Tag Archives: herbert marshall

The little foxes that spoil the vines.

Posted on by 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!

Love: A Storm of Unhappiness

Posted on by under girls of summer, maudlin mondays

I have always been intrigued by stories of self-sacrifice and characters who doom themselves by doing the so-called “right thing.” When watching movies, I find myself rooting for characters to follow their hearts, regardless of the consequences. Things that I would never approve of in the real world, I champion in fiction. Outcast Lady (1934) is one of those films in which I find myself yelling at the screen, “Just tell him the truth! You can be in love; you can be happy!” But alas, I suppose it would have made a much shorter and less-interesting film. Outcast Lady, directed by Robert Z. Leonard, is the story of a woman who loses everything that matters to her in the world in order to do what she feels is necessary to protect the honor of her late husband and the idolized man her brother holds so dear.

The movie is based on a controversial play called The Green Hat (1924) by Michael Arlen, which was previously filmed in 1928 under the name A Woman of Affairs, starring Greta Garbo and John Gilbert and directed by Clarence Brown. Woman retains much more of the sensational material from the play. But as Outcast Lady was filmed after stricter enforcement of the Production Code began in 1934, the script was severely watered down. In place of the racier themes of the earlier film, screenwriters Zoe Akins and Monckton Hoffe heightened the sentimental elements of the plot to tearjerking levels.

Childhood sweethearts Iris March (the beautiful Constance Bennett) and Napier Harpenden (Herbert Marshall) find themselves utterly in love and plan to marry; however, their plans for romance are dashed by Napier’s father, who disapproves of Iris and her family (Iris’s brother Gerald is a raging alcoholic and gambler). Napier tells Iris that he must travel to India to fulfill his father’s wishes of a great career for his son, and promises to return to marry her one day. Iris waits several years for his return, but eventually begins to believe that he will never return for her. Instead, she marries Gerald’s best friend, Boy Fenwick (Ralph Forbes), another of their childhood playmates. Gerald (Hugh Williams) idolizes Boy, believing him to be almost saint-like. Gerald’s love and worship of Boy is evident, and he begs his sister on her wedding day to be a good wife: “You’re Boy’s wife now, and if you ever forget it, I hope he beats you. Now do be good.” He knows that his sister is still in love with her childhood sweetheart, Napier, but he hopes that she and Boy can have a happy marriage regardless.

Iris is indeed a dutiful and devoted wife (at least, for their one day of matrimony). On the first night of their marriage, she reads a note given to her by a stranger, explaining that her new husband had been imprisoned for an unspoken, horrible crime. Iris attempts to console Boy; at first, she tells him that she completely dismisses the allegation. However, Boy admits the truth in the allegation.

Boy: “I’ve seen you in my mind a thousand times when you found this out. I’ve seen you take it just like this; of course, I hoped you would. But now …”

Iris: “Don’t worry. I’ll never speak of it again … I won’t even think of it.”

Although his wife is completely forgiving and understanding, Boy cannot handle the fact that she now knows his dark secret. He locks the door to the hotel room and leaps from the window. When confronted about his death, Iris refuses to allow the men who found the note to reveal it to the public: “The truth must not be known…When he saw the horror that must have come into my face, I suppose he tried to atone by it… I won’t have them made public. He has atoned; he’s dead. What good will it do the world to know why he died. Please, if you want to help me, say nothing. Nothing!” Iris sacrifices her own reputation and chance of happiness in life in order to protect her late husband’s good name, as well as to spare her brother from the realization that his dear friend was not as perfect as he believed.

The doctor who finds her husband’s body explains to family friend Hilary (Robert Loraine): “Mrs. Fenwick doesn’t realize that if the public thinks her husband committed suicide on his wedding night, her own reputation may be blackened.” Nevertheless, Iris refuses to make public the knowledge of her husband’s motive for suicide. Everyone blames Iris for his death. Her name is dragged through newspapers; her own friends and family condemn her. Her drunken and enraged brother confronts her with his accusations: “Boy is dead because Iris wasn’t good enough for him. I’ve always known it, and in the end, he knew it too, and it killed him. Why shouldn’t she be blamed?” He vows never to forgive his sister for causing the death of his friend.

For his part, Napier, too, has difficulty accepting Iris’ supposed part in Boy’s death:

Iris: “Boy died deliberately because he found he made a mistake in marrying me.”

Napier: “You don’t know what you’re doing: what you’re making people think … But Iris, this can’t be true that Boy killed himself because of something you’d done. Say it isn’t!”

Iris: “What difference does it make?”

Napier: “It means that if it is true, I couldn’t forgive you either.”

Iris: “There’s no question of forgiveness at a time like this. One simply loves or doesn’t love.”

Napier: “I’ve loved you more than you’ll ever know. I can forgive you for wrecking my life, but not your own.”

As a result of Boy’s mysterious death, Iris is outcast by her friends and family. Boy was thought to be a most honorable man; the idea that Iris could have done something so horrific that Boy would kill himself makes her a social pariah. She travels far, but the rumors of her husband’s mysterious death follow her everywhere. She stays away for many years, and Napier, believing her responsible for Boy’s death, eventually becomes engaged to another woman. Because she refuses to tell the truth about Boy’s dark past, Iris’s chance of happiness in life is ruined. Thus, she chooses the happiness of her brother over her own.

Hilary: “Iris, why did you insist on ruining yourself by lying?”

Iris: “I wanted Gerald to keep his love for his dead friend. It’s my gift to his future.”

After several years of travel, Iris receives a letter from Hilary, warning her of Gerald’s ill health. Despite her intentions of saving her brother from destitution, he drinks himself to death in his hatred toward her. Hilary implores her to confess the truth to Gerald: “Iris, your gallantry hasn’t saved Joe. Don’t you think he needs your love and care more than his belief in Boy Fenwick? Let me tell him why Boy died. You know he’d never tell anyone else.” Iris agrees, but Gerald refuses to see her when she comes to care for him, and she is not able to tell him goodbye before he dies. He does, however, tell Hilary to send his love to his sister, and to tell her his hatred has washed away.

Iris’s gallantry, which has ruined not only her own life, but potentially the lives of her brother and Napier, proves to be ineffective in the end. This tragic film is tailor-made for those who enjoy unrequited love and enough suicides to make Shakespeare jealous.

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). 

“Do you know what loneliness is, real loneliness?”

Posted on by under ahh romance, from stage to screen, lit adaptations, supernatural films, wwii films

The delightful 1945 romantic fantasy The Enchanted Cottage was first recommended to me by one of my favorite grad school professors (hi, Dr. Riley!). There were only three of us in this particular class, and we were flung together for three long hours every Wednesday afternoon, so a sense of easy camaraderie developed. There were many times when we found ourselves discussing topics completely unrelated to graduate-level English research (and thank God for that … believe me when I say there are fewer topics so dry and lifeless). This film, which Dr. Riley proclaimed one of his favorites, was one I had never even heard of, so when it came on TCM several weeks after his declaration, I sat down to watch it. And I’m glad I did, because it has since become one of my favorite films, too.

The Enchanted Cottage stars Robert Young and Dorothy McGuire as Oliver and Laura, two people who are hiding away from the world for very different reasons. Laura, a plain, homely-looking young woman, takes a job as a maid for the isolated titular cottage, which is situated on the grounds of a burned-out estate. The cottage had long been a hideaway for young honeymooning couples (all of whom have etched their names on the glass windows over the past hundred years), and its owner, Mrs. Minnett (Mildred Natwick), agrees to rent it to Oliver and his fiancée, Beatrice (Hillary Brooke), who are soon to be wed. Before Oliver and Beatrice can marry and move in to their new home, however, Oliver is drafted into the war. And when he finally returns to the cottage a year later, he is alone. His face disfigured and his spirit deflated, Oliver refuses to see Beatrice or his family, including his nosy, persistent mother, Violet (Spring Byington). An understanding and kind Laura, along with a new friendship with a blind musician, John Hillgrove (Herbert Marshall), help the despairing Oliver understand that his life is far from over. When Oliver and Laura, out of a shared sense of desperation and loneliness, eventually marry, they discover the magical nature of their little honeymoon cottage, and their marriage of convenience becomes one of true love.

This is such a beautiful story on a multitude of levels. It’s not merely a story about the magical influence of love—though it makes a powerful statement to that regard—but it is also about the beauty of acceptance. Oliver and Laura are, to the outside world, mangled and homely, unworthy of a second look by our perfection-obsessed culture. But in the cottage, where the outside world has no influence and, indeed, no meaning, they are exquisite creatures, for the inner beauty of their souls is reflected in one another’s eyes. And who but the hardest hearts among us can resist a simple, yet profoundly moving story such as this?

On a darker level, in addition to its attempts to underscore the proverbial idea that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, The Enchanted Cottage also serves as a bleak reminder of the price that is sometimes exacted from people in the name of serving their country. The original play, written by Englishman Arthur Wing Pinero in 1923, dealt with the trouble facing disabled veterans returning home from World War I. Pinero’s play had been filmed once before, for a 1924 silent production starring Richard Barthelmess and May McAvoy (which you can view on YouTube, though the quality is not all that great). But in adapting the story for the newer version, producer Harriet Parsons (daughter of notorious gossip columnist Louella) updated the time period to the 1940s to better reflect the immediacy of the soon-to-end Second World War; in fact, The Enchanted Cottage was released in theaters less than two weeks before V-E Day.

The play’s theme about the struggles of former soldiers to adapt to “normalcy” in the wake of war proved to be just as important a message two decades later, as young servicemen and women returned en masse from the battlefront with scars, missing limbs, and broken memories, sometimes to the abject horror of those they had left behind. A series of films with such messages were released in the subsequent months after peace was declared—most notably, 1946′s The Best Years of Our Lives, which so excellently portrayed the numerous difficulties faced by veterans after the war. While Lives naturally takes a much more realistic look at the trope of the returning soldier, films like Cottage nonetheless provide an intriguing and truthful glimpse at the horrific aftereffects of war. Though the reactions of Beatrice and his parents to Oliver’s newly-deformed visage may seem overly exaggerated in the context of the overarching, fanciful plot, they actually are not far off from the reactions faced by some wounded soldiers whose triumphant homecomings were soured by heartrending cruelty, indifference, or fear from their family, friends, and acquaintances.

Admittedly, Young is not one of my favorite actors. It’s not entirely his fault, as he was generally relegated to B-level pictures throughout his career, never really getting an opportunity to expand his talents on screen (though, like fellow B-movie star Lucille Ball, Young found great success—and the greatest use for his light comedic talent—on television, particularly in the 1950s series Father Knows Best). But The Enchanted Cottage provides Young with one of the few truly interesting parts in his film career. He is wonderful as Oliver, perfectly balancing the character’s bitterness at the turn in his fortunes and his growing respect and love for the homely young maid. McGuire, though not entirely believable as a frump even with a multitude of shapeless dresses and a serious lack of makeup, is nonetheless charming in only the third film role of her career (and the second in which she co-starred with Young—the first being her debut in 1943′s Claudia). Supporting characters Natwick and Marshall nearly steal the show, particularly the former as the crusty yet ultimately caring landlady who knows the cottage’s secret. The latter, playing the part of the wise and kindly blind pianist, performs a gorgeous piano concerto written by composer Roy Webb, who earned his seventh (and final) Oscar nomination for Best Original Score for the film. And Byington, always a welcome presence in her many supporting roles, effectively plays against type as Oliver’s overbearing and selfishly judgmental mother.

Overall, The Enchanted Cottage is a lovely, romantic little gem of a movie. It’s a fairy tale for us grown folks—fantasy, yes, but with a grain of pure and simple honesty at the heart of it. For whether we want to admit it to ourselves or not, we all want to be loved for who we are more than anything else, and it’s a lucky pair, like Oliver and Laura, who can recognize—and celebrate—the inner beauty in one another. That is the “true” nature of “true” love, after all.