Tag Archives: barbara stanwyck

Operator! Operator! Operator!

Posted on by under blogathon, noir

 

Many of director Alfred Hitchcock’s films take place in a single setting, restricting the movement of the characters to a central locale. Movies such as Lifeboat (1944), Rope (1948), and Rear Window and Dial M for Murder (both 1954) are claustrophobic and unnerving, filled to the brim with tension and unbearable suspense. The characters cannot get away from one another, and so the action is reduced to a psychological cat-and-mouse game with potentially deadly consequences. It is, to say the least, a highly effective means of establishing the scene from the very start.

In staging his 1948 suspenseful noir Sorry, Wrong Number, director Anatole Litvak borrows heavily from this particular element of Hitchcock’s oeuvre. Though the film features several flashbacks that take the action outside of its given setting, Number largely takes place inside the bedroom of spoiled heiress Leona Stevenson (Barbara Stanwyck), a bedridden invalid whose only outlet to the outside world–a telephone–becomes a source of fear and growing hysteria.

Having suffered a series of debilitating heart attacks, Leona remains trapped inside the third-floor bedroom of her mansion in New York City. One day, Leona tries to reach her unhappy, henpecked husband, Henry (Burt Lancaster), on the telephone, but receives no answer. When she asks the operator to connect the call, Leona ends up overhearing another call instead, in which two men are plotting the upcoming murder of an unnamed woman. Though Leona tries to report what she’s heard, her claims are dismissed. But piecing together bits of the conversation she’s just heard leads Leona to think that the target of the planned assassination may just be her.

Sorry, Wrong Number began life as a radio play by Lucille Fletcher, who (to continue the thread of Hitchcock connections in this film) was in the process of divorcing Hitch’s go-to film composer, Bernard Herrmann, the year this film was produced. The thirty-minute play was beefed up to ninety minutes for the film version by adding a series of flashbacks to establish the links between the characters and the history of Leona and Henry’s marriage. On the air, the role of Leona was originated by the great character actress Agnes Moorehead, who had found movie stardom as a supporting player in Orson Welles’ Mercury Theatre (alongside other stars such as Joseph Cotten and Vincent Price). But when it came time to transfer the action to the big screen, Moorehead was deemed not a big enough star to carry the film, and so the part was given to Stanwyck. Cast as her weak-willed husband was Lancaster, who fought for the role to prove that he could play other parts besides the “pretty-boy” roles that had populated his career up until that point.

Leona is a shallow, unlikable woman who slowly slips into paranoia, fear, and regret, and Stanwyck (in her own inimitable way) is adept at making us feel for the character despite her less-than-sympathetic qualities (in fact, her skill in the part landed her a fourth Academy Award nomination for Best Actress). Stanwyck likely wouldn’t qualify by anyone’s definition of the stereotypical “cool Hitchcock blonde”–she’s much too vital and dynamic a personality for that in the majority of her roles. Leona is more akin to a figure such as Miriam in Strangers on a Train (1951), in that both women are essentially done in by their own selfishness.

The Hitchcockian elements abound in this production: the claustrophobic setting; the dark and shadowy appearance of the film, filled with tight framing shots that highlight Leona’s paranoia and terror; the elements of voyeurism inherent in the audience’s witnessing of Leona’s terrified final moments. Even the soundtrack contributes to the Hitchcockian feel of the movie–the score, by Franz Waxman, relies on sudden, startling. ominous notes that accompany impending danger, reminiscent at times of Herrmann’s brilliantly-crafted score for 1960′s Psycho, with the screeching violins that accompany the murders (though Sorry predates this film by more than a decade).

By the final scenes of the movie, the tension has built to almost insufferable levels. It is, in many ways, similar to the feeling aroused by the ending of several Hitchcock films–some of which came before Sorry (1941′s Suspicion, 1945′s Spellbound) and some of which came after (1959′s North by Northwest)–in that the central character’s fate is left in the hands of a would-be attacker, with rescue or redemption never completely certain. This trope is particularly evident in Rear Window, as L.B. Jeffries’ (James Stewart) life hangs in the balance–the attack on Leona is, in many ways similar to Thorwald’s (Raymond Burr) attack on Jeff, as both characters are forced to wait helplessly while their attacker approaches, unable to physically defend themselves. The ending is quite different for Stewart’s hero, who manages to survive thanks to the timely arrival of the police. Leona isn’t quite so lucky. The audience, the voyeur that has witnessed every minute of Leona’s final moments, is just as helpless as she is–as helpless as Henry, holding the other end of the telephone line, is–and all we are left to feel is fear and regret. And if the hand of Hitchcock wasn’t guiding the camera in person in these final moments, its suspenseful spirit most certainly was.

 

This post is a contribution to the “Best Hitchcock Films Hitchcock Never Made” blogathon hosted by Dorian from Tales of the Easily Distracted and Becky of ClassicBecky’s Brain Food. Make sure to check out the other compelling entries throughout the week.

The ladies they talk about.

Posted on by under blogathon, gangster films, pre-code goodies, we're here we're queer

With the publication of his 1994 biography of Barbara Stanwyck, Axel Madsen infuriated a legion of the actress’ fans by claiming that Stanwyck had been bisexual, as evidenced–he says–by a lifelong friendship with her publicist, Helen Ferguson. Indeed, Madsen provides little evidence for his speculation; he admits that there is no proof of Stanwyck’s supposed bisexuality, and equates her with Greta Garbo as “Hollywood’s most famous closeted lesbian,” something that “everybody” in town allegedly knew.

Madsen seems to base much of his claim on Stanwyck’s onscreen persona rather than anecdotal evidence from the actress’ personal life, writing: “To lesbians growing up in loneliness, lacking contacts with other lesbians, fearing parental shock and despairing of finding examples to emulate, the Barbara Stanwyck screen image defined her as ‘one of us.’ The reason was not any coded message in gestures or delivery, but the way the screen characters to which she gave life defined themselves in their own terms and were comparatively independent of men and of household expectations.”

Whether or not Stanwyck was gay (and really, who could even say for sure at this point?), the fact that she was so willing to take on potentially controversial, “tough-girl” roles throughout her career indicates that, at the very least, she had no fear of being accused as such. According to Madsen, when gossip columnist Louella Parsons questioned Stanwyck’s choice to play a lesbian brothel owner in 1962’s Code-pushing Walk on the Wild Side, the actress reportedly snapped, “What do you want them to do, get a real madam and a real lesbian?” [Still, as Dan Callahan points out in his recent biography of the star, Barbara Stanwyck: The Miracle Woman, Stanwyck's character in that film is little more than a "shallow conception, a woman who needs to be 'explained' by some Penguin Freud, a lesbian who doesn't even get to be a real lesbian because that would be too threatening" even in the more permissive cinematic atmosphere of 1962.]

From her earliest days in Hollywood, she was unafraid to play characters that exist outside the realm of so-called “normalcy”—from prostitutes to gun molls to prisoners and every kind of dirty dealer in between, there was never a bad girl so deliciously bad as Barbara Stanwyck. Nowhere, perhaps, is this more evident than in the 1933 film Ladies They Talk About, in which Stanwyck plays an unrepentant criminal whose crimes land her behind bars. Based on the play Women in Prison by Dorothy Mackaye (an actress who had herself been incarcerated for a short period of time after her husband’s death at the hands of her lover), Ladies is, as Callahan states, “a crackerjack women’s prison movie that has all the punchy, vital virtues of a Warner Bros. film of this era.” The film certainly shares many themes with the popular, sometimes gritty fare offered up by that studio, which by the 1930s had turned from pioneering sound pictures with a series of low-budgeted musicals (many of them in early two-strip Technicolor) to offering up “social statement” and gangster films like Little Caesar and The Public Enemy (both 1931) and I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang (1932). Much like its male-led predecessors, Ladies does not shy away from depicting violence and mayhem; it celebrates vice even while showing the potential consequences for indulging in it, and courts controversy for its frank and sometimes sympathetic depiction of criminality.

Stanwyck plays Nan Taylor, who is arrested for helping her “gang” rob a bank by acting as the decoy to distract the guard. The embattled District Attorney, Walter Simpson (Robert McWade), knows Nan’s claims of innocence are a bunch of baloney, as she’s been in trouble with the law before. Nonetheless, she is paroled under public pressure led by Nan’s childhood friend, a radio host/preacher named David Slade (Preston S. Foster) who has long criticized the local politicians for perpetuating the city’s out-of-control crime wave through their own corruption. Slade believes that every man (and woman) should have the chance for redemption, and wants to believe that Nan–with whom he is deeply in love–is not guilty. He tells her that “bygones should be bygones” as they start a new life together, but when Nan confesses to him that she really is guilty, David turns her back over to the authorities.

Nan is convicted and sentenced to the San Quentin penitentiary for two to five years. As “fresh fish” at the prison, Nan immediately comes into conflict with “Sister Susie” (Dorothy Burgess), a fellow prisoner who reveres David Slade and resents Nan for turning off his radio show in the common room. Nan wins the respect of the other women when she verbally cuts Susie down to size, and Linda (Lillian Roth) takes Nan under her wing and advises her about her new domicile, introducing her to other prisoners like overly jolly former madam “Aunt” Maggie (Maude Eburne).

In the meantime, David continues to write and tries to visit Nan in prison, though she refuses to have anything to do with him, tearing up his letters and not leaving her cell on visiting days–much to nosy Susie’s anger. But when her old pal Lefty (Harold Huber) comes to visit and tells her that fellow gang members Don (Lyle Talbot) and Dutch (Harold Healy) have been captured and sentenced to San Quentin themselves (albeit for twenty to life in their cases), Nan agrees to help her boys with their escape plan, even if it means seeing David again in order to make the plan work.

Her timing is put in jeopardy when Susie manages to get Nan into trouble, causing her to lose her privileges for thirty days. But the matrons, sympathetic to David’s obvious love for Nan and his desperation to see her, give her special permission to meet with him anyway. She manages to slip a letter to Lefty–with an impression of the matron’s key–into David’s pocket as he embraces her, and when David later finds it, he drops it into a mailbox. But in quick order, the police intercept the letter, Don and Dutch are killed in their escape attempt, and Nan is denied parole when her involvement comes to light. Certain that David had turned her in once again, she plots her revenge–but it doesn’t turn out exactly as she planned.

As indicated previously, most of the Warner Bros. pictures in the “gangster” milieu center around men, but Ladies They Talk About is a scintillating look at the life of crime from the other side of the coin. Still, the movie has its weaknesses, and is largely unable to reach the same level of brilliance as films like Little Caesar and Scarface. Part of that is the way the film is constructed: the framing scenes–the ones outside the penitentiary–are the weakest ones of the film, and the ending, in many ways, is simply absurd, grasping at comic straws in a jarring moment of supposed reformation (seriously, when’s the last time YOU told someone who shot you, “That’s okay”)?

The movie finds its strength in the middle section, with its non-glamorized depiction of life under incarceration. None of these women are innocent, retiring creatures–they are guilty, they know they are guilty, and many of them are unrepentant in their guilt. The prison functions as a microcosm of the world outside—the women are subjected to the oversight of the men who put them there, just like their “free” sisters outside the prison walls. When fellow prisoner Linda shows Nan the ropes of life in the joint, she tells her that the women are “always a few feet away” from what they want most–”freedom and men.”  And yet the female prisoners have managed fine on their own, creating a sort of dysfunctional family with the atmosphere of a dormitory, complete with its own caste system that intrinsically mirrors the one outside.

Even within the hierarchy of life inside the prison, it is the more “masculine” prisoners who rule the roost–prisoners like the overly aggressive Susie (whose jealousy, Linda warns, is dangerous to Nan), who eventually backs down under threat of Nan’s fist after Nan manages to knock her out with a single punch during an ill-picked cat fight. There’s also the haughty dowager, Mrs. Arlington (Cecil Cunningham), who lives and breathes the patriarchy that produced her, lording her breeding above the other prisoners and calling the black inmates her “servants.” And then there’s the unnamed “butch” stereotype whom Nan meets in the washroom (as Linda wryly teases: “Watch out for her; she likes to wrestle”). This character is later shown during a brief montage to be doing bicep curls in her cell, much to the amazement of the young brunette prisoner sitting on her cot (“You’re just always exercising!” she exclaims as the woman continues to flex her arms) … and, in case this prisoner’s sexuality is questionable to the viewer, she is constantly shown with quite the phallic-looking cigar hanging out of her mouth. In a world without men, this film seems to say, it is only those who essentially become men–by exerting their influence on their fellow prisoners through intimidation, force, or respect for their physical strength–who can hold any amount of power (however limited) in the institution. Even in a world without men, the “men” still find a way to run the joint.

Ladies They Talk About is one of the more notable precursors to the “women’s prison film” subgenre that really began to thrive in the 1950s. Movies such as Caged (1950), Women’s Prison (1955), and, later, Caged Heat (1974), further explore the themes of isolation and powerlessness associated with incarceration—and, more broadly, the same isolation and lack of power that comes from simply being a woman in a man’s world. And the movie is recognized today in LGBT scholarship as a notable film for its inclusion of lesbian imagery (however fleeting). Though Ladies‘ depiction of its gay character is “coded” in shades of obvious cliche, it is nonetheless impressive that directors Howard Bretherton and William Keighley managed to include these references without delving into broad caricature of the character–she is not ridiculed or feared for her obviously differing sexuality, but is shown to be admired or, at the very least, healthily respected by her fellow inmates in her relatively few moments on screen. Funny, how the world of prison is shown to be more inclusive and accepting than the world outside it, isn’t it?

 

This post is a contribution to the Queer Blogathon, co-hosted by Garbo Laughs and Pussy Goes Grrr. Head over to their sites to check out the other wonderful entries that have been posted throughout the week, and make sure to enter the raffle to win one of two excellent film books on the topic of queer theory in film!

Helloooooooooooo, nurse.

Posted on by under pre-code goodies

We’re wrapping up our April of Barbara Stanwyck flicks with a look at one of my favorite pre-Codes, the 1931 drama Night Nurse, co-starring Joan Blondell and a villainous, non-mustachioed Clark Gable.

Stanwyck stars as Lora Hart, an aspiring nurse who finagles a probationary training position at a hospital after meeting the chief of staff, Dr. Bell (Charles Winninger), when he inadvertently knocks her purse to the ground. She is partnered with wisecracking, no-nonsense fellow nurse Maloney (Blondell), and the two become fast friends despite their differing views on the nursing profession–Maloney is just working until she can entice a rich patient to marry her, while Lora truly believes in helping people. After being assigned to the night shift as punishment for missing curfew one night, Lora meets a charming bootlegger, Mortie (Ben Lyon), who comes in for treatment for a gunshot wound. Lora agrees not to report the incident to the police, gaining her an instant fan and admirer in Mortie (who calls her “my pal”).

After earning their nursing certification, Lora and Maloney are assigned to private nursing duty for two children, Nanny and Desney Ritchey, who are very sick and don’t seem to be getting any better. Maloney, who works the day shift, voices her suspicions that the children’s recovery is being deliberately impeded by their shady physician, Dr. Ranger (Ralf Harolde), and Lora herself becomes concerned when she realizes that all the children are being fed is milk. When she tries to talk to the children’s mother (Charlotte Merriam), she finds the woman is a perpetual drunk and unconcerned about her children’s well-being. Mrs. Ritchey’s equally drunken paramour, Mack (Walter McGrail), attacks Lora, and he is pulled off by Nick (Gable), Mrs. Ritchey’s animalistic chauffeur. Nick demands that Lora pump Mrs. Ritchey’s stomach, but when she tries to call a doctor to get approval for the procedure, he knocks her out with a sock to the jaw.

The next day, Lora tries to talk to Dr. Ranger about the children’s health and Nick’s brutality, but he brushes off her concerns. An enraged Lora quits; once she leaves his office, Dr. Ranger calls Nick, revealing that he has been conspiring with the chauffeur to kill the children (we later learn that Nick’s plan is to marry the children’s mother after their deaths and thus get access to their trust fund). Lora seeks advice from Dr. Bell, who advises her to get her job back so that she can be in the Ritchey house to better help save the children. She convinces Ranger to hire her back, but by this time, Nanny’s health has deteriorated to the point of near-death. Lora enlists the help of “old pal” Mortie to foil Nick’s plans, but will it be enough to save the children?

Night Nurse was directed by William A. Wellman, marking the first of five collaborations between Stanwyck and Wellman. The actress was inordinately fond of the sometimes temperamental director, and in later years she would remember him as one of the best directors she had worked with throughout her long career. As with much of Wellman’s body of work, Night Nurse is smartly paced from its opening scene (a point-of-view shot from the driver’s seat of a speeding ambulance, careening through the streets before screeching to a halt in front of the emergency room) through its book-ended conclusion of a similar scene (recreated with a body we know in tow). Though the film is rather noticeably split into two definitive sections–beginning with Lora’s training before sliding into the thriller/mystery that marks the second half–it works well as a whole, showing Lora’s progression from wannabe nurse to defiant savior.

At its heart, Night Nurse is an indictment of the excesses of the Jazz Age; in fact, all of the scenes in which Mrs. Ritchey appears are accompanied by loud jazz music in the background, as if to underscore the evils of the period. We never see Mrs. Ritchey sober, nor do we ever see her in the company of her daughters. Liquor is the devil, used to keep Mrs. Ritchey drunk and under Nick’s control, enabling her to forget her motherly duties. In a fit of self-pity, she claims Dr. Ranger told her that she makes the children “too nervous” and has therefore been forbidden from visiting them; whether this is true or not, our frustration with Mrs. Ritchey mirrors that of Lora, whom we cheer when she finally lashes out at the woman for her less-than-maternal behavior.

And yet Lora herself is guilty of less-than-seemly behavior. She readily agrees to forgo reporting Mortie’s gunshot wound to the police, and she appears to have no problem associating with a known bootlegger (so long as they aren’t going too public with their friendship). In the end, she even seems to accept Mortie’s inference about Nick’s “whereabouts” with nary a blink of an eye. She is far from an innocent figure, though the audience is conditioned to support her regardless … making us, thereby, implicit in her morally-questionable behavior. Interesting consideration, to say the least.

Though Stanwyck and Blondell play a pair of seasoned, worldly females and are far from victimized, there is nonetheless a sense that femininity is devalued throughout the film. The women are slapped around, brutalized, cowed, and used. Their opinions and concerns are cast as “hysterical” or ignorant. Lora fights back against this, and largely succeeds because she takes a more aggressive approach to her interactions with most of the other characters–she’s unafraid to raise her voice, use her fists, or get right up in Nick’s face and accuse him of attempted murder. In other words, because she takes on more traditionally “male” characteristics, Lora escapes the same level of treatment that the frightened housekeeper, Mrs. Maxwell (Blanche Frederici) or Mrs. Ritchey are subjected to (for the most part). Despite this, all of the women of the film are, at times, treated as mere objects: stared at and lusted over not only by the men of the film, but by the audience as well, a sleazy note of voyeurism that is unavoidable considering the sheer number of scenes in which Wellman has his two leading ladies strip down to their undergarments. It’s titillation for titillation’s sake–seriously, is there any real reason for so many scenes in which the female characters disrobe?

Stanwyck’s typical film persona is that of the prototypical “tough broad,” and she takes that to new heights in this film. She is a smart-assed, take-no-crap dame who is determined to do what’s right regardless of the rules of “ethical” nursing (which would, in theory, prevent her from telling the full truth about what’s happening in the Ritchey household)–and it’s a shame that, by the end of the film, Lora is forced to choose between doing the right thing and the job that she has come to love and excel at. Lora’s confrontation with Mrs. Ritchey over the welfare of the children is perhaps the best scene in the entire film, a fiery burst of passion from Stanwyck that ends with her standing over Mrs. Ritchey’s prone body, muttering, “You mother.” Stanwyck delivers the line with a mix of sarcasm and derision–it’s an epithet, an ironic label, and an insult, all wrapped into one, and in her tone, you can just hear the implicit ” … fucker” added to the end of the phrase.

Though their scenes together are relatively few, Gable and Stanwyck demonstrate a potent chemistry in their moments of confrontation. Watching the movie now, it’s easy to see how and why Gable simply exploded into popularity in 1931. Night Nurse was released right on the heels of the film that arguably made Gable a star, A Free Soul, in which he appeared opposite Norma Shearer and Lionel Barrymore. Though Gable is mostly remembered for his more heroic or romantic film roles–let’s face it, to many film fans, he will always be the roguish Rhett Butler and nothing more–this movie presents Gable as an effectively chilling psychopath. He plays Nick as a sort of pit bull–always nipping and barking, exerting more muscle than brains, dangerously fueled by testosterone and coldblooded determination as opposed to logic and reason.

A potent mix of sex and violence, marked by strong performances and a relatively solid, entertaining plot, Night Nurse is one of the better melodramas to come out of the pre-Code period, and one I highly recommend.

Buying Barbara Stanwyck.

Posted on by under melodrama, pre-code goodies

Joan Gordon (Barbara Stanwyck), a nightclub singer in New York City, intends to marry Don (Hardie Albright), the scion of a wealthy family. But Don’s father discovers that Joan had been the mistress of a bootlegging gangster, Eddie Fields (Lyle Talbot), and forbids the union. Resentful of the fact that her association with Eddie ruined her chances for a good marriage, Joan flees to Montreal. When Eddie’s men eventually find her, she takes drastic measures to get out of town, becoming the mail-order bride for a young wheat farmer, Jim Gilson (George Brent), in rural North Dakota. Though their quickie marriage gets off on the wrong foot when a nervous Joan rejects Jim’s wedding-night advances, the two of them stick it out, somewhat awkwardly, through a harsh winter. But when Eddie tracks her to the farm, Joan and Jim’s blossoming feelings for one another are threatened as Jim discovers the truth about his wife’s past.

And there you have the twisted set-up for 1932′s The Purchase Price, a pre-Code drama that strains credulity. There’s enough material here for several films, and it’s all crammed into a little over an hour of sometimes abruptly-cut scenarios. That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, however, if the narrative as a whole made a lick of sense. Instead, the movie seems as though it were thrown together with a half-cocked script designed solely to showcase naughty behavior and not-so-sly sexual innuendo. When I realized that the movie was directed by William Wellman, I was initially surprised, as it seems very unlike his typical milieu … and then I remembered that this is the man who went on a B-movie lark with Stanwyck in 1943′s Lady of Burlesque, and it didn’t seem so odd. At the very least, Wellman got something out of working on this film with Stanwyck–reportedly, when he began writing the script for 1937′s A Star is Born, he based the marriage of Norman Maine and Esther Blodgett on the union of Stanwyck and Frank Fay, which began disintegrating while she was filming The Purchase Price.

Joan is not a “nice” girl, in the strictest sense; she’s an unmarried lounge singer sleeping with a married man, who puts her up in an apartment and showers her with shiny baubles. Yet she displays the most moderate behavior of any of the women in the film. There are no shrinking violets here; the women are worldly (to say the least) and unafraid of sexual banter, but Joan seems reluctant to participate. Take the scene in which Joan travels on the train to meet Jim. She sits with three other mail-order brides, all of them comparing photographs of their intended husbands. One of the women munches on a banana. “You know what they say about men with bushy eyebrows and a long nose?” she asks suggestively before sliding the banana halfway into her mouth and taking a bite. All the while, Joan sits by the window, visibly trying to suppress a grimace of distaste. If this were a 1930s version of Sex and the City (I kind of hate myself for making this reference right now), Joan would be the Charlotte York of the group.

As indicated by its title, one of the central themes of the film is the link between commerce and sex. The “purchase price” can be any number of things: the $100 that Joan paid to her maid, Emily, so she could take her place as Jim’s bride (Emily having sent Joan’s picture as her own made the lie conveniently easier); Emily’s intent to use the money to find a husband in town so she can “try the goods before I bought it”; the very notion of “buying” a prospective spouse; the money Joan borrows from Eddie to save Jim’s farm, which he only offers because, as he says, he’s still “nuts” about her; even the money Bull McDowell (David Landau), Eddie’s sleazy neighbor, offers to pay to cover Jim’s debts … IF Joan will come act as his “housekeeper” in return. Everything in the movie–especially the people–has a price, if someone is willing to pay it. It’s a bleak commentary on a world driven by dollars, and despite the far-fetched nature of the film’s plot, it’s a chillingly accurate one.

Stanwyck, per usual, does the best with what she is given here, but the character of Joan is so poorly drawn and contradictory that there is ultimately little that even she can do. Early in the film, Joan tells Eddie, “I’ve been up and down Broadway since I was fifteen years old” (interestingly, much like Stanwyck herself, who had become a Ziegfeld girl in her teens), and she later indicates to Emily that she has no experience being a housewife or working on a farm. But once she arrives in North Dakota, Joan is baking bread, cooking meals, and milking cows with the best of them, and without a word of complaint–all of which is more than a little implausible.

The other inexplicable factor regarding Joan is the source of her attraction to Jim. The man is little more than a rube, albeit one who is prone to violence; when Joan rejects his kiss on their wedding night and slaps him across the face, he has to restrain himself from punching her. His jealousy over Eddie leads him to whale on the man with no more provocation than Eddie’s placing his hand on top of Joan’s in a friendly manner, and in the midst of that fight, he throws Joan to the ground twice as she tries to intervene. Not only is he violent, but he’s extremely judgmental, essentially labeling Joan a slut because of her past relationship with Eddie. Top that off with his ignoring her throughout most of the film, and Joan’s sudden love for her in-name-only husband strikes me as extremely odd. Is there anything redeeming to the man? Other than the fact that he looks like George Brent, that is?

It’s a weird little film, but as a curiosity, The Purchase Price is worth a viewing, especially for true Stanwyck fans: she’s as beautiful as ever, and as an added bonus, her performance of “Take Me Away” at the beginning of the movie is her first singing performance (not dubbed) ever on film. True, there are better pre-Codes, but perhaps none so filled with delicious “what-the-fuckery” as this one …

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).

A bit of breakfast (for two).

Posted on by under brandie's faves, hahas, screwball legends

“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). 

A month of Stany goodness.

Posted on by under bloggy stuff

At last count (as in, I just counted five minutes ago), I have twenty-two unwatched films on the DVR, all of which I have recorded from TCM over the past two months. And though it wasn’t by design, I realized recently that five of these movies feature Barbara Stanwyck. To top that off, I also recently acquired three DVDs starring Stanwyck, all of which I have yet to view (and one of which has yet to be opened!).

I have a point in mentioning this, and it is this: I think April will be the month of Stanwyck on True Classics. After all, I’ve made no secret of my love for Babs in the past. In my mind, she is one of the greatest actresses to ever grace the screen–insanely beautiful, insanely talented, insanely witty. What better way to pay homage to one of my very favorite screen sirens than to dedicate an entire month’s worth of posts to her?

It feels doubly appropriate considering that a new biography of the actress, Barbara Stanwyck: The Miracle Woman, by Dan Callahan, was just published in February. So to accompany a month’s worth of film reviews, I’ll be snatching up a copy of Callahan’s book and reviewing it towards the end of the month.

But for now, just to kick things off, here’s a look back at some of the Stanwyck-centric reviews we’ve posted over the past two years …

My first post for True Classics, way back in December 2009, was a review of two Stanwyck Christmas classics, Remember the Night (1940) and Christmas in Connecticut (1945).

As part of a review of the Preston Sturges Filmmaker Collection on DVD, I provided a truncated look at Stanwyck’s brilliant performance in The Lady Eve (1941).

Here’s a quick review of Stanwyck’s hilarious turn as a slang-slingin’ burlesque doll in Ball of Fire (1941).

Stanwyck plays the target of Humphrey Bogart’s serial wife murderer in the somewhat strange 1947 film The Two Mrs. Carrolls.

For the CMBA “Movies of 1939″ blogathon last spring, I could not resist revisiting Golden Boy, the film that kicked off a lifelong friendship for costars Stanwyck and William Holden.

A guilty pleasure flick if there ever was one, 1943′s Lady of Burlesque again features Stanwyck as a burlesque queen, in one of the better B-flicks of the 1940s.

Stay tuned throughout the month as we post even more Stany goodness!