My latest contribution to the ongoing Wonders in the Dark Comedy Countdown is live … at number 42, it’s the frenetic and fanatically funny Preston Sturges masterpiece, The Palm Beach Story (1942)!
Head on over to WitD to check out my thoughts on one of my favorite films of all time, and make sure to throw your two cents into the discussion in the comments! And keep checking in at Wonders every weekday as the countdown winds down to a close over the next two months–there are some truly fantastic films coming up on the list! (FYI: I’ll have my fourth contribution up next week!)
“Butch,” the loyal valet of playboy shipping heir Jonathan Blair, enters his employer’s bathroom one morning, chattering away about the bright, beautiful day. He asks Jonathan what he would like to wear, only to have the shower door fly open as a shower-capped Valentine Ransome pokes her head out and asks for a bath towel. Butch stutters and stammers, grabs a brassiere by mistake, and finally hands Val a towel before fleeing pell-mell from the room.
So begins the series of nutty happenings in RKO’s 1937 screwball comedy Breakfast for Two, starring Barbara Stanwyck, Herbert Marshall, and Eric Blore. Filmed and released immediately after Stanwyck’s Oscar-nominated performance in Stella Dallas, Breakfast provided a respite for the actress after the emotionally-draining role of self-sacrificing mother Stella, and its breezy daffiness is nothing short of entertaining. And “daffy” is the perfect word to define this movie–after all, how else could you describe a film with a gigantic “talking” dog named Peewee, the wildest wedding this side of a Preston Sturges flick, and a heroine named Valentine?
Despite her flowery name, Stanwyck’s Val is no shrinking violet–she’s a ball-busting Texas heiress determined to reform the wastrel Jonathan (Marshall), save his failing business, rescue him from the clutches of ditzy blond debutante “actress” Carol Wallace (Glenda Farrell), and make him prime husband material. She is aided in her quest by Butch (Blore), who decides almost immediately that Val is just the woman for his boss, and through a series of comical mishaps, the playboy and the businesswoman find their happy ending.
The film is a gender-skewed take on the Taming of the Shrew trope: Jonathan is a misogynistic dilettante whose behavior is eventually modified through the exertions of the wily Val. And she certainly has her work cut out for her, because with every fiber of his being, Jonathan seems to loathe the female sex. When Butch tries to talk to him about his financial problems, he impatiently dismisses him: “Stop nagging. You’re being feminine and I don’t like it.” To Jonathan, any sign of femininity is a weakness, and though he obviously enjoys the company of women in a sexual sense, he has little respect for their abilities.
Because of this, Val’s dominant personality disconcerts Jonathan and puts him off-balance throughout the film. He doesn’t know how to react to her; she doesn’t waver and simper like the typical women he consorts with–she is his equal and, in some ways, his better, and that simply does not compute. Jonathan’s reaction after Valentine buys the company is predictable: he believes she “took him home” to pump him for information about the company’s financial situation. Val remains calm in the face of his anger, which only serves to infuriate him more: ”You’re the type of woman who wants to wear the pants! All right, MISTER, wear them! Trip over them! And break your neck!”
For her part, Val has inexplicably formed an attachment to Jonathan, and she takes ownership of him from the start. Initially, Val views him with humor and indulgence–she has decided to marry this man-child, but she accepts that she must first bring him to heel. When her uncle Sam (Frank M. Thomas) tries to talk some sense into his niece, Valentine confidently brushes off his concerns:
Sam: “Ah, come on! Who cares about a crazy bronco that–” Val: “I’ve seen you turn many a crazy bronco into a fine horse, Sam.” Sam: “Yeah, but human flesh hasn’t got the sense of horse flesh!” Val: “Sometimes they both need a whip to put some sense into them. First you have to slip a bit in his mouth and … make him like it.”
To that end, Val does everything in her power to goad Jonathan to “take it like a man.” When, after his initial outburst, Jonathan decides that he cannot fight her and win back his company, Val insults him and questions his manhood. When Val purchases Jonathan’s house, and he finds her in the home gymnasium, he peevishly tells her that he’ll be leaving as soon as he can remove his personal belongings, “unless, of course, you counted on getting them, too.” Val’s nonchalant reply–”No, thanks. You need your clothes in order to look like a man”–incites Jonathan’s rage, just as she intends. He’s putty in her hands, and you know that eventually, Val will get her way. She is just that determined.
This is not to say that Jonathan does not get under Val’s skin, too. She’s going to make a man out of him even if she has to beat him into acting like one … which she does, handily, in one of the funniest scenes of the film. When he confronts her the gymnasium of his home–which he has just discovered that she bought out from under him–Blair accuses Val of tricking him so that she could get her hands on the family business. An exchange of insults follows, and Val throws down the gauntlet by picking up a nearby boxing glove and smacking Jonathan across the face with it. When he bemoans that her womanhood prevents him from being able to smack her right back, she tells him, “Don’t let that stop you!” and the fight is on. And by the end of it, both Jonathan and hapless bystander Butch are sporting black eyes.
The lesson here? Don’t mess with Barbara Stanwyck. She’ll kick your ass.
When Carol becomes a problem, Val makes short work of her, too. Carol is determined to marry Jonathan herself, but Val attempts to circumvent Carol’s plan by naming Jonathan vice-president of the company, so that he need not wed Carol for her money. But Jonathan figures out Val’s intent to reform him and decides to do whatever it takes to ruin her plans–even if it means going through with marriage to the insufferably witless Carol. In response, Val implements an increasingly zany series of distractions to interrupt not one, but TWO ceremonies, from a group of loudly squeaking window washers to Uncle Sam’s claim that Carol is the mother of his children … and Butch even gets in on the act with a faked marriage certificate!
I guess it’s no surprise to say that, in the end, Val’s plan is effective; in his desire to thwart her, Jonathan perversely becomes a responsible leadership figure within his own company, to Val’s endless pleasure and pride. The dizzy blonde is sent packing, Val’s bucking bronco is effectively tamed, and they all live happily, crazily, ever after.
Breakfast for Two may not be as well-remembered as some of its screwball counterparts of the 1930s, but it is nonetheless charming and genuinely funny, helped immensely by a smart script and an effective cast (notably the ever-entertaining Blore and a hilarious turn by Donald Meek as the Justice of the Peace whose premarital spiel keeps getting interrupted). And Stanwyck, in what could be considered the first truly “screwball” role of her career, is easily the highlight of the film, handily demonstrating the comic timing and innate sense of fun that she would bring to future screwball classics like The Mad Miss Manton (1938), The Lady Eve, and Ball of Fire (both 1941).
In the era of the Motion Picture Production Code, depictions of homosexuality were verboten, classified under the Code’s rather vague catch-all category of “sex perversion.” While those making films prior to 1934 enjoyed more freedom in their ability to depict some obvious—and even blatant—homosexual characters, the establishment of the Production Code Administration (PCA) put an end to such overt thematic elements in subsequent movies.
Savvy filmmakers, however, were largely undeterred by PCA restrictions, and continued to place coded gay characters and relationships in their movies. Though the depictions of these characters ranged from subtle to overtly brazen, they were still generally mild enough to slip past Joseph Breen, the rigid head of the PCA.
Over the years, directors and screenwriters working in the screwball genre of comedy seemed to take particular pleasure in thumbing their collective noses at Breen and his censorship cronies. Because the very notion of “screwball” was not to be taken seriously, the genre was able to depict people and themes that would have been heavily edited in (or completely excised from) more serious-minded movies. Therefore, screwball films, practically anarchic in their general reveling in utter chaos and confusion, were able to play with the conventions of male-female relationships, often inviting questions of gender reversal through cross-dressing motifs and, by extension, eliciting impressions of homosexual attraction—all in the interest of a few laughs.
Thus the idea of purported “gayness” became a comedic device for these types of films. The supposedly gay characters were not really gay—wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Rather, through a series of misunderstandings, these generally male characters were given some of the distinguishing “fey” hallmarks of the stereotypical homosexual person in an attempt to both undermine and ridicule the character because, as we all know, masculinity and gayness cannot coexist (this sadly speaks volumes toward the American public’s impression of homosexuality as something to be mocked rather than respected. To quote Mr. Billy Joel, the good ol’ days weren’t always good).
Some actors were more willing to throw themselves into such roles than others. The one that immediately comes to my mind is the always-accommodating Cary Grant. The actor was generally typecast as the debonair, suave, handsome, smooth-talking ladies’ man. But in several films, he eschews masculine dignity in the interest of soliciting laughs from his audience. And this only served to add fuel to the rumors that Grant was a closeted homosexual or, at the very least, bisexual.
It is generally accepted by many critics that Grant was the first actor to use the word “gay” in a homosexual context on film. In 1938′s Bringing Up Baby, when Grant’s character, David, accompanies Susan (Katharine Hepburn) and her leopard, Baby, to Connecticut, she convinces him to take a shower in order to delay his return to New York. While he showers, she steals his clothes and sends them into town to be cleaned. In dismay, David throws on Susan’s frilly, feather-trimmed robe and runs into Susan’s aunt (May Robson). Aunt Elizabeth, shocked to find a negligee-wearing man in her niece’s house, demands to know why he’s wearing women’s clothing, and an increasingly frustrated David finally leaps into the air, shouting, “Because I just went GAY all of a sudden!”
The book The Celluloid Closet (1981) claims that the line was ad-libbed by Grant and was not present in the original script by writers Dudley Nichols and Hagar Wilde. But there remains some debate about whether Grant actually meant “gay” in the homosexual sense, or whether he simply intended to imply the traditional, “happy” meaning of the word. According to Gay Histories and Cultures: An Encyclopedia (2000), throughout the early twentieth century, the term “gay” served as a kind of code word by which homosexuals secretly identified themselves to one another while hiding their true sexual nature from others. The original meaning of the word was still the predominant one—witness the 1934 Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers film The Gay Divorcee. However, it seems naive to assume that, because the pejorative meaning of the word “gay” was not in widely popular use at the time, modern audiences are simply misunderstanding Grant’s intent. Regardless, the character isn’t really gay, but this brief outburst is the final blow that knocks David off his dignified pedestal and down to Susan’s own screwy level of behavior.
In 1940′s My Favorite Wife, Grant discovers that his long-lost wife, played by Irene Dunne, is still alive after having been shipwrecked on an island for seven years, accompanied only by handsome, well-cut hunk Randolph Scott. Upon first seeing the muscular Scott poolside, Grant’s eyes narrow in speculation; when Scott stands up and reveals his height and muscularity, Grant’s eyes widen and his body suddenly becomes ramrod-straight; when Scott sheds his robe, remaining in nothing more than a tiny pair of swim trunks, his toned physique causes Grant to appear overcome as he pulls out a handkerchief and nervously wipe his face. And as Scott swings on a set of rings, doing a series of back flips before diving gracefully into the water below, Grant watches with a mixture of appraisal and reluctant admiration.
Is it simple jealousy, or something more? In the context of the film, of course, we are not meant to read Grant’s character as gay; he is simply scoping out the competition to see what kind of man with whom his wife had spent seven years of solitude, and comes off seeming completely inadequate in comparison. But this vignette is particularly interesting in the context of Grant and Scott’s off-screen relationship. The pair were fast friends, having lived together, on and off, for more than a decade in a Malibu beach house popularly known in the press as “Bachelor Hall.” In fact, they were still living together at the time they made My Favorite Wife. But biographers and film historians dispute whether the relationship between the men was platonic or passionate, with some claiming the men were merely the best of friends, while others proclaim that Grant and Scott indulged in a years-long love affair. Neither man ever openly admitted to a relationship, so there’s really no telling whether or not there is any truth to the rumors. Perhaps Grant’s wide-ranging reactions to the overwhelming virility of Scott’s character may be an attempt to play with gossip-mongers everywhere—who knows?
Grant goes one step further in 1949′s I Was a Male War Bride, suffering the indignities of having to dress in drag just to get the chance to consummate his marriage to Ann Sheridan. When Grant’s French captain falls in love with Sheridan’s American lieutenant after a contentious and difficult road trip together, the couple must figure out how to get Grant into the United States so they can build their happily-ever-after together. After three different wedding ceremonies and a copious amount of bureaucratic nonsense—during all of which the couple cannot find time alone enough to consummate their union—the only solution seems to be to put Grant in a WAC uniform and hope for the best.
Grant makes for a seriously unattractive woman, and as you might imagine, the masquerade only works for about half a minute. The film is a series of emasculating events for Grant’s character, for Sheridan is, quite literally, in the driver’s seat throughout most of the film (seriously—he is not allowed to drive, so he must sit in the sidecar of Sheridan’s motorcycle). Grant is not coded as gay so much as he is ridiculed for stepping outside the bounds of traditional masculinity, even for such a brief moment. Originally, Grant intended to play the drag scene as overtly feminine before being convinced by director Howard Hawks to simply “act like a man in woman’s clothes.” And while Grant does indeed play it straight (so to speak), the entire scene seems to imply that the act of “drag” itself is somehow indicative of the Grant character’s “different” sexuality.
These are only three, Grant-specific examples of the screwball tendency to use stereotypical “gay” characteristics for the purposes of comedy. When Grant puts on his filmy negligee or his horse-hair wig, or when he evaluates Randolph Scott as though he were a choice side of beef, we are meant to laugh at the incongruity and Grant’s subsequent lack of dignity. After all, it’s not “real” gayness. It’s a put-on, an assumption based on popular beliefs about homosexual behavior that delve into generalization and misinterpretation.
This post is my contribution to the Queer Blogathon hosted by Caroline over at Garbo Laughs. She has vowed to continually update the list of participants throughout the day, so keep checking in to see what the truly amazing list of other contributing bloggers has to offer …
In the mid-1930s, the screwball comedy was still a relatively new subgenre of film. Many critics label It Happened One Night, released in 1934, as the first “screwball” picture ever produced, and subsequent films such as Twentieth Century (also 1934) and Hands Across the Table (1935) built upon the elements that would become typical tropes of the screwball picture: daffy dames, class warfare, rapid-fire zingers, and a never-ending battle of the sexes.
But the genre really came into its own in 1936 with the release of Libeled Lady. Combining elements of farce, romance, social commentary, and slapstick, Lady is a veritable treasure trove of hilarity, delivered by one of the most talented comedic quartets to ever grace the screen.
Warren Haggerty (Spencer Tracy), the editor of the New York newspaper the Evening Star, mistakenly runs an unsubstantiated (and ultimately untrue) story accusing heiress Connie Allenbury (Myrna Loy) of being a homewrecker. Connie and her father, J.B. (Walter Connolly), declare their intention to sue the paper for libel to the tune of five million dollars. Warren tracks down former employee Bill Chandler (William Powell) and convinces him to help force the Allenburys to drop the lawsuit. Bill’s plan is to marry a woman–in name only–and then trap Connie into “breaking up” the marriage so that she will have no choice but to forgo the lawsuit against the paper. Warren offers up his own fiancé, Gladys (Jean Harlow), who has grown increasingly tired of Warren’s repeated delays in marrying her. She agrees to the scheme on the promise that Warren will finally make Gladys his wife once it’s over. But Bill doesn’t count on actually falling in love with Connie … and no one counts on Gladys deciding that marriage to Bill is infinitely more enticing than marrying the reluctant Warren …
By all accounts, the making of this film was nothing less than sheer pleasure for its four main stars, who shared a great friendship and camaraderie that shines on and off the screen. Each actor plays off the others beautifully–it’s truly an ensemble, in the best sense of the word.
As the male leads, Tracy and Powell are dynamite, sparring with their female partners in an increasingly frenetic pas de deux. Loy matches them step for step, and Connolly gives a typically wonderful performance as Loy’s put-upon father. But if I had to name the true “star” of the film, it would be Jean Harlow, hands down. She certainly got some of the best quips in the film, at any rate:
Warren: “Gladys, do you want me to kill myself?” Gladys: “Did you change your insurance?”
I think Libeled Lady is the film where Harlow’s comedic talents finally gelled into something damn near close to perfect. She had always exhibited an instinctive comic ability in her roles, even from the earliest days of her career, when she was a contract player at the Hal Roach Studios. After MGM acquired her contract from millionaire producer Howard Hughes in 1932, Harlow reached superstar status in the wake of sex-bomb roles in pre-Code potboilers like 1932′s Red-Headed Woman and Red Dust–characters that were equal parts smolder and smart-ass. These parts were followed by more mainstream comedic roles in films such as Dinner at Eight and Bombshell (both in 1933), movies that showcased, in part, the depths of her hilarity.
But Harlow, who often felt typecast in the role of a wisecracking sexpot, reportedly sought to cultivate a less sexualized air on-screen. She attempted to move in a more refined direction with some of her later films, including Suzy and Wife vs. Secretary (both 1936), which muted the brassier tones of her past shtick into something a bit more dignified (at least in comparison).
Libeled Lady represented a sort of “return to form” for Harlow, presenting the actress with a practically custom-made role that combined her innate sexiness with the kind of rapid-fire, quick-witted dialogue at which she excelled at delivering. And this did not go unnoticed by critics. New York Times film reviewer Frank S. Nugent, in his 1936 review of the movie, expressed his thanks to the studio for Harlow’s return to her forte, writing:
“[W]e are so pathetically grateful to Metro for restoring Miss Harlow to her proper metier that we could have forgiven even more serious lapses” than the “slackening of pace toward the picture’s conclusion.”
Indeed, throughout the movie Harlow shines brightest of all, and her performance as Gladys is the one that draws your eye every second she is on the screen, from the moment she storms into the newsroom–in full wedding regalia–to claim her absent groom …
… up through the film’s conclusion, when Gladys finally decides that Warren is the right man for her, despite his predilection for newsprint. In every scene, Harlow makes you laugh even while you marvel at her sexy swagger (and even when she’s undergoing the torture treatment known as a permanent, you can’t help but envy that gorgeous mug of hers).
Not for nothing is Jean Harlow still remembered as one of the most beautiful women to ever grace filmdom.
The movie marked a personal milestone in Harlow’s life–it was during the shooting of Libeled Lady that she formally changed her name from Harlean Carpenter to Jean Harlow. The film also gave Harlow the opportunity to work with her real-life love, William Powell, in the second of their two films together (after the previous year’s Reckless). Though she seems like a perfect fit for the role of Gladys, Harlow initially expressed interest in playing Connie because she wanted her character to end up with Powell’s in the end. The studio, however, wanted to cash in on the public’s love for the on-screen team of Powell and Loy, which had come to such great fruition two years earlier in the first Thin Man film. Still, as Gladys, Harlow got to play a wedding scene with her man, fulfilling (at least cinematically) her desire to become Mrs. William Powell. Sadly, that union never materialized in reality before Harlow’s untimely death the following year.
Jean Harlow was so beloved as a brash, sexy comedienne that, had she lived beyond the age of 26, she may very well have found herself typecast in those sorts of roles for the remainder of her career. But would that have been such a bad thing, in the end? Could she have made the transition from ingenue roles to more “adult” fare with aplomb, or would she have found it difficult to maintain her position as one of the brightest stars in the cinematic sky? It’s a futile exercise to play the ”what if” game, but it’s nonetheless interesting to consider where Harlow’s career may have taken her if circumstances had been different.
Happy one hundredth birthday, Baby.
This post is our contribution to the Jean Harlow Blogathon, sponsored by the Kitty Packard Pictorial in honor of Harlow’s centenary. To see more entries in the blogathon, check out the Pictorial. And for more information about Harlow’s years in Hollywood, pick up a copy of the new biography Harlow in Hollywood: The Blonde Bombshell in the Glamour Capital, 1928-1937, by Darrell Rooney and Mark A. Vieira.
Few actors (at least in my mind) have ever been able to match the comedic physical prowess of the former Archibald Leach. When the athletic young Brit rechristened himself as the smooth, charming Cary Grant, he balanced his new romantic persona with a seemingly endless streak of youthful exuberance that shone through even the most serious of his roles. Though Grant is perhaps best remembered today as a debonair ladies’ man in a number of classic romances, some of his argunably best work emerged from the realm of screwball comedy.
In a series of films throughout the 1930s and 40s, Grant displayed a skillful affinity for physical comedy that was honed on the vaudeville circuit in his younger days. At the age of fourteen, he began performing in various vaudevillian formats ranging from mime to stilt-walking, an itinerant way of life that would last for nine years. The lessons learned from vaudeville–the sense of comic timing, the willingness to make a fool of himself onscreen, the skillful pratfalling–would serve him well as he began to transform himself from mere “eye candy” supporting player into the self-assured leading man who would fuel a million fantasies (oh, come on, you know you’ve been there).
In many ways, Grant was one of the kings of the screwball comedy. Not only could he deliver the zaniest of lines with panache and good humor, but he seemed to relish the prospect of throwing his body about on-screen in hilarious–and sometimes painful–ways. Take, for instance, his acrobatics in 1938′s Holiday, in which Grant plays Johnny, a free-spirited young man who tends to express himself through tumbling stunts, including a fantastic handstand/backflip combo at the end of the film.
Yes, that is a blurry Grant, suspended in mid-air in a screen capture from the film. And yes, that is Katharine Hepburn, his Holiday co-star, approaching in the background–in the film, her appearance causes Grant’s character to lose focus and bellyflop flat on the ground.
Ouch!
Pratfalls aside, Grant knew how integral facial expression was to the overall effect of a screwball sensibility.
Hamming it up in 1937's The Awful Truth
A captive Grant in Arsenic and Old Lace (1944)
An unwilling--and grumpy--"crossdresser" in Bringing Up Baby (1938)
And Grant always played well with a partner, his most effective of which being Irene Dunne, in three films including The Awful Truth …
… and Katharine Hepburn, in four films including Bringing Up Baby …
… and his single on-screen pairing with Rosalind Russell, in 1940′s fast-talking His Girl Friday.
These films are just the tip of the oh-so-funny iceberg. There are several more films in Grant’s repertoire–among them Topper (1937), My Favorite Wife (1940), and The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer (1947)–that highlight the self-deprecating, antic humor that made the actor so appealing to a broad spectrum of moviegoers. Even his more serious roles, such as his four turns for director Alfred Hitchcock, emphasize the wittier side of his suave demeanor. Cary Grant was, in a word, just plain FUNNY.
So tell me–what are some of your favorite moments of Cary Grant hilarity? Any scenes (or entire films, for that matter) that are particularly rib-tickling or memorable for you?
P.S. If you’ve never seen it, one of the best tributes to Grant comes courtesy of TCM and the wonderful Tony Curtis, one of the actor’s self-proclaimed biggest fans.
I’ve made no secret of my admiration for Ginger Rogers in the past–she’s an underrated comedienne, relegated in the minds of most moviegoers to a permanent place waltzing at Fred Astaire’s side. And while there is no shortage of entertainment to be drawn from the Fred and Ginger filmography, Ginger’s talent extends far beyond the dance floor.
In this installment of Wacky Wednesdays, we’re going to take a look at one of my favorite Fred-less Ginger Rogers roles: 1938′s hilarious screwball comedy Vivacious Lady.
Rogers plays Francey, a young nightclub singer in New York. When Peter Morgan (James Stewart) is sent to Francey’s club to retrieve his lovestruck cousin, Keith (James Ellison), Peter winds up falling for Francey. After a whirlwind night together, the two marry, and Peter takes Francey to his hometown, Old Sharon, where he is a botany professor at the local college. His father, Peter Sr. (Charles Coburn) and his former fiance, Helen (Frances Mercer) meet the pair at the train station, where Peter passes off Francey as Keith’s lover until he can find the right time to tell his father and his heart-attack-prone mother (Beulah Bondi) that he has married the girl. Cue the slapstick as Peter tries to clue in his parents, let down Helen gently, and find a way to consummate his marriage with his alluring new wife.
If this film is known for anything, it’s Rogers’ patio scrap with Mercer, a brilliantly-constructed fight that remains one of the greatest scenes in screwball history. Featuring all the hallmarks of the stereotypical catfight–hair-pulling, biting, kicking, name-calling–it builds to a chaotic crescendo as Helen, still unaware of Peter’s marriage, confronts the “interloper” in their relationship. Francey’s initial humoring of Helen is marked by Rogers’ trademarked brand of smart-assed repartee:
Helen: “Now are you going to mind your own business, or must I really give you a piece of my mind?”
Francey: “Oh, I couldn’t take the last piece.”
Helen, the self-proclaimed paragon of class, strikes first, slapping Francey across the cheek, and you know it’s on like Donkey Kong. All civilized talk gives way to a continued series of slaps and admonishments (“Shh!”) from Francey, two kicks from Helen, and, finally, a warning from a fed-up Francey to her tony opponent to “put ‘em up.” This in itself is hilarious, and yet Rogers kicks it up another notch, bringing to the scene a kind of dignified mortification at being caught in the act that makes her predicament ten times funnier. As the Morgans finally make their way to the patio, a sheepish Francey stares at Peter’s father in a brief moment of horror, then smiles, spits a rose petal out of her mouth, laughs with embarrassment, and tightens her chokehold. And when Helen decides to play dirty, poking her rival with a hatpin, Francey simply tosses the bitch over her shoulder and lays her out on the ground. Classic, feisty Ginger.
The fight itself is a blatant demonstration of the class struggle that is such a central theme to the film, as the forces of high class react poorly to the infiltration of the “common.” Peter, though deeply in love with his new wife, does not quite know how to introduce her to his family, and Francey fears she does not meet the requirements to be a professor’s wife and to fit into the Morgans’ stuffy world. Peter, Sr., repulsed by Francey’s perceived corruption and contemptible morality, almost destroys his son’s marriage due to his own preconceived biases. But as in most screwball comedies, the higher-class Morgans are shown to have just as many–if not more–issues than “average girl” Francey, and when the Morgans are brought “down to earth” (so to speak), love is allowed to win over class concerns in the end.
The solid casting of this film works heavily in its favor. Coburn and Bondi, as Stewart’s parents, are gifted comic sidekicks and stand out in their scenes on screen. Ellison, as sly cousin Keith, is a charming second banana. And Stewart, in one of his first major roles as a leading man, shows glimmers of the stalwart, capable performer he would become in the ensuing years. But make no mistake: Rogers run away with the picture. Lady is undoubtedly a showcase for its lead actress, designed to separate her from the specter of Fred in the minds of the moviegoing public.
Does the film succeed in that respect? For the most part, yes. After the initial nightclub scenes, in which we get a taste of dancing and singing Ginger, the film moves beyond the music and engrosses us in the comedy and the romance to the point that we don’t really miss the musical interludes so common in a 1930s Rogers film. And this film, combined with other Rogers solo vehicles such as Bachelor Mother (1939), Kitty Foyle (1940), Primrose Path (1940), and The Major and the Minor (1942), demonstrates that, unlike erstwhile partner Astaire, Rogers could actually craft a successful career outside the bounds of singing and dancing.
Will someone put this wonderful film on DVD already?!?!?
I recently received a copy of Saul Austerlitz’s Another Fine Mess: A History of American Film Comedy, which was released last month. It is, in a word, engrossing.
But a pithy, single-word review won’t do, will it? Nor is that single word sufficient, really, to explain to you how wonderful this compendium of film comedy truly is. Austerlitz manages to do something that would initially seem impossible: condensing the entire history of silver-screen yuks into a mere 500 pages, and doing it well.
Part retrospective, part dissection, and chock full of informed opinion, Another Fine Mess deftly examines the span of comedic film, beginning with its earliest purveyors of hilarity–Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, and Harold Lloyd–and ending with a look at the state of comedy in modern cinema through the films of its most recent champions–Will Ferrell, Ben Stiller, and Judd Apatow, among others. From silent to screwball, subversive to subtle, glib to gross-out, Austerlitz covers it all with an analytical acumen and winking humor that makes for a highly appealing combination.
The book is broken into two parts: a series of in-depth chapters dedicated to a singular filmmaker or star, and a few dozen short notes that briefly address other actors, directors, and writers whose contributions to the world of film comedy cannot be overlooked. Arranged chronologically, Austerlitz traces the history of twentieth-century comedic cinema with informative glimpses of such stalwarts as the Marx Brothers, Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, Jerry Lewis, Peter Sellers, and Doris Day, and timeless directors such as Ernst Lubitsch, Preston Sturges, Billy Wilder, Mel Brooks, and Woody Allen.
The biographical portraits of each star are fascinating, but it’s the analysis of their various films that really makes this book more than just a mere encyclopedia of comedy. The author demonstrates a keen eye for even the most nuanced details of a particular film or performance, making for a highly informative read. Let’s just say that after reading this book, I have a new appreciation for (most of) the Eddie Murphy canon (except Norbit. Austerlitz tries to make a somewhat halfhearted case for this stinkfest, but I’m not biting).
As a classic movie fan, I take umbrage to a couple of Austerlitz’s assertions; after all, every one of us has his or her favorites, and the need to defend those favorites can be hard to suppress–as, for example, when I read the section on Wilder, in which Austerlitz refers to one of my favorite Wilder pictures, 1942′s The Major and the Minor, as “slight.” This elicited a rather loud, “WHAT??” and vigorous head-shaking (personally, I think characterizing Major as “slight” is short-sighted, considering the genius of the script–one of the funniest and most perverse of Wilder’s career, despite its latent saccharine tendencies).
One of the things I really appreciate about Austerlitz’s book is that he rarely dabbles in the salacious. Many classic movie fans are aware of the peccadilloes of some of Hollywood’s biggest stars–the allure of adultery, the stars who fought to maintain a closeted homosexual life, etc.–but instead of indulging in pointless retellings of classic Hollywood gossip, Austerlitz focuses on the things that crafted these performers and directors into the comedic forces they would eventually become, keeping their work–and the stories derived from that work–at the forefront of his narrative.
And if Austerlitz does not care for a particular star or film, he does not hold back his condescension. But for the most part, this lack of restraint is enjoyable as opposed to bothersome. His short note on the “comedic” milieu of Julia Roberts’ film career, for instance, is a master class in subtle snark, yet quite enjoyable nonetheless (though, admittedly, this is probably because I’ve never much cared for the actress either, and I dislike her signature film, Pretty Woman, with a passion that burns with the heat of a million suns. Prostitution in and of itself is not funny or romantic, and that’s not the kind of “happy ending” most of them end up with, people).
If I have a problem with the book, it’s not from Austerlitz’s work itself, which is, overall, impressive. But reading through this history of film comedy highlights the lack of female comedians and the dearth of minorities in memorable comedic roles. There are several comediennes who deserve their own chapters here (in my estimation, anyway): Jean Arthur, Barbara Stanwyck, Myrna Loy, and Carole Lombard, at the very least, deserve that kind of in-depth recognition, but each is instead relegated to her own short note in the second half of the book. And in the same vein, had I undertaken the gargantuan task of writing this book, I likely wouldn’t have devoted whole chapters to actors such as Dustin Hoffman and Ferrell myself. But any examination of film–be it comedy or drama, all-encompassing or a brief history thereof–is reliant on the author’s own perceptions, and Austerlitz is no exception. And thankfully, he acknowledges this–as the author states in his introduction, he merely aims to start the discussion, and debate is not only encouraged, but welcomed.
All things considered, if you’re looking for a good read on film history that’s informative and far from the same old boring, obtuse commentary, Another Fine Mess is just what you’ve been searching for. If you deem yourself a fan of film in general and comedy in particular, Austerlitz’s work is an education unto itself, and immensely entertaining to boot. I came away from reading Another Fine Mess with both a greater understanding of some of my favorite classic stars and a greater appreciation for the sheer bravado it took to put some of our most memorable comedies on the screen, then and now.
For an initial taste of Austerlitz’s commentary, check out his “Top Ten Great Film Comedies” guest post from earlier this week–and feel free to contribute to the discussion on the best films from each decade of Hollywood history!
True Classics would like to thank Saul Austerlitz and Anna Suknov of FSB Associates for making this review possible.
We love comedy here at True Classics–the silent shenanigans of Chaplin and Keaton; the romantic sparring of Hepburn and Tracy; the subtle zingers of a good Wilder or Lubitsch script; even the absurdist spoofs of Mel Brooks and Monty Python–in their own unique, hilarious ways, we love them all.
But perhaps most of all, we love the screwball pictures–slapstick, all-out madness capped by farcical situations, innumerable misunderstandings, and more than one man in a dress by movie’s end. Some of the best comedies to emerge from Hollywood’s Golden Age fall under the “screwball” genre, and as such, we’ll be celebrating them every now and again in our Wacky Wednesdays series.
As for our favorites … well, that’s a matter that’s always up for debate. So to kick off our Wacky Wednesdays series, here’s a look at some of our individual picks, many of which we’ll be discussing more in-depth in future posts!
Brandie: Preston Sturges was the master of the screwball comedy, hands down.
In a handful of pictures, the uber-talented writer/director managed to both define and subvert the genre, and he did it with one of the most prolific, talented stock troupe of actors the world has ever seen. Stars like Joel McCrea and Eddie Bracken reveled in the insanity and produced some of the best work of their careers. Female actresses like Barbara Stanwyck, Claudette Colbert, and Veronica Lake were cast as some of the most well-developed female comedic characters in film history and they ran with them, resulting in amazingly deft performances (even from Lake, who, let’s face it, wasn’t exactly considered easy to work with, nor very talented to boot). And as the even-funnier “second bananas,” Sturges had comedians like William Demarest, Robert Dudley, and Frank Moran, character actors who stole the show from the bigger stars on a regular basis.
While I love most of Sturges’ films, my favorites are The Lady Eve, Sullivan’s Travels, The Palm Beach Story, Hail the Conquering Hero, and The Miracle of Morgan’s Creek. I also quite love Remember the Night, which was written by Sturges but not directed by him.
I’m also inordinately fond of Bringing Up Baby; this is the movie that introduced me to screwball back when I still thought black-and-white movies were the height of old-fashioned foolishness (ahh, the ignorance of youth). And I will shout to the rooftops about Bachelor Mother, with Ginger Rogers and David Niven, which I don’t think gets enough credit for being such an amazing, funny, adorable film–her undisputed best film (next to The Major and the Minor) without erstwhile dancing partner Fred Astaire.
Nikki: On top of My Favorite Wife, Bachelor Mother (and their remakes Move Over, Darling and Bundle of Joy respectively), and Bringing Up Baby (funniest movie EVER), I also love How to Marry a Millionaire and The Shop Around the Corner.
How to Marry a Millionaire is probably my all-time favorite Marilyn Monroe film for two reasons: 1) she wears glasses; and 2) she takes a back seat to Lauren Bacall and doesn’t bowl you over with her good looks. Bacall is brilliant (as usual) and William Powell makes an appearance as the wealthy JD. If you haven’t seen it, you’re in for a treat. The Shop Around the Corner is a great story about two people who have no idea they are perfect for each other and keep letting petty differences get in the way. Starring Jimmy Stewart and Margaret Sullivan, with Frank Morgan (best known to today’s audiences as the Wizard from The Wizard of Oz), this film is sweet, funny, and a true delight. If you loved You’ve Got Mail, which is a remake of this film, you’ll love the original.
*Side note: You may notice that Carrie’s comedy selections are not listed. Carrie is taking a brief break from blogging until life calms down a little bit in her neck of the woods. She’ll be back soon, though, so don’t despair! Nikki and I will still be here, holding down the fort in the meantime.*
