The little foxes that spoil the vines.

Posted on June 24, 2012 by Brandie under blogathon, hey y'all ... you're in the south, lit adaptations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bugle, bugle, who’s got the bugle?”

Posted on September 7, 2011 by Brandie under lit adaptations, private eyes are watching you, remakes suck

As part of our week-long celebration of the 70th anniversary of The Maltese Falcon (1941), today we are taking a look at the second film version of Dashiell Hammett’s pulp crime novel. For a brief introduction to the 1941 film, check out our post on Falcon from last year. For a more in-depth synopsis of the film’s plot, we recommend the AMC FilmSite entry about the movie.

In 1935, Warner Bros., unable to re-release the somewhat racy 1931 version of The Maltese Falcon due to stricter enforcement of the Production Code, decided to film a second version of the novel. The studio assigned an unenthusiastic William Dieterle to the director’s chair, an unwilling Bette Davis to the leading lady role, and pre-Code heartthrob Warren William to the pivotal role of Sam Spade … er, I mean, “Ted Shane.” The end result, released in 1936, was nothing short of underwhelming; to call the film a “misfire” is a severe understatement (the term that comes to my mind is “clusterfuck,” in case you were wondering).

The job of adapting the book into screenplay form was given to Brown Holmes, who had also worked on the screenplay for the earlier film. One would think that his previous experience with the material would result in something that was greatly similar to the original production. But the resulting script was merely a loose adaptation of Falcon. Now, when I say “loose,” I mean LOOSE. The screenplay ultimately had little in common with the source material. Holmes, in what appears to be an attempt to imbue the film with a farcical sense of irreverence, changed the characters’ names (and even one character’s gender), their personalities, and even the film’s “MacGuffin,” for the fabled gold-and-jewel-encrusted falcon was changed to an ivory ram’s horn stuffed with gems. Elements of the plot were altered to the point that any similarities to Falcon seem, in hindsight, almost coincidental. In short … this just ain’t Hammett’s story.

Satan’s “Spade” figure lacks the subtlety and the ambiguity of Hammett’s characterization. In fact, there’s nothing very subtle about Ted Shane–he’s painted as greedy, ambitious, and an unrepentant womanizer. Every woman he meets is greeted as “Kitten,” regardless of her actual name. William plays the role almost tongue-in-cheek; Shane is not meant to be taken seriously, despite the seriousness of the trouble he’s in. There is no sense of mystery to Shane’s motives. If Ricardo Cortez’s Sam Spade values women above all, and Humphrey Bogart’s values self-reliance, then William’s Shane is most concerned with gain–monetary gain, romantic gain, ego boosts, and whatever else he can get. In this sense, Shane is perhaps the most mercenary of the Spade incarnations … though this is undermined greatly by his sheer goofiness. After all, can you really refer to a man who imitates King Kong as a “mercenary?”

Davis absolutely loathed the experience of making the film. The actress, who demonstrated a keen eye for quality throughout much of her career, knew the script was bad and that the part of Valerie Purvis virtually reeked of “vapidity,” as she would later state in her memoirs. But while Davis may not have wanted to make the film, she simply did not have it in her to deliver a half-assed performance, regardless of the weaknesses of the concept. As a result, Davis is easily the best thing about Satan Met a Lady. Valerie is scripted as more antagonistic than other versions of Brigid O’Shaughnessy–she is combative from the start, and instead of manipulating Shane through her feminine wiles, Valerie (at least initially) relies on a pistol to get her way. Because of this, she is a much less effective female foil for the detective. Still, Davis manages to make an impact when she’s onscreen, bringing a steely determination to Valerie that belies the character’s sometimes insipid dialogue.

The “vapidity” Davis complained about is evident in all of the female characters in the movie. Miss Murgatroyd (Marie Wilson), the parallel to loyal secretary Effie, is a shrill, ditzy, whiny combination of worldliness and naivete. Astrid (Winifred Shaw), the wife of Shane’s doomed, shlubby partner Ames (Porter Hall), is a flirtatious man-eater whose role in the plot is reduced to irrelevance. And this film’s “Casper Gutman” figure, the stout Madame Barabbas (Alison Skipworth), lacks the menace and suavity befitting a purported criminal mastermind. None of these characters can hold a candle to their literary and (other) cinematic counterparts.

Equally ineffective are Satan’s versions of Dr. Cairo–now a dapper, tall Englishman named Travers (Arthur Treacher)–and the “gunsel”–now a baby-faced “nephew” of Barabbas, Kenneth (Maynard Holmes). Travers spends much of the film apologizing for trashing Shane’s apartment and office while complaining that Shane’s behavior is “not cricket.” Kenneth threatens to kill the teasing Shane, and has in fact murdered other characters in the film, but his comically young appearance and whining tone make you doubt his ability to kill a bug, let alone a person. The effort to paint these characters in a “funny” light ultimately weakens whatever impact they may have otherwise had.

That’s the problem with the entire film, truth be told. In the end, though Dieterle and company try to make the movie work as a comedy, the audience is not laughing. It’s almost impossible to take a story with the darkness and verve of The Maltese Falcon and turn it into slapstick–well, successful slapstick, anyway. Satan Met a Lady stands as a prime example of how literary adaptations can go horribly wrong when the source material is utterly bastardized on the way to the big screen.

Tomorrow: Hollywood finally gets The Maltese Falcon right.

Being Mrs. Skeffington.

Posted on April 1, 2011 by Brandie under 4-star films, brandie's faves, feminist fridays, melodrama

Throughout her long and varied career, Bette Davis excelled at playing complicated women. From the slatternly waitress in Of Human Bondage (1934) to the spoiled Southern belle in 1938′s Jezebel to the grand dame of the theater, Margo Channing, in 1950′s All About Eve, Davis’ filmography is stacked with a series of unparalleled performances. Part of the brilliance of Davis’ talent comes from her ability to wrestle the most unsympathetic, broadly-drawn women in the history of film into submission, transcending stereotype to make them shine. Even the most unequivocally shallow female characters are given new depth when Davis tackles the role.

Nowhere is this more evident than in 1944′s Mr. Skeffington. In this gem of a melodrama, Davis takes a wholly unpleasant woman (seriously … the character’s a pain in the ass) and forces the audience to not only sympathize with her, but to actually come to like her, on some level, despite her numerous perceived flaws.

Davis plays Fanny Trellis, a popular, beautiful, and unceasingly vain young woman who lives with her equally irresponsible brother, Trippy (Richard Waring), in New York in the years leading up to World War I. The siblings have lived well beyond their means for too long, and in order to make ends meet, Trippy takes a job working for Job Skeffington (Claude Rains), a Jewish businessman. When Trippy is caught embezzling from Skeffington’s business, Fanny sets out to win and marry the older man in order to protect her brother. Skeffington, who loves Fanny in spite of his better judgment, marries her even though he realizes her motives. But Trippy is far from happy at the news and angrily enlists in the military, going overseas to fight in the growing conflict in Europe. After Trippy dies in the war, Fanny blames Job, leading to their separation and divorce. Job becomes sole custodian of their daughter, and Fanny gets involved with a younger man. But a bout with diphtheria devastates Fanny’s good looks, and when her many admirers have dispersed, she is left with the harsh realization that her lifelong vanity has isolated her from everyone who ever truly cared about her–including the man she wronged above all others.

Throughout the movie, Fanny is lauded for looking 20 years younger than her age (which is 50 by the end of the film). The men who flock around her, even after she has married Job and has ostensibly settled into a domesticated life, value Fanny not for her thoughts or her personality (which is simpering at best), but for her girlish figure and smooth, lovely skin. Then again, the movie does not give us much indication that there actually is anything more of value to Fanny, as a person, than her attractiveness, so it’s difficult to label her admirers as any more shallow than she is.

However, after her illness, Fanny’s former paramours want nothing to do with her when she finally looks as old as they do. Her illusions about herself are shattered–for Fanny judges herself by others’ expectations, and thereby deems herself unworthy due to their reactions. In the scene where she is confronted by a swath of mirrors, forced to stare at her harshly-aged face, she is really confronting herself–and her own selfishness–for the first time.

In truth, Job is the only one who seems capable of seeing through the veneer of Fanny’s childlike behavior to the woman beneath. How and why this is, the movie doesn’t see fit to tell us; Job’s character is so sparsely developed that his motivations are murky, at best, and his reasons for marrying Fanny in the first place are unclear–is it mere infatuation, or does he see himself as a sort of rescuer? The character is a glorified punching bag, taking his licks and retreating regularly after putting up with Fanny’s repeated aggravations and misbehaviors. Rains does his best with the material he’s given, but it can be difficult to watch Job’s strained, pain-filled expressions. And, like New York Times critic Bosley Crowther, who panned the movie as “an exercise in female frippery,” you, too, might wonder why Job “never gives his wife a light clip on the jaw” (because it’s not spousal abuse if she’s really, really annoying, eh, Mr. Crowther?).

Still, Job is the only romantic interest in the film who honestly shows a modicum of respect for Fanny. This doesn’t stop him from passing judgment on her, however; his homespun wisdom that “a woman is only beautiful when she is loved” (good to know) serves as both chastisement and the purported moral of the story–as well as a cinematic warning to every woman to find a loving husband, quickly, lest she wither away to nothing!

The movie functions as a kind of reverse “ugly duckling” tale, in which the beautiful swan only learns the importance of inner beauty by losing the outer attractiveness she values so highly. In that sense, Mr. Skeffington also seems to borrow from the fairy tale “Beauty and the Beast,” in which Fanny becomes the unsightly “bestial” figure and Job the saintly “beauty.” By equating Fanny with a “beast,” she becomes somehow less than human, and her humanity is only restored when she has been brought to her lowest point and “reborn” through the love of a good man.

Women are not generally depicted very kindly in the film (with the possible exception of Fanny’s daughter, whose only moment of true assertion comes in her final scene in the movie). For the most part, the female characters are all painted with the same clichéd brush: they are by turns flighty, false, fiercely vain, and, in the end, vindictive. Seething with jealousy at first because of Fanny’s beauty and grace–and its appeal to their husbands–the society wives take great glee in Fanny’s misfortune after her illness, laughing about her “pathetic” behavior at dinner as Fanny tries in vain to recapture the allure of her youth. The stereotypical “catty” female has rarely been on better display.

Fanny’s shallowness is not limited to her vanity–she’s a hypocrite to the umpteenth degree. She fully engages in a double standard when it comes to her extramarital affairs. While Fanny engages in flirtations with multiple men, often right underneath her husband’s overly tolerant nose, she judges her “minor” indiscretions as less of a betrayal than Job’s succession of “secretaries” with whom he consoles himself. It does not occur to Fanny that her own rejection of Job is what drives him to find pleasure in the company of other women; she cannot allow herself to believe that her womanly charms cannot keep her husband happily waiting for her in their lonely home night after night.

Not only is Fanny a classic example of a disinterested wifely figure, but she’s also a paragon of the “unmotherly mother.” She acts more maternally toward her brother, Trippy, than she does her own daughter. Fanny actually makes a “sacrifice” (at least, in her mind) on behalf of her brother–she marries Job to protect Trippy, and then blames Job when Trippy dies because her brother had initially joined the war effort out of disdain for Fanny’s marriage to ”the Jew Skeffington.”

But with her own daughter, Fanny refuses to sacrifice her own pursuit of entertainment and happiness for the benefit of young Fanny (and while we’re on the subject–how egotistical is it to name your daughter–or your son, for that matter–after yourself? Maybe it’s just me). It would be easy to assume that Fanny rejects her maternal role simply due to her own selfishness. But there’s more to it than that–she demonstrates a real fear that motherhood ages her, and Fanny finds that intolerable. Self-realization of what this fear has cost her, however, comes a little too late. When her daughter usurps her position in the relationship with her much-younger paramour, Johnny Mitchell, the ensuing conversation with young Fanny actually helps her mother grow a bit and recognize that she may just want to forge a relationship with her only child after all. But Fanny Junior has the power now, and tells her mother that since she is moving to Seattle with new husband Johnny, trying to build a familial bond is no longer possible–thus cementing the shift of power from mother to daughter.

The ending of the film doesn’t necessarily mark a permanent change in Fanny’s character–it feels too abrupt for that. But it leaves the viewer with the hope that Fanny’s selfish nature will melt away for good in the face of her husband’s suffering. More likely, the ending indicates that Fanny relishes the idea of receiving her husband’s renewed worship since he cannot see the ravages diphtheria has left on her face and body. The thought of receiving that adulation again makes Fanny’s face light up with joy and, perhaps, more than a hint of love and respect for the man who will give it to her (okay, so maybe that’s a bit of wishful thinking).

Overall, Davis walks a tightrope throughout the film and somehow makes a wholly unsympathetic character somewhat appealing. The film’s success hinges on her ability to make us want to root for Fanny despite the character’s (many) flaws and general lack of growth, and in my opinion, the actress does a beautiful job. Fanny is a spoiled brat, but she’s also an obviously lost soul, and Davis’ portrayal of her indicates a depth of character that keeps us engaged in Fanny’s story even after she has thoroughly alienated those who actually love her. You may find yourself wanting to reach through the screen and shake some sense into Fanny at times, but at least you’ll be entertained along the way by Davis’ effective performance.

The “joys” of female friendship.

Posted on October 22, 2010 by Brandie under 3-star films, brandie's faves, feminist fridays, melodrama

It’s been a while since my last Feminist Fridays post, so I thought today I’d take a crack at one of my favorite minor Bette Davis dramas—1943’s Old Acquaintance, costarring Miriam Hopkins, Gig Young, John Loder, and Dolores Moran.

Davis plays Kit Marlowe, a celebrated author who returns to her hometown to give a lecture. Waiting at the station is her best friend from childhood, Millie Drake (Hopkins), eager to show off her new husband and fancy house to her oldest friend. Millie also eagerly shares a secret—inspired by Kit’s success (and jealous of her friend’s acclaim), Millie has written a book of her own—a racy romance tailor-made for the “regular reader.” Meanwhile, Millie’s husband, Pres (Loder), immediately feels a sense of camaraderie with the down-to-earth Kit, which over the years turns into love—a love that Kit returns but does not act upon out of deference to her friendship with Millie. The two women reach differing levels of success: whereas Kit goes on to write more literary novels and a well-received Broadway play, Millie’s pulpy fiction amasses a fortune, straining both her friendship with Kit and her marriage. When Pres finally leaves the temperamental Millie after an argument, it sets off a chain of events that ultimately leaves the two childhood pals questioning the merits of their longtime friendship.

From the start, the film asks us to choose between these two women. Who should the audience support—spiteful, hysterical Millie, or down-to-earth Kit, who takes all of Millie’s petty peccadilloes in stride? As a whole, Old Acquaintance does not paint a particularly flattering portrait of female friendship—in this scenario, one friend is a veritable doormat, the other a jealous and posturing fool, and their only connection is through the mutual experiences of a shared childhood—a tenuous thread called into question, both explicitly and implicitly, by the other characters in the film.

In many ways, the film is a perversion of the classic Madonna/whore complex, in which we are presented two sides of the prototypical female coin: the good wife and the good-time girl. But the good wife is not so good, regularly mistreating her husband, child, and purported best friend; and the good-time girl has, for all her perceived transgressions, a staunch moral code that dwarfs that of her counterpart. Those “transgressions” are only hinted at in the script (thanks to the Hays Code), but the implications are there. When Kit falls in love with a younger man, Rudd (Young)—who is ten years younger than she—Millie derisively refers to Kit’s “cradle-snatching.” When Pres returns after ten years of self-exile to forge a relationship with his and Millie’s daughter, Deirdre (Moran), and subsequently confesses his now-extinct love for Kit, Millie scathingly calls her oldest friend a home-wrecking “Jezebel” (never mind that it was Millie’s own behavior that drove Pres away, and that Kit refused to ever act upon her feelings for him). And when she tells Deirdre that Kit intends to marry Rudd (with whom Deirdre has recently fallen in love herself, unbeknownst to either Millie or Kit), Millie’s jealous cattiness knows no bounds. “Apparently Rudd is still infatuated and anxious for marriage,” she sniffs, “in spite of the ‘closeness’ of their relationship.” Hint, hint, wink, wink.

In the hands of another actress, Millie’s jealousy could come off as something sinister or potentially dangerous—if Davis herself had embodied the role, for example, Millie’s hysterics would no doubt have been coldly controlled, with a steely glint more frightening than any mere hot-blooded temper tantrum. Just look at Davis in films such as 1940’s The Letter or her bravura performance in 1934’s Of Human Bondage, and dream about the possibilities.

In Hopkins’ hands, however, the role of Millie becomes an almost off-kilter piece of camp. Arms waving, eyes widened to the extremes, voice raised in high-pitched squeals of frustration, Hopkins’ Millie is nothing more than a child. The performance is insanely over-the-top at times, especially in the scenes in which Davis is absent—when there’s no steadying force to draw attention away from Hopkins’ histrionics, we see just how amateurish Hopkins’ acting truly is within the context of the film.

That being said, Hopkins’ take on the character does, to some degree, clarify a sticky point in the plot—the question as to why Kit puts up with Millie’s ridiculous behavior for so many years. Kit explains herself to a disbelieving Pres by citing her shared history with Millie, but that is ultimately insufficient to justify years of continued verbal abuse at the hands of her friend. It is only when Kit offers an astute analysis of Millie’s personality that we begin to understand; as she explains, “If you’d just look at Millie’s activities as confession of weakness, an admission that there’s something essentially lacking in her nature, you’d find it a little touching and love her.” Hopkins’ performance underscores this point to a tee. Whether intentional on the actress’s part or not (I think sheer serendipity plays a key part in this), her depiction of Millie as little more than an overgrown, spoiled child does help explain why Kit remains a loyal friend—as indulgence begets acceptance and an abundance of lenience.

Davis’ role as the film’s “good girl” heroine is a rare one for her, indeed. Kit Marlowe is, at heart, another in a long line of self-sacrificing screen mothers—for make no mistake, Kit is more of a mother to Deirdre than Millie can even comprehend—who give up their own chances at happiness to ensure that of their children. But she is not without her faults, and she is self-aware enough to recognize this. In fact, Kit is the only character who sees herself clearly in the film. She’s wise without being cloying, witty without being unkind, and yet she’s far from a saint, rejecting any assignation as such from Pres or Rudd or Deirdre. Bringing a weepy, grateful Deirdre to meet with Rudd, having relinquished whatever hold she may have had on the younger man for the sake of Deirdre’s love for him, Kit says with a weary smile, “It’s late, and I’m very, very tired of youth and love and self-sacrifice.”

If Old Acquaintance, a prime example of the stereotypical “woman’s picture,” does one thing right, it is in portraying Kit Marlowe as a relatively progressive, independent woman. The film, of course, cannot allow such freedom to go unchecked by the establishment—which is so ably represented by Millie—but Kit ignores Millie’s judgment, deriving only amusement and mild exasperation from her friend’s criticism … until that criticism affects Kit’s relationship with Deirdre. By and large, Kit forges her own path, eschewing melodrama, marriage (at least initially), and even pants (Millie is horrified to learn that Kit does not wear pajama bottoms in bed) in favor of a satisfying career. That she does so without compromising her own standards is remarkable (and something Millie cannot claim, for all her wailing about her “glorious career”). And that she manages to avoid snapping and going ape-shit on Millie until the end of the film is more remarkable still.

When Kit finally snaps, it is a prime moment in the film and, frankly, a joy to behold. Calmly walking across the room, she suddenly grabs Millie by the shoulders and shakes her within an inch of her life, finally shoving Millie down on the nearest sofa with a generous heave. With a smirk in her eyes and an insincere, biting “Sorry,” Kit walks out the door, leaving Millie to scream and carry on in the background, throwing a girlish temper tantrum complete with pounding fists and childish sobs. One can only imagine the sheer pleasure Davis felt in being able to manhandle longtime rival Hopkins on the screen—in fact, Davis would later confirm as much while reflecting on the movie.

Much of Millie’s jealousy toward Kit comes from the sense that Kit’s work is more critically respected than Millie’s own—though Millie denies this, claiming that she writes for the “regular people” as opposed to the critics. But Millie, who has made a fortune from her pulpy romances over the years, takes every opportunity to undermine Kit’s work, flaunting her wealth while making snide comments about Kit’s low-selling, high-minded literary efforts.

The differences between their respective works are summed up in a scene during the middle stretch of the film, as Belle Carter, a reporter who comes to interview Millie, inadvertently manages to insult her.

Belle [to Kit]: Tell me, how is your new book coming along?
Kit: Well, I write and I write, and I still don’t like it.
Belle: But at least when you do turn one out, it’s a gem! None of this grinding them out like sausage … [She and Kit glance over at Millie and Belle pauses with embarrassment.] I suppose I could cut my throat.
Millie [haughtily]: There’s a knife on the table!

Ah, the classic fight between literary and commercial fiction, a debate that continues to rage to this day, as “prolific” writers such as James Patterson (nine novels this year alone, most of them co-written) and Danielle Steele (three novels in 2010) churn out multiple books every year and continue to make bestsellers’ lists (and millions of dollars) despite the lagging quality of their more recent efforts. Millie, who happily produces one “sausage” per year throughout the course of the movie, revels in her fame and fortune, but cannot fully enjoy it in the face of Kit’s greater critical success. Still, what infuriates Millie the most is not that her work is less revered than Kit’s, but that Kit herself does not care that Millie has made much more money. Millie is indisputably capitalistic—money is the ultimate sign of success in her mind, whereas Kit derives pleasure from the act of writing more so than its sometimes dubious rewards.

Though the male characters in Old Acquaintance are little more than plot chess pieces, seemingly shifted about at the whim of the script only to move the story along, they show themselves to be … well, not so very enlightened. Pres leaving his wife is understandable given her preference for writing over spending time with him, but leaving his daughter for ten years—reasoning that seeing Deirdre in the ensuing years would have prevented him from fully breaking free of Millie’s machinations—is far from excusable. That Deirdre is so willing to invite her father back into her life indicates a generous and forgiving spirit that I, personally, would be unlikely to match under similar circumstances.

And poor Deirdre—having been left by her father and almost seduced by philandering playboy Lucien Grant (Philip Reed), she finally falls in love with Kit’s young lover, Rudd, who goes from begging Kit to marry him one day to becoming infatuated with Kit’s surrogate daughter the next. He’s a real winner, too. Confessing his newfound love for Deirdre, Rudd tells Kit, “It was sort of a protective sense, I guess. She’s such a kid, I want to slap her if she does wrong, and yet I’d kill anyone who’d touch her. You know what I mean?” Yes, we all know what you mean, Rudd. And don’t worry: Kit will survive your leaving her for Deirdre. After all, heartbreak seems a small price to pay to dodge a massive, fist-shaped bullet, doesn’t it?

The film ends on a false note of peace—Millie has miraculously come to her senses, apologizing for her behavior, and Kit graciously offers forgiveness. As the strains of “Auld Lang Syne” fill the air, the hurts of the past ostensibly behind them, the two women toast both the renewal and continuation of their friendship.

Resolution? Not by half. People may be able to change, but not in the course of an evening. But is it a happy ending for these characters, as the film seems to indicate in this final scene? That depends solely on perspective. In Millie’s pessimistic mind, the resolution of the conflict is an unhappy one due to their mutual spinsterhood, and in the book she plans to write based on their friendship, she vows to give the characters a happier conclusion. But for Kit, at least, being alone in middle age is not an unhappy prospect. She has already begun to set aside the heavy cloak of her love for Rudd, and there is a renewed optimism in her face as the movie comes to a close.

Their roles have not changed altogether much from the beginning of the film—the mature Kit will move, onward and upward, throughout the rest of her days in a relative sense of contentment, while the more childish Millie will always strive to outdo and undermine her friend in the pursuit of an ultimately unattainable happiness. Regardless of the unwanted encroachment of “realistic expectation,” the movie would at least like us to believe that their friendship will continue, unabated and unscathed, for the rest of their lives … but that, dear viewers, would truly be little more than a fairy tale.

Classic couture.

Posted on October 8, 2010 by Brandie under classic couture

One of the sheer joys of watching a classic film is the opportunity to catch a glimpse of how people lived in generations long before your own. In particular, I always find it fascinating to see how people used to dress during different periods in time. And I can’t tell you how many times I have lusted after a particular character’s outfit or, sometimes, her entire wardrobe.

I think if I could reach into a movie and yank out one outfit, it would be Grace Kelly’s absolutely GORGEOUS dress from Rear Window.

Part of my love affair with this movie is the brilliant use of costuming on Alfred Hitchcock’s part. Kelly’s wardrobe is very deliberately chosen as a means for the director to demonstrate the progression of her character, Lisa–and, perhaps more specifically, the progression of Jeff’s (Jimmy Stewart) opinion of his fashion-model love. Kelly begins the film in the height of Paris couture, as seen above, and seems to revel in its beauty and rarity–it is, after all, “just off the Paris plane,” and she is (likely) the only woman in New York wearing the gown at that very moment. Lisa’s wardrobe becomes progressively less–well, frou-frou–as the film continues, but no matter what she wears, whether a smart green business suit, a summery “day” dress, or a pair of rolled-up blue jeans, Kelly remains the best-dressed person in the room.

The style of this dress has been emulated many times–and is it any wonder? It’s just lovely–but no copy can come close to the sheer elegance crafted by costumer Edith Head’s meticulous eye and Kelly’s innate sense of style.

I also really adore Myrna Loy’s wardrobe from the hilarious Thin Man series, particularly this striped dress.

I know, I know–to some, this may resemble a very fancy striped tablecloth. But I just love it. And Loy as the sassy, sexy Nora Charles carries it off with the greatest of panache. Only Loy could wear this dress and make this face–

–and come off as adorably sophisticated (seriously, Renee Zellweger’s been trying to make the whole scrunched-up face thing happen for years and merely comes off looking severely constipated most of the time, so trust me when I say this is an art). I’m unsure as to the designer of this particular dress, but more than likely the creation of it falls to Dolly Tree, the costumer for the first Thin Man film who also dressed Loy in other great films such as 1934′s Manhattan Melodrama and Evelyn Prentice and 1936′s Wife vs. Secretary and Libeled Lady.

Finally, I must give some love to Edith Head once more for her killer designs in The Lady Eve, particularly the black two-piece gown that sets Henry Fonda all a-quiver for Barbara Stanwyck’s scheming con artist …

I love, love, love this dress. It’s perfect for the scene and for the character, and so daring with the bared midriff and short(er) skirt. A ten, all around. Head deserves a lot of credit for styling Stanwyck in a much sexier, bolder way than she had been presented in the past; it’s a step forward for both the actress and the costumer, as the great success of this Preston Sturges-directed farce sent each of their careers even higher into the stratosphere.

My sartorial admiration is not reserved merely for the females in filmdom, though. Just yesterday, I pointed out to Carrie and Nikki that I sorely miss the days when men wore dapper hats as everyday wear. Well, actually, I said something a lot more off-color than that involving rope and Cary Grant, but for the sake of maintaining a PG-rated blog, I’ll refrain from recounting the details.

Homina.

How awesome would this modern world be if every man wore a dashing piece of headgear like this every time he went out in public? I tell you, I’d be swooning on an hourly basis.

Speaking of hats, I can’t forget the amazing hat Bette Davis rocks in Now, Voyager, as she emerges from the shadow of her domineering mother and claims her femininity for the first time in her life:

Sigh. I want that hat about as much as I want a pony, and I have wanted a pony since I was four years old (oh, shut up. I’m sure you wanted something equally unrealistic when you were a kid, too. At least I wasn’t like my younger brothers–they wanted nuclear waste so they could make their own Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. At least ponies are REAL).

Anyway …

Getting back to the original point–what looks would you “borrow” if you could just reach through the screen and grab them?

SUtS: Ann Sheridan

Posted on August 17, 2010 by Brandie under 4-star films, best.films.ever., brandie's faves, hahas, holiday picks, summer under the stars

Our recommendation: The Man Who Came for Dinner (1942)

Airing at 12:00AM EST

This film is one of my favorite Christmas movies (though overall, the theme is quite less than Christmas-y), and I’m so glad to see it on the schedule for today because it features one of Ann Sheridan’s most enjoyable (though relatively minor) roles. And who doesn’t love a little taste of the holidays during the summer?

… Just me, then? Okay. Watch it anyway.

The Man Who Came to Dinner stars Monty Woolley as Sheridan “Sherry” Whiteside, a caustic radio personality and critic with a beyond-beleaguered assistant, Maggie (Bette Davis, giving an understated but wonderful performance in one of her rare comedies). Though he is entirely unpleasant to people in person, he has gained immense popularity and legions of fans through his radio show, and while on a speaking tour, he stops in Ohio and is invited to the home of the Stanleys. Entering the house, Sherry falls on the icy steps, injuring his hip. Threatening to sue and unable to be moved, Sherry subsequently takes over the Stanley household, raising havoc, misery, and family drama in his wake (something in which he perversely takes immense pleasure). In the meantime, Maggie falls in love with local newspaperman and aspiring writer Bert (Richard Travis), but Sherry, unwilling to lose his very capable assistant, conspires with his protege, actress Lorraine Shelton (Ann Sheridan), to break up the young couple.

Witty, snarky, and altogether rude at times, The Man Who Came to Dinner is, simply put, utterly hilarious. It’s also immensely quotable–no surprise, considering the screenplay (based on the play by George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart) was written by Julius and Philip Epstein, who also wrote the equally quotable screenplays for films such as Casablanca and Arsenic and Old Lace. You’ll be throwing around some of these zingers (or wanting to, anyway) after watching this film.

Personally, my favorite interactions in the movie are between Sherry and his nurse, Ms. Preen (played by the ever-marvelous Mary Wickes in her screen debut), on whom he heaps nothing but abuse:

Sherry: “Ah, pecan butternut fudge!”
Preen: “Oh, my, you mustn’t eat candy, Mr. Whiteside, it’s very bad for you.”
Sherry: “My great-aunt Jennifer ate a whole box of candy every day of her life. She lived to be 102 and when she’d been dead three days, she looked better than you do now!”

And when Nurse Preen quits, she delights the audience (and Sherry) with her parting shot:

“I am not only walking out on this case, Mr. Whiteside, I am leaving the nursing profession. I became a nurse because all my life, ever since I was a little girl, I was filled with the idea of serving a suffering humanity. After one month with you, Mr. Whiteside, I am going to work in a munitions factory. From now on, anything I can do to help exterminate the human race will fill me with the greatest of pleasure. If Florence Nightingale had ever nursed YOU, Mr. Whiteside, she would have married Jack the Ripper instead of founding the Red Cross!”

Though Woolley–who was relatively unknown in Hollywood at the time he was cast–pretty much walks away with the film, Sheridan shines as pouty, ambitious Lorraine. She takes what could be a one-dimensional role–the rapacious, overacting starlet set on promoting herself and marrying well–and turns her into a delightfully self-involved, fully fleshed-out character.

The supporting cast is also full of gems: Jimmy Durante shows up for a brief but pivotal cameo as comedian “Banjo” and ends up putting Lorraine in her place; Reginald Gardiner is wonderfully smooth as the debonair Beverly Carlton, who helps Maggie try to foil Sherry’s plot; and Grant Mitchell and Billie Burke more than hold their own amidst the chaos as the put-upon Stanleys.

Make sure you catch this one. I guarantee you’ll be laughing from start to finish.

“This is 1852, dumplin’, 1852, not the Dark Ages!”

Posted on February 13, 2010 by Brandie under 31 days of oscar, 4-star films, brandie's faves

Jezebel (1938)

Airing 12:15PM EST

Aside from the superb All About Eve, my favorite Bette Davis film is Jezebel. Some critics consider this film a kind of poor man’s Gone With the Wind, as the two movies share similar themes, but Jezebel does not fade in the shadow of the better-known film. This is due, in large part, to Davis, who throws herself into this role with an abandon that marks some of her best performances and, in fact, this movie brought Davis the second of two Oscars for Best Actress, after her win for 1935′s Dangerous (which was considered by some a “consolation” Oscar to make up for Davis having not been nominated for her tour de force performance in 1934′s Of Human Bondage–though, interestingly, Davis was a write-in candidate on the ballot that year, and the Academy would later announce that she had won enough votes to place third behind winner Claudette Colbert and Norma Shearer).

Davis stars as Julie Marsden, a headstrong young woman living in New Orleans in the decade before the Civil War, engaged to a young, proper banker named Preston (Pres) Dillard (played by Henry Fonda). Pres finds Julie’s impulsive nature to be embarrassing, yet intriguing, but when she decides to wear a scarlet dress to a ball at which young women are expected to wear virginal white, Pres can no longer accept Julie’s willfulness, ending their engagement and leaving for the North. When Pres returns a year later, Julie aspires to win him back, but finds that Pres has married a Yankee, Amy. Events come to a head as Julie, in her jealousy, incites a duel, leading to the death of one of Julie’s suitors, and yellow fever takes over the city. As Pres becomes infected, Julie seeks redemption for her behavior in the midst of turmoil and tragedy.

The production of the film was mired in drama. Davis, unused to director William Wyler’s perfectionism, had difficulty in initially adjusting to his filming style, but later declared that he had helped her produce some of her best on-screen work. Their working relationship later gave way to a blazing love affair; Davis would one day label Wyler the love of her life, and she was devastated when filming–and their affair–ended. Davis also dallied with co-star Fonda, who was expecting the birth of daughter Jane Fonda at any moment; that brief affair ended with a phone call from Fonda’s wife. Also adding to the tension: Wyler and Fonda had previously both been married to actress Margaret Sullavan (best known as Klara in The Shop Around the Corner). Thankfully, none of this potentially disastrous romantic unrest is ever evident on screen.

The film includes excellent supporting turns by George Brent as Julie’s ill-fated beau, Buck, and the beautifully understated Fay Bainter as Julie’s cautious Aunt Belle. Richard Cromwell, Spring Byington, and Margaret Lindsay round out the cast. But Davis is the undisputed center of the action, and she deftly carries the movie with her fiery, heartfelt portrayal of a woman ahead of her time.

Depending on the source, it has been said that Davis was offered the role of Julie as compensation for having lost the role of Scarlett O’Hara. In truth, Davis turned down the role of Scarlett because her casting would have been part of a package deal in which Errol Flynn would play Rhett Butler. Knowing Flynn could not possibly portray the character properly, Davis rejected the offer.

Nonetheless, the character of Julie–and the film itself–share some similarities with Gone With the Wind, something bitterly pointed out by that film’s producer, David O. Selznick (conveniently forgetting that the play upon which Jezebel was based was produced before Margaret Mitchell’s novel). Both Julie and Scarlett are proud, stubborn heroines; neither is immensely likable, and both women toy with the affections of men to the point of producing conflict and death. But Julie reaches a level of growth that Scarlett never quite convincingly achieves, a depth of character that Mitchell’s creation sorely lacks.

In the end, the similarities between the films are superficial, at best, and each has its respective strengths. Jezebel does not come close to the epic grandeur that marks the latter production, but it is just as affecting a film. The story is strong; the performances, stronger still. When you watch Davis riding out of town at the end of the film, head held high as she moves toward certain death, it is just as stirring a moment as any in Gone With the Wind.

If you miss this great film, the restored and remastered DVD is available for a great price over at Movies Unlimited this month.

Oscar checklist:

Wins: Best Actress (Davis), Best Supporting Actress (Bainter)

Nominations: Best Cinematography, Best Score, Best Picture

“Oh, Jerry, don’t let’s ask for the moon. We have the stars.”

Posted on February 8, 2010 by Brandie under 3-star films, 31 days of oscar, ahh romance, brandie's faves, lit adaptations

Now, Voyager (1942)

Airing 7:15AM

Now, Voyager, labeled by many critics as the apotheosis of the “woman’s picture,” is an unabashedly sentimental piece of Hollywood froth, but this does not detract from the ultimately enjoyable impact of the film. This Bette Davis vehicle is based on the novel of the same name by Olive Higgins Prouty, who also wrote the novel upon which the successful 1937 film Stella Dallas (the role that made Barbara Stanwyck famous) was based.

Prouty borrows her title from a poem in Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass (1872) called “The Untold Want.” The quote, in full, reads:

“THE untold want, by life and land ne’er granted,

Now, Voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find.”

It’s an appropriate sentiment for the story, in which Davis portrays Charlotte Vale, a repressed spinster with a domineering, cruel mother. After spending time in a sanatorium run by Dr. Jaquith (Claude Rains), reveling in her new-found freedom, she embarks on a South American cruise and befriends an unhappily married man, Jerry (Paul Henreid). Though they fall in love, Charlotte decides she cannot see Jerry again and leaves him, and upon returning home, her mother finds that she can no longer control her newly-confident daughter. But Charlotte’s journey of self-realization and personal growth is far from over, and she finds herself becoming a maternal figure to an unexpected new ward.

Davis excels at these type of roles; her unconventional beauty and skillful manipulation of melodramatic material were rarely on better display than in this film. Her transformation from the frumpy, frightened childlike daughter who hides behind curtains …

… to the glamorous, confident woman elegantly smoking cigarettes with Henreid …

… is believable because Davis so definitively grasps the character that she makes you believe it.

The film so thoroughly captivated audiences that, for years afterward, both Davis and Henreid were urged to recreate the famous scene in which Henreid lights two cigarettes at a time, then extends one to his paramour (Henreid claimed credit for this bit, but it actually originated with screenwriter Casey Robinson). The scene below shows the final cigarette-lighting scene in the film; don’t watch past :30 if you don’t want to completely spoil the ending.

Charlotte Vale is perhaps Bette Davis’ most intriguing character, and indeed, the film’s success rides almost exclusively on her portrayal of the young woman. In recent years, feminist critics have latched onto this film as an example of a woman blossoming into her own outside of male influence. While I agree to an extent, it is important to note that Charlotte does not ultimately achieve independence merely on her own; it is the psychological intervention of the male Dr. Jaquith that allows her to escape her maternally-imposed repression and become a self-assured young woman.

But let’s not enter into feminist debate here, because otherwise I’ll never get this posted. What remains is the fact that this is a lovely film, entertaining and heartbreaking. If you’re a sap like me, watch with some tissues handy. And if you miss it, it’s on DVD through TCM and Amazon (though, once again, strangely enough, it’s cheaper through the former!).