help, Harry goes to the roof of the building and jumps off, committing suicide. Arnold’s secretary, Eileen (Leueen Macgrath), covers for her boss, lying to the police to cover up Arnold’s involvement with Harry in order to downplay any possible scandal.

This leads to an affair between the two, which lasts for over a year, until one night the pair discovers a detective staking out Eileen’s apartment. Arnold and Eileen confront the detective, who is there to gather evidence of the affair, as Evelyn has decided to divorce her philandering husband. Arnold promptly dumps Eileen flat (we later learn that she commits suicide by overdosing on pills) and flies to Switzerland to see Evelyn and Edward. Evelyn informs Arnold that she plans to divorce him very publicly so as to reveal to Edward the truth about his father, but Arnold remains unfazed. He threatens to ruin Larry’s career by insinuating that Larry seduced Evelyn while she was his patient. Evelyn, trapped and frightened, collapses on the bed and weeps, knowing that if she wants to remain a part of her son’s life, she must remain inextricably bound to Arnold.

As three more birthdays pass, Evelyn becomes withdrawn and haggard, losing herself in an alcoholic haze. Meanwhile, Edward is preparing to marry the rich and well-connected Phyllis Mayden (Harriette Johns), but has impregnated his lower-class mistress, Betty (Tilsa Page). Arnold summons Larry to the house in an effort to convince the doctor to “take care” of the situation (a not-so-subtle hint at abortion), but Larry refuses and offers to help the young woman after Arnold informs Betty that Edward will not marry her. Betty tells Arnold that he doesn’t have to worry about paying her off, because she will take care of herself.

Two years later, in 1941, the country is in the midst of World War II. Edward has recently died in a plane crash, killing himself and his crew while “showing off” during a routine drill. Larry stops by the Boult house, bringing his condolences, and finds Evelyn hosting a one-woman “celebration” of Edward’s birthday as she sinks into a drunken stupor. When Evelyn goes to bed, Arnold reflects on Edward’s life, telling Larry that he did the best he could for his son, and doesn’t think he could have done anything better.

As Arnold’s story winds to a close, we find that Evelyn died in 1945, shortly before the end of the war. A year later, Arnold appears at Larry’s office, seeking his old friend’s help in locating Betty, for Arnold wants to take possession of Edward’s child. Larry, however, refuses to assist him. The movie ends with Arnold addressing the audience once more. He explains that the government had found him liable for burning down the furniture store all those years ago, and that he had just recently been released from prison after four years (side note: Arnold’s conviction and jail time was added to the film per the request of the Production Code office, which demanded that Arnold be held liable for his crime). Arnold concludes by vowing that he will never stop searching for his grandson, showing that despite all of the tragedies he had engineered over the years in his own life and the lives of his family, he has yet to learn his lesson.

Edward, based on a British play co-written by Noel Langley and Robert Morley, was adapted by screenwriter Donald Ogden Stewart (who wrote the Oscar-winning screenplay for 1940′s The Philadelphia Story). That film’s director, the incomparable George Cukor, also directed Edward, and at one point pushed for longtime friend (and Philadelphia star) Katharine Hepburn to appear as Evelyn. Tracy and Hepburn ultimately nixed this idea, however, as the not-so-secret lovers reportedly sought to limit their onscreen pairings (nonetheless, Hepburn and Tracy would go on to costar in Adam’s Rib for Cukor only months later). The door was open for Kerr, who had played Evelyn on the London stage, to take the lead. And while Tracy may have been the bigger star–and his turn as the heartless and devious Arnold is quite effective–this is undoubtedly Kerr’s movie.

The film’s storyline requires Kerr’s character to age from her early twenties through her forties and, perhaps more dauntingly, also requires her to portray Evelyn’s gradual descent into drunkenness. She handles both with aplomb. Her development from a rather innocent young wife to a bitter, slurring, and graying alcoholic is a natural progression on the part of the actress. Subtle changes in Evelyn’s expression–from open to shuttered, wide-eyed to narrowed, smiling to grimacing–reveal the depths of degradation. Kerr even pitches her voice differently in Evelyn’s later years, injecting a note of shrill disregard in the character’s late interactions with Arnold. Her booze-soaked sorrow and bitterness in the wake of Edward’s death is utterly heartbreaking. All in all, it’s an intriguing performance, and an indication of the sheer breadth of talent that Kerr would display in her later films.

Edward, incidentally, would present Kerr with the first of her six Academy Award nominations for Best Actress. For all that recognition (and for all she deserved a victory), however, Kerr never won a competitive Oscar, though she was awarded an honorary statuette in 1994.

This post is my (somewhat belated) contribution to the “Darling Deborah” blogathon hosted by Sophie at Waitin’ for a Sunny Day. Check out the other entries here.

The Margaret Lockwood Blogathon: The Stars Look Down (1940)

Posted on by under blogathon, british films, lit adaptations

By 1940, Margaret Lockwood had become one of the most popular British actresses in film, having made a splash two years prior in The Lady Vanishes for director Alfred Hitchcock. She had tried to follow in the footsteps of fellow India-born Brit Vivien Leigh by moving to Hollywood, with the intent of solidifying her newfound popularity with an American audience, but Lockwood quickly returned to England after completing only two (somewhat disappointing) films: 1939′s Susannah of the Mounties with Shirley Temple and Rulers of the Sea with Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.

In Lady, Lockwood had starred opposite fellow English actor Michael Redgrave, and their romantic pairing had helped make the movie a smash hit at the box office. In the wake of that film’s success, it was only natural that filmmakers sought to pair the actors once more … and so they were cast as husband and wife in director Carol Reed’s adaptation of A.J. Cronin’s 1935 novel The Stars Look Down (this movie was one of seven that Lockwood would make with Reed throughout her career). Both lead actors were loaned out to Grand National Pictures, which produced Stars, by Gainsborough Pictures, the British studio for which Lockwood would make a number of films.

Stars tells the story of Davey Fenwick (Redgrave), the idealistic and intelligent son of a coal miner in northern England. He goes off to college with the hope that one day he will be able to go into politics to help stop the exploitation of the mine workers, who face constant danger (and the disregard of the mines’ owners) in their work. Davey is attracted to Jenny Sunley (Lockwood), a low-class girl with high aspirations, and is eventually coerced into marrying her (note: the film differs greatly from the book in that it takes the relationship between Davey and Jenny and makes it one of the main storylines; while Jenny is a minor character in the novel, her role is greatly expanded for the screen). The sudden marriage forces Davey to leave college and find work as a teacher in order to support his new family. Their union is anything but blissful, however; Jenny is a selfish, demanding, and overly critical wife, and to compound their issues, she just so happens to still be in love with her ambitious, self-serving ex-boyfriend, Davey’s childhood friend Joe Gowlan (Emlyn Williams). When Joe comes back to town, the troubles between husband and wife increase, as does the rivalry between the two men. In the meantime, Davey has his hands full dealing with his suspicions about the unsafe mining conditions in which the workers, including his father, have been forced to work, and he determines to do what he can to help them … until disaster strikes.

The Stars Look Down marked a turning point in Lockwood’s career. Not only did it represent her triumphant return to the British screen–the movie was a great success–but it also opened up new possibilities for the types of roles the beautiful young actress could play. Previously, most of her film roles had been of the “good girl” variety–she was generally the heroine, the romantic interest of the dashing leading man. Stars, however, showed everyone that Lockwood had much more range than many had previously assumed. The role of the self-centered Jenny, which Lockwood plays with obvious relish, is only the first in a series of manipulative, shrewd, and downright evil female characters whom the actress would embody throughout the 1940s. Her career arguably peaked with the release of 1945′s The Wicked Lady, though Lockwood would continue acting in film, on stage, and on television up until 1980.

While Jenny is not the outright villain of the piece, she is crafted to be an almost entirely unpleasant character. It’s to Lockwood’s credit, however, that Jenny is not completely insufferable. There’s a certain vulnerability that the actress brings to the role, borne from Jenny’s rejection at the hands of Joe Gowlan. Her reactions to Joe’s manipulation of her are those of a child, not a woman, and in portraying Jenny as belligerent and spoiled rather than simply mean, Lockwood allows the viewer to feel a modicum of sympathy for the girl (but, admittedly, only a smidgen). Jenny is a precursor to the “femme fatale” roles that would mark many of Lockwood’s subsequent films: she’s lovely, but dangerous–not in a murderous sense, like a typical noir dame, but in the sense that a man (like Davey) would willingly–and foolishly–give up his dreams only to make her happy. And ultimately, Lockwood thrives in the role of the “bad girl.” The only thing lacking in her performance, really, is her accent, which (despite Lockwood’s efforts to the contrary) is a bit too refined for a girl of less-than-ample means.

If you’ve never seen The Stars Look Down–which has been listed by The New York Times as one of the 1000 best films ever made–you can download it for free at the Internet Archive. I saw the movie for the first time earlier this week, and I was thoroughly entertained and impressed by the realism Reed strives to project on screen. I’ll warn you, though–this movie does not have a happy ending, so if you’re expecting butterflies and rainbows, you may want to look elsewhere. Of course, since American film audiences seemingly can’t handle gritty scenes of hardship and strife, and (according to TPTB at the time), need said butterflies and rainbows in order to enjoy such a movie as this, a voice-over narration–delivered by Lionel Barrymore–was added to the beginning and the end in order to lend a religious undertone to the entire affair. But the film doesn’t need the coda of Barrymore’s soothing, paternalistic patter assuring us of the “reality” of Heaven after a lifetime of struggle. It only serves to undermine what I believe Reed was trying to do, which is to present an unrelieved portrait of the futility of life itself. When Davey’s political “mentor,” Harry Nugent (Milton Rosmer), tells him, “The world’s like a wheel. Your turn will come,” it emphasizes the utter randomness of existence. Not a pleasant thought, surely, but an honest one, and one of the reasons this movie resonated with me.

Incidentally, Cronin’s novel would also provide part of the inspiration for the 2000 film Billy Elliot, which borrows the theme of striking coal miners in the same area of England. The opening number of the stage musical based on Billy Elliot, penned by Elton John and that movie’s screenwriter, Lee Hall, is titled “The Stars Look Down” as an homage to the novel and earlier film.

This post is my submission for the Margaret Lockwood birthday blogathon, hosted by A Shroud of Thoughts. Make sure to head over there today to check out the other entries!

Feminist Fridays: The Women of The Maltese Falcon

Posted on by under best.films.ever., brandie's faves, feminist fridays, lit adaptations, private eyes are watching you

Chapter Three of Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon is titled, appropriately enough, “Three Women.” It opens with Sam Spade chastising his exhausted secretary, Effie Perine, for allowing Iva Archer, his dead partner’s widow, into the office. Spade is impatient with the woman–his secret lover–and extricates himself from her clutches as soon as possible. He later attempts to track down the elusive Miss Wonderly, who has checked out of her hotel in the wake of Miles Archer’s death.

As with much of the original novel, “Three Women” is translated almost verbatim into John Huston’s screenplay for the 1941 film. And of the three screen adaptations of The Maltese Falcon, Huston’s version best captures each of these women in the cinematic flesh. Through astute casting and subsequently strong performances, the film fleshes out three very different (yet familiar) female archetypes: the helpmate, the “spider,” and the conniving bitch. Spade’s interactions with the three women whose lives are intertwined with his own–Effie, Iva, and Wonderly (soon to be revealed as Brigid O’Shaughnessy)–reveal much about his character, and also illuminate how the über-masculine Spade rejects the very notion of femininity, even while he is, in some ways, very much at the mercy of the so-called “weaker” sex.

Effie (played by Lee Patrick) is the woman who knows all of Spade’s faults and accepts him for who he is (for the most part). Though he is somewhat affectionate in his regard for her–more so than with any other woman in the film–there is little indication that their relationship is, or has ever been, sexual. If anything, Effie treats Spade almost maternally. But theirs is ultimately a business arrangement: as his secretary, she keeps his life in order and follows his instructions to the letter, the very definition of a “Girl Friday.” Perhaps because of this, Spade does not treat her with the same shrouded contempt and judgment with which he views the other female figures in the film–though he still objectifies Effie, much as he does Iva and Brigid, by calling her “angel” in lieu of her given name.

Of the female characters, Iva (Gladys George) comes closest to stereotype as the prototypical “woman scorned.” She thinks enough of herself and her charms (the “web” in which she believes she has trapped the man) to assume that Spade killed Archer just to be with her. But his reluctance to see her after Archer’s death, and his disgusted facial expressions when she throws herself into his arms, indicate that Spade has lost interest in the woman. Spade finds Iva’s weeping–put-on though it may be–a nuisance, and she becomes an albatross around his neck when her fury over his short-sighted rejection of her (and the drama surrounding her) leads to Iva informing the police about their affair. In this case, Spade underestimates the trouble that a woman could cause him, and it ends up putting even more pressure on him as he tries to unravel the mystery of the black bird.

And then there’s Brigid O’Shaughnessy. Of any character in the film, she most matches Spade in both wits and manipulative prowess–as I stated in yesterday’s entry on the film, Brigid and Spade are, in some respects, two sides of the same damaged coin. But Brigid is somewhat more transparent than her male counterpart; her breathless speech and inability to look Spade directly in the eyes (notice how she’s always looking past him or to the side or up at the ceiling in many of their scenes together) mark her as a liar almost from the start. And Spade sees right through what he calls Brigid’s “schoolgirl” act; he does not believe her initial story when she hires him, and he does not believe anything she subsequently says. Knowing Spade distrusts her, however, does not stop Brigid from using her feminine wiles to try and ensnare Spade … and it works, to a degree–the man simply can’t help himself. One could argue that, with the two of them, the attraction is merely sexual, and an extension of Spade’s aggressive nature. The first time he kisses her, Spade grabs her face roughly and practically forces her lips to meet his–it’s an act of pure, possessive lust, not affection. And yet it works, because Brigid instinctively understands and accepts his aggression, because it’s an equally important part of her own nature. The fact that Spade even appears to entertain the thought, however briefly, of allowing Brigid to get away with Archer’s murder indicates the level to which she got to him–when he offers to wait for her, and hopes aloud that they don’t “hang [her] … by that sweet neck,” it’s the biggest concession Spade will allow in regards to the weakness of emotional attachment. Of course, that’s pretty much ruined with his next statement: “If they hang you, I’ll always remember you.” Quite the romantic, that Sam Spade.

It’s also worth noting that these women are not the only “feminine” characters whose paths cross Spade’s in the film. Just as there is a trio of female foils, there is a triad of male figures whose masculinity–at least in the eyes of Spade himself–is so negligible that they could be considered another “womanly” group within the film (in fact, there seems to be a theme of “threes” within the film–three women, three male criminals, three identities for Brigid, etc. … though the significance of that may be minimal, at best). Peter Lorre’s character, Dr. Cairo, can also be considered a feminine influence on Spade–and a decidedly unwelcome one, at that. Spade’s ire is raised from the moment Effie hands him Cairo’s gardenia-scented calling card, and is heightened when the foppish man enters the detective’s office. Spade takes a great deal of pleasure in bullying the effeminate Cairo, first by essentially emasculating the criminal by disarming the man of his (phallic) weapon, and later through physically imposing his brute strength on Cairo with a solid punch to the jaw. In Spade’s mind, Cairo is the epitome of weakness–a man whose appearance and demeanor are overtly feminine–and the man must thereby be punished. That same mindset extends to the gunsel, Wilmer (Elisha Cook, Jr.); Spade enjoys teasing Wilmer, casting doubt upon his abilities and then taking visible delight when Wilmer attempts to “man up” by threatening to kill Spade. And Gutman (Sydney Greenstreet), though in many ways the most masculine of the film’s evildoers, is, by virtue of being Wilmer’s supposed lover, included in Spade’s derision. When the detective tries to turn Gutman against Wilmer, he does so by reminding Gutman that there is always another “son” (read: lover) out there, but only one gold-encrusted falcon. Spade’s expression during this scene hints at his distaste at the relationship between Gutman and Wilmer, but despite his own rejection of the very concept, Spade is not above using it as a means to an end.

The movie ends with Brigid being taken away to jail, but the book revisits the other two women in Spade’s life, ending with his return to his office, where he must face Effie’s disapproval and Iva’s continued presence in his life. There is a sense, however, that Spade will reject both–that he will ignore Effie’s feelings about what he has done to Brigid, and that he will, at some point, cast Iva out for good, for ultimately, Spade’s rejection of the feminine is an essential part of his character. His rough-hewn exterior–crude, hard-boiled, sometimes cruel–exists, in part, because it differentiates him from the “weaknesses” that affect others. He doesn’t demonstrate outward compassion after Archer’s death because doing so would mark him, too, as somewhat weak. The same goes for his final confrontation with Brigid; to allow her to get away with murder, all in the name of love, would be the action of a soft man, not a strong one. After all, sympathy and emotion are feminine traits, not to be tolerated in a “real” man. The most Spade can manage without compromising his self-made image is an occasional pat on the head for Effie, whose non-sexualized persona is no threat to Spade’s seemingly hard-won masculinity.

“I don’t mind a reasonable amount of trouble.”

Posted on by under best.films.ever., brandie's faves, lit adaptations, noir, private eyes are watching you

As part of our week-long celebration of the 70th anniversary of The Maltese Falcon (1941), today we are taking a look at the third and final film version of Dashiell Hammett’s pulp crime novel. For a brief introduction to this movie, check out our post on Falcon from last year. For a more in-depth synopsis of the film’s plot, we recommend the AMC FilmSite entry about the movie. And if you’ve never seen any of the film versions or read the book, be warned that we will be discussing elements of their respective endings in all of our posts this week.

The Maltese Falcon (’41) has been judged by many critics to be the greatest detective story ever filmed. The influential 1955 book A Panorama of American Film Noir (1941-1953), initially published in France by film critics Raymond Borde and Etienne Chaumeton, declared Falcon the first true example of Hollywood film noir. Notable critics such as Roger Ebert have labeled the movie as one of the best of all time. And the American Film Institute has cast several laurels in Falcon’s direction: it landed at #31 on the most recent AFI Top 100 Movies list (in 2007); came in at #6 in the “Mystery” film genre; and its closing line, “The stuff that dreams are made of,” was chosen as the fourteenth-best movie quote of all time.

Of course, as with any film, its “greatness” is a matter of subjectivity. Falcon does have its detractors. Film Noir: An Encyclopedic Reference to the American Style (first published in 1979) describes the film as a “caricature” populated with “one-dimensional” characters, stating that the film suffers from “textbook camerawork” and a “general attitude of contemptuous misanthropy.” And the author is certainly entitled to his opinion. There have been films that have been, by and large, critically lauded over the years which I am … well, less than enamored with. But I do think this review is short-sighted and almost aggressive in its criticism of the movie, particularly in its assessment of the film’s misanthropic nature, which is a necessary extension of creating a cinematic world where the lines between “good” and “evil” are so blurred as to be nonexistent.

For all that the first two screen adaptations of Dashiell Hammett’s book got wrong, the final version gets everything just right. The movie follows the book almost precisely–very little is excised in the translation to the screen, and Hammett’s pitch-perfect dialogue is recreated virtually word-for-word. By and large, the actors are far superior to their predecessors, bringing new depth to these characters. The movie even looks better than the other two versions: its gritty appearance and washes of darkness perfectly encapsulate the story’s mood.

First-time director John Huston was greatly influenced by Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane, which was released in theaters five months before Falcon. Hallmarks of the earlier film can be seen in the way Huston and cinematographer Arthur Edeson populate their movie with a wealth of shadowy shots and low, almost menacing camera angles (Edeson, incidentally, also worked on Satan Met a Lady). When making plans for filming, Huston took a cue from Alfred Hitchcock and story-boarded the entire movie before shooting, plotting out even the most minute details before the camera even started rolling.

Arguably the best element about the entire film is the casting, for Huston wound up with the perfect actors for the leading roles, particularly Bogart as the combative, dark, and enigmatic Sam Spade. Part of the credit for Bogart’s casting, interestingly enough, goes to actor George Raft, who turned down the role of Spade, paving the way for Bogart to take on the defining role of his own career. In fact, Raft can be credited with inadvertently promoting Bogart from supporting actor to leading man in the early 1940s: he also turned down the role of Roy Earle in 1941′s successful High Sierra (due largely to Bogart’s urging), and some sources even claim that Raft also turned down the part of Rick Blaine in Casablanca (though still other sources emphasize that this was merely a rumor). Huston had worked with Bogart on Sierra–he had co-written the screenplay for the movie with W.R. Burnett–and the two had become friends. Bogart, for his part, enjoyed working with Huston and would go on to star in Across the Pacific (1942), The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, Key Largo (both in 1948), and The African Queen (1951) for the director.

A trio of effective villains serve as worthy foils for Bogart in Falcon. Sydney Greenstreet, in his first film appearance, is impressive in both his bulk and his mannered menace as ringleader Gutman. Gutman is the gentleman criminal, hiding his thuggish qualities behind a cultured veneer (and a loyal gunsel/lover, Wilmer, played with leashed fury by Elisha Cook, Jr.). The actor’s smooth voice and high-class accent only add to that facade. Greenstreet was reportedly so nervous before filming his first scene–the monologue in which Gutman explains the origins of the falcon–that he asked Mary Astor to hold his hand before stepping in front of the camera. But there is no sign of this in his polished, masterful performance, and he went on to garner an Oscar nomination for his debut.

This movie also marked the first onscreen partnering of Greenstreet and Peter Lorre–the two worked so well together that they would eventually costar in nine more projects over the next decade. Though both Gutman and Cairo, Lorre’s character, are homosexual, Lorre is given the decidedly “gayer” character. Rather than go over the top with his portrayal, Lorre subtly conveys Cairo’s orientation through his mannerisms–particularly the way he plays with his cane, as he caresses it and moves it near his mouth in a way that highlights its phallic nature. His reactions to Spade’s bullying are even more telling; he is no physical match for the detective, succumbing to a faint after a single punch, and he (perhaps wisely) relies on a gun to do his convincing for him. Lorre breathes realism into a potentially campy character, and ultimately makes a big impact in his few front-and-center scenes.

But the strongest villain, by far, in the entire film is Astor’s Brigid O’Shaughnessy. Her cold, calculating nature is a mirror of Spade’s own: they are two sides of the same damaged coin. Astor is a revelation in the role, which is a great departure from her previous “good girl” screen persona–but is, funnily enough, much closer to her controversial off-screen life. In the wake of her divorce, details of Astor’s personal diary, in which she reportedly wrote about her sexual conquests, came to light, and her image in the public had suffered. Whether or not that experience colored her portrayal of Brigid doesn’t really matter, though–however she did it, Astor managed to perfectly capture the darker nuances of the character in a way that few actresses of the time likely could. [Side note: I will further address Brigid--and the other female characters--in a separate post.]

The Maltese Falcon is, in a word, brilliant. The film is populated by a cast of characters whose actions and behavior is morally repugnant and off-putting. Yet Bogart and company, led by Huston’s steady, guiding hand, bring a level of sympathy to these not-so-good people. Spade’s an unmitigated asshole–unfeeling, harsh, and not at all above betrayal and subterfuge if it gets him what he wants–and Bogart plays him full-out, warts and all. Still, there’s something almost disturbingly sexy and enticing about Spade. He’s as appealing an anti-hero as has ever been created. In the end, Falcon works because we want to see what these rather reprehensible people, doing everything they can to assuage their desirous greed in an unclean world, will do next. Their interactions are just that damn entertaining.

Tomorrow: we’ll wrap up our week-long look at The Maltese Falcon with a Feminist Fridays post examining the female characters in the 1941 film.