Tag Archives: elisha cook jr.

CMBA Guilty Pleasures Blogathon: Cinderella Jones

Posted on by under blogathon, cmba blogathon, discussion post, magnificent musicals, we're not ashamed of our love, wwii films

This post is our contribution to the final CMBA blogathon of the year, a veritable feast of guilty pleasures ranging from pre-Code flicks through the fabulous excesses of the 1980s. To see the wonderful contributions from other CMBA members, check out the list on their site! The celebration starts today and continues through Tuesday.

For this post, Carrie and Brandie present a long-overdue discussion about one of their favorite minor classics.

BRANDIE: Let’s (finally) talk about our “guilty pleasure” movie, 1946′s Cinderella Jones, starring Joan Leslie, Robert Alda, and S.K. “Cuddles” Sakall. Do you remember the first time we saw this movie, Carrie?

CARRIE: Yeah … late night, flipping through channels in my apartment. I don’t remember what scene we saw first, but we kept watching out of pure incredulousness, as I recall. We were so tired, we recorded the rest to watch the next day. Many months later, when we saw the actual beginning, I think the movie was even crazier. I still love the scene with the shrunken head. At what point did we decide it was a guilty pleasure?

BRANDIE: Oh, it didn’t take us long to determine that we weren’t exactly watching Citizen Kane. By the time the soap sandwich incident came up, we knew this movie was something ludicrously special.

Cinderella Jones is such an odd little movie. There’s really no better word to describe it. It was filmed in the midst of World War II–thus accounting for the patriotic theme and the presence of a convoy of soldiers–but it wasn’t released until 1946 because the studio (Warner Bros.) wanted to distribute the film after Rhapsody in Blue (1945) in order to capitalize on Alda’s growing popularity. This forced the editors to re-cut the movie to remove most of the references to an “on-going” war. The result is a somewhat disjointed picture. And for a musical, the songs aren’t all that memorable or well-staged, which is surprising considering the movie was directed by Busby Berkeley.

I think for us, the biggest draw, at least initially, was the presence of Sakall, one of our favorite character actors. How much do we love our Cuddles??

CARRIE: WE LOVE CUDDLES!!!!!! We had to watch it for him, and he has such a wonderful character in this film. He’s the mentor that everyone wants. I loved how kind he was to Judy (and how unconcerned he was about annoying the university administrators). We should set up the plot for those who haven’t seen the movie. Judy (our “Cinderella”) is from a very eccentric family, and is about to inherit a substantial fortune. However, she has to marry someone “smart” to help her manage it. We’ll excuse the affront to feminism by owning that she probably did need help at the time (note above where Brandie references a “soap sandwich”–literally). So, she goes to university to find someone educated. Cuddles, a chemistry professor actually called “Cuddles,” helps her matriculate, and then helps set her up for romance. Needless to say, we were ecstatic that the moniker “Cuddles” was worked into the film. That probably is what cinched it for us. However, if that’s not enough for you, there is always the random military appearance and accompanying musical number at the end. As Brandie said, it’s a musical … sort of. They honestly didn’t know what they were doing with it when they made it. Perhaps that’s why it’s so charming. No one knows what to do with Judy Jones … including the filmmakers.

In the film, Cuddles is the only person who seems to have a plan for Judy (and is conniving enough to make something work out in her best interest). So, is Cuddles enough to save the film?

BRANDIE: Sakall’s performance as Professor Popik is my favorite part of the film, hands down (as a side note, I find it interesting that in this part, he embraces the name “Cuddles” for his character even though he reportedly despised being called “Cuddles” in real life). He’s adorable, he’s funny, and he sings (!!!!) and dances (!!!!!!!!!!!), albeit briefly.

I do think the casting all around is relatively strong for what is, in essence, a “B” picture. Some of the best character actors of early Hollywood appear in this film, including Edward Everett Horton, Elisha Cook, Jr., Charles Dingle, and Ruth Donnelly. And the entire thing is anchored by Joan Leslie’s admittedly adorable portrayal of Judy. It’s a hard part to play, when you think about it, having to embody someone who is an unmitigated airhead. She is a charming actress, though, and even when Judy is utterly annoying, Leslie makes her somewhat lovable. She plays well opposite Alda’s Tommy Coles, though to me they lack a certain amount of chemistry. That’s part of the problem with the film, I think: Leslie has the most chemistry with Cuddles, and he’s not exactly romance material here–he’s more of a father figure than anything else. Her other love interest, William Prince (otherwise known as Professor Williams, or “he who is at the receiving end of the soap sandwich”), is a rather dull figure, and I can’t imagine that anyone watching this film would think Judy belongs with him in the end, perceived intelligence or not. I can’t help but wonder if the film would have been somewhat stronger, romance-wise, with Dennis Morgan–the original choice to play Tommy–in the lead (that Dennis Morgan … what a dreamboat).

For me, the weakest thing about the movie is the way the story itself is presented. The idea of a ditzy dame trying to land a husband in order to inherit millions is the stuff of a screwball comedy wet dream, and yet the filmmakers really don’t do enough with the idea to highlight the sheer insanity of the plot. In trying to shoehorn the story into a musical-type format, the satirical edge of the material is ultimately lost. And it’s a shame, because while there are some moments that are giggle-worthy, Cinderella Jones never quite embraces the “madcap heiress” possibilities in the way other films such as It Happened One Night (1934) do.

Originally, the movie was to be called Judy Adjudicates (try saying that ten times fast), but that title was ditched in favor of Cinderella Jones, because let’s face it: when you’re writing a title song for a movie, “Cinderella Jones” flows much easier off the tongue. That song, by the way, is the musical highlight of the film, and Berkeley staged a charming dance number in which a number of girls willingly lose a piece of footwear and a gaggle of guys then try to match the missing shoes to their lovely owners (this performance is embedded above). Still, though a high point of this particular film, the number doesn’t hold a candle to some of the previous Berkeley-choreographed/directed musical spectacles such as 42nd Street, Footlight Parade (both in 1933), Gold Diggers of 1933, 1935, and 1937, Babes in Arms (1939), and the fabulous “I Got Rhythm” sequence from Girl Crazy (1943). The songs from the movie, which were composed by Sammy Cahn and Jule Styne, are serviceable, but few are truly memorable. However, one of them, “You Never Know Where You’re Going ‘Til You Get There,” found new life when it was later used in a couple of Looney Tunes shorts.

And yet, knowing the weaknesses of the musical numbers and the story itself, this is still one film that I simply must watch every time it appears on TCM (showings, however, are sadly rare). There’s just something about this movie that I really, really love, and it’s hard to articulate precisely why.

CARRIE: I still have it living on my DVR. It’s the kind of thing you watch after a really long day, with popcorn and coke or maybe ice cream. If you run across it on TCM (the only place you’re likely to find it), it’s worth a watch just to try it out. I guess you can have a “failed” film and still maintain longevity. Thank you, TCM.

BRANDIE: As I recall, this movie was the one that really prompted the idea for our blog. When you run across something that confounds, amazes, and entertains you–all at the same time–you kinda want to talk about with other people. We’ve actually been planning to write about this movie for more than a year now, and the Guilty Pleasures blogathon just presented the perfect opportunity for us to do so.

What’s your favorite scene in the movie, Carrie?

CARRIE: I knew you were going to ask me that, because I was going to ask you that. It might actually be in the beginning, where they go to have the will read and they are going to explain to Judy the terms of her inheritance, and she shows up with a head in a box. It’s the most random thing I had ever seen, and I wish I had thought of it. I think the script writers asked themselves, “What would be the oddest or most uncomfortable thing you could take to a reading of a will?” “Oh, that’s easy, a shrunken head in a box.” Of course, this is before all of our crime procedurals on primetime television would have us take that idea in a completely different direction. It was actually one of the most neatly-constructed scenes. It played like a well-done piece of improv comedy, and everyone must move and react to this strange addition to an otherwise basic scene. I loved all of the reactions and how perfectly deadpan Joan Leslie is; she is completely committed to her character’s behavior, which drives the entire structure of the scene. It makes perfect sense to Judy, so it makes perfect sense to Joan. It really is masterful in an otherwise insane picture.

So, how about you, Brandie?

BRANDIE: As ridiculous as it is, I really like the diner scene with the soap sandwich. When Judy enrolls in the all-male university, she finds that, despite Cuddles’ support, she is not really welcome. So she goes to a nearby diner and begins working as a waitress. When Professor Williams comes in (at Cuddles’ urging) to convince Judy to return to the school (in the interests of a large monetary donation when Judy finally gets her inheritance), he orders a cheese sandwich, and a flustered Judy grabs a bar of soap instead of a hunk of Cheddar cheese. Williams ends up with a mouthful of soapy bubbles and throws a temper tantrum, to which Judy responds in kind … and then she proceeds to inadvertently fix him ANOTHER soap sandwich. It’s a moment of sheer silliness, but Leslie really sells it.

Incidentally, some of our readers may not be aware that the lovely Joan Leslie is still with us at age 86. She began acting when she was still a kid–in her first movie, 1936′s Camille, she was only 11 years old! She’s not as well-known as other actresses from the time period, but Leslie ultimately starred with some of the biggest names in Hollywood: she worked with Alfred Hitchcock in a small role opposite Joel McCrea in Foreign Correspondent (1940); at barely 16, she played one of Humphrey Bogart’s love interests in High Sierra (1941); later that year, she was Gary Cooper’s love in Sergeant York; and she was James Cagney’s adoring wife, Mary, in Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942). She earned her dancing chops with Fred Astaire in 1943′s The Sky’s the Limit. And she had also previously starred with Alda in Rhapsody in Blue. So Leslie definitely made her mark in some really great films. Her career really peaked in the 1940s, though she continued acting in movies and on television periodically throughout the next fifty years.

Cinderella Jones may be little more than a footnote in the careers of Leslie and Alda, but I can’t deny it’s one of my (now not-so-secret) favorites.  Someone put this quirky little gem on DVD already!!!

CARRIE: This is just a great movie to end a long day, or to enjoy anytime for some silly entertainment. The film is hardly up to the skill of its actors, but that’s some of its charm. It’s possibly our guiltiest of guiltless pleasures.

Feminist Fridays: The Women of The Maltese Falcon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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