Tag Archives: irene dunne

Revisting The White Cliffs of Dover (don’t forget the tissues).

Posted on by under maudlin mondays, melodrama, sarah's faves

The White Cliffs of Dover is a 1944 film starring Irene Dunne and Alan Marshal. This film shares the story of the life of an American woman living in England during both World War I and World War II.

Filming this flick must have been quite a challenge for the beautiful and talented Dunne, who was also starring in A Guy Named Joe simultaneously (production on Joe had been delayed due to that film’s star, Van Johnson, being seriously injured in a car accident–funnily enough, he recovered in time to play a supporting role opposite Dunne in this film, too!). Nonetheless, Dunne’s performance is flawless. One can’t help loving with her and grieving with her as she undergoes life’s trials. The movie is the very definition of star-studded, featuring a healthy mix of stars young (Elizabeth Taylor, Peter Lawford, Roddy McDowell, June Lockhart) and not-so-young (Dame May Whitty, Frank Morgan, C. Aubrey Smith, Gladys Cooper). Although sneered at by some critics for its rather forced political theme, this film was well-received in both the United States and England. I watched this movie years ago, but found it was even more charming and moving upon this second viewing.

The film starts with Susan (Dunne), a WWII nurse, anxiously staring out into the night from a hospital window. A fellow nurse comes in to bring her a welcomed cup of tea.

Margaret: “Why don’t you take your cap off and lie down for awhile?”

Susan: “We were told to stand by. There must be some very good reason. It helps to be doing something.”

Margaret: “You’re worried?”

Susan: “Who isn’t, nowadays?”

Margaret: “I thought your son was to stay the week with you?”

Susan: “He called to say his leave had been cancelled. I haven’t heard anything since. It’s been five days now. I’m terribly worried.”

Margaret: “So when we were told to stand by for emergency, you made up your mind he’d be in the thick of it?”

Susan: “Yes, Margaret, I’m afraid I did.”

Margaret: “Well, you can be wrong, you know. I hope you are. Do try and rest.”

The hospital receives a message from the surgeon general that an expected 5,000 casualties will be arriving within 24 hours. Susan is terrified that her son will be among them. As she thinks about how this came to be, we are taken to a flashback of when Susan first came to England. As a young woman, she arrived on a boat from America with her ornery father, a newspaper man. Susan is obviously excited. She has never traveled before, and she is enthralled by the history that England offers. Hiram Dunn (Frank Morgan), Susan’s father, is a rather spirited (grumpy) man. He constantly complains about the rain and chill: “It’ll be like this the whole time we’re in England!” Unfortunately for him, he becomes ill for the entire two weeks that they are to stay in England. Susan is unable to see much of the country, but she is thrilled when she is invited to a ball on the last night of their stay. A friendly elderly man invites her to join him, and he even goes so far as to hunt for a young man for her to dance with. He makes a smashing choice in the dashing young Sir John Ashwood (Marshal). Sir John is immediately taken by Susan the moment he sees her. They spend the evening dancing and talking in the moonlight.

John begs her to stay in England for longer, but she tells him that she must return with her father. While Susan and her father are packing to leave, Sir John arrives at their boarding house to ask her father’s permission for Susan to stay behind. At first, her father is very protective and against the idea; however, John is extremely persuasive and persistent. Susan spends a week with Sir John and his aristocratic family. They take long walks in the gardens and spend time getting to know each other. One night, while Sir John is showing Susan the family portraits, he points out an open space for the portrait of his future wife.

Susan: “You must have often wondered what she’d be like.”

John: “Yes, I have, until a few days ago. Then, I began to hope she’d be tall and fair, with a mind of her own, and that when my great-grandson showed visitors her portrait, he’d say, ‘This is my great-grandmother. Lovely, isn’t she? She was an American.’”

Susan: “John …”

John: “You must’ve known. I’ve been out of my mind since I first saw you in the Adam Room. I meant to wait, give you more time, but it’s out now … Don’t say no, Sue. If you can’t give me the right answer, pretend I haven’t spoken.”

Susan: “May I do that John, for these few days? I don’t want to make decisions; I just want to live and be happy.”

John: “You are happy, Sue, happy here?”

Susan: “When we are together, yes, when we are alone.”

John: “What does that mean?”

Susan: “Please don’t ask me. It’s just that, it’s all so strange, this place, your family.”

Susan is correct in her perception of tension within the family. While Susan and John are quite busy falling in love, his family is not pleased with their courtship. Even though they are clearly aware that Susan and John are interested in each other, they speak openly in front of her of their wish for John and family friend Helen to marry. Susan feels this tension and lashes out against them. Her outburst seems to make them feel guilty and treat her kindly: “It’s a compliment not to be like an American? How insulting! … I came here loving England and all it meant to me. I was happy to come here, I was so sure I would like you all because of John. I hoped you would like me. But I was an outsider, I didn’t belong. You made that perfectly clear!”

Ahh, young love.

Although the family apologizes, Susan is utterly embarrassed at her outburst. She leaves a goodbye message for Sir John and leaves on the morning train. When she gets off the train to find her boat, she is surprised to find John waiting for her. She tries to argue with him that she should return to America, but once again, he is quite persistent. He talks her into marrying him, and they seem quite happy.

Unfortunately, the happiness is short-lived. On their honeymoon, they learn that England has gone to war. Because it is tradition in the Ashwood family that the males join the military, John learns that he must go to war, almost immediately. The couple is separated for three years while John fights in WWI with his regiment. Susan lives in a constant state of fear while John is away. She worries from day to day that he may never return. When she visits him in France, they stay at a hotel with a beautiful, quaint bandstand visible from their balcony overlooking the sea.

It is on this visit that she becomes pregnant with their son, whom they name John, even though it goes against the Ashwood family tradition of naming the first male Percy. Unfortunately, when baby John is only an infant, his father is killed in action. Susan is devastated, and ignores her mother-in-law who tries to convince her to go on with her life.

“Enough happiness to last us the rest of our lives …”

When young John grows a little older, Susan attempts to move with him back to America so that he will not go into England’s military as his father had done. She tells her mother-in-law that she will teach her son to run when he hears cannons so that he will not die as his father had. Young Sir John is much like his father, however, and persuades his mother to stay and allow him to continue the Ashwood family traditions. This scene is especially heartbreaking, as we know from the beginning of the film that he does end up in harm’s way as a soldier in WWII.

This film is heartbreaking. We watch as Susan grows from a carefree young woman in love to a grieving widow, scared of also losing her only son. This film is about family. It is about the most important parts of our lives, and it is about the tragedy of war and dying young. It brings out our greatest fears of losing those that we love the most.

 

The White Cliffs of Dover is definitely a five on the “Maudlin Meter” tear scale!

“The king is not ordinary man.”

Posted on by under biopics, brandie's faves, historical accuracy is for pbs

In 1862, a young British widow and teacher, Anna Leonowens, arrived in the small Asian nation of Siam (now Thailand) to accept a position as governess to the court of the country’s ruler, King Mongkut. Her pupils comprised the king’s expansive harem, made up of over one hundred wives, mistresses, and children, all of whom he wished to be educated in a “Western” manner. After more than five years in the service of Mongkut’s court, Leonowens returned to Great Britain and, several years later, produced two highly fictionalized memoirs of her time in Siam: The English Governess at the Siamese Court (1870) and Romance of the Harem (1873). In 1944, almost thirty years after Leonowens’ death, author Margaret Landon adapted these memoirs into the bestselling Anna and the King of Siam, which further exaggerated the English teacher’s experiences, highlighting Anna’s supposed influence on Mongkut’s political decisions and personal life.

Two years later, 20th Century Fox acquired the rights to the story and produced a film based on the material, also called Anna and the King of Siam. The movie version was one of Fox’s most successful productions of the year, eventually winning two Academy Awards (for cinematography and art direction) and critical praise. Still, the 1946 version of Leonowens’ life is not the most well-known today; a decade later, Fox’s musical adaptation of the story, called The King and I (based on the Tony Award-winning 1951 stage musical) would go on to even greater success, winning five Oscars and almost universal acclaim.

I enjoy the musical (particularly Yul Brynner’s charming, Oscar-winning performance as the King), but ultimately there seems to be something missing from the movie, particularly in comparison to its older counterpart. The addition of songs to the story makes for a lighter tale, with the drama created by the clashing Eastern and Western values being mined for laughs in lieu of making any profound statements about the intrinsic differences between cultures. In my mind, the 1946 version’s more serious take on the material simply makes for an overall better film.

This version of the tale stars Irene Dunne as Leonowens and Rex Harrison as the King. Dunne was initially thought by Fox chief Daryl F. Zanuck to be “too old” for the part of Anna (the actress was 48 at the time)—he envisioned Dorothy McGuire for the role, but could not work out an arrangement to borrow the actress from the notoriously difficult David O. Selznick. Zanuck also wanted William Powell or Charles Boyer for the part of the King before Harrison was finally awarded the part.

Dunne and Harrison ultimately work very well opposite one another, demonstrating an easy chemistry and on-screen camaraderie that adds great depth to their portrayals of these characters. Though Harrison is not one of my favorite actors, this is my favorite of his film performances. I’ve always perceived him as a somewhat stilted actor, and strangely enough, that quality works for him in this part (incidentally, this movie presented the British Harrison with his first American film role). Dunne, for her part, is a typically lovely presence—she adds a spunky nature to Anna that is somewhat dampened in Deborah Kerr’s portrayal in the musical version. And in case you were wondering, the gorgeous Dunne definitely doesn’t look “too old” in the role.

The supporting cast is equally capable, and is filled with some familiar faces including Lee J. Cobb as the King’s Prime Minister (Kralahome); Linda Darnell as the doomed young wife Tuptim; and Gale Sondergaard as Lady Thiang, the number-one wife. Sondergaard was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress for her performance. Other notable names associated with the production of the movie include composer Bernard Herrmann, who infused the score with the distinctive sound of gongs, and actor/director John Cromwell, who helmed the production.

Though I find the movie to be thoroughly enjoyable, the material is admittedly unrealistic, amounting to little more than a kind of fairy tale. That a woman—even a woman of foreign birth, not subject to the rules and social mores of the kingdom of Siam—could exercise so much influence on a decidedly patriarchal ruler is the stuff of pure fantasy. Leonowens herself admitted as much, as did her erstwhile biographer Landon, both of whom acknowledged that Leonowens’ tales had been significantly exaggerated to elevate Leonowens’ importance in the Siamese court. And the film embellishes the tales further still to heighten dramatic effect: for example, the movie version kills off Anna’s son, Louis, in a riding accident, but the real Louis lived well into adulthood and even returned to Siam in later years and served a term in the country’s military). The movie also depicts Anna as being present at the King’s death and her subsequently remaining in Siam to help his son, the new King, in his duties—in actuality, she left the country a year before Mongkut passed away and never returned. The factual inaccuracies and the film’s depiction of the King (particularly his behavior in the incident with Tuptim) led to the country of Thailand actually banning the movie (and the subsequent versions) for “unfavorable” and “offensive” views of the monarchy.

Leonowens’ story was adapted once more in 1999 in Anna and the King, starring Jodie Foster and Chow Yun-fat. For some reason, the filmmakers added a subplot of a military coup (because the innate culture clash at the heart of the story was not dramatic enough for them?), but even a halfhearted attempt to add elements of action to the plot is not enough to keep this version of the story from being utterly uninteresting. If you’re looking to take a trip into the fictionalized Siam of old, trust me—you’d be much better off going with the 1946 take on the material.

If you’ve seen the multiple versions of Anna Leonowens’ cinematic life, tell me: which film treatment is your favorite?

Wacky Wednesdays: A Cary Grant pictorial.

Posted on by under pictorial, screwball legends, wacky wednesdays

 

Few actors (at least in my mind) have ever been able to match the comedic physical prowess of the former Archibald Leach. When the athletic young Brit rechristened himself as the smooth, charming Cary Grant, he balanced his new romantic persona with a seemingly endless streak of youthful exuberance that shone through even the most serious of his roles. Though Grant is perhaps best remembered today as a debonair ladies’ man in a number of classic romances, some of his argunably best work emerged from the realm of screwball comedy.

In a series of films throughout the 1930s and 40s, Grant displayed a skillful affinity for physical comedy that was honed on the vaudeville circuit in his younger days. At the age of fourteen, he began performing in various vaudevillian formats ranging from mime to stilt-walking, an itinerant way of life that would last for nine years. The lessons learned from vaudeville–the sense of comic timing, the willingness to make a fool of himself onscreen, the skillful pratfalling–would serve him well as he began to transform himself from mere “eye candy” supporting player into the self-assured leading man who would fuel a million fantasies (oh, come on, you know you’ve been there).

In many ways, Grant was one of the kings of the screwball comedy. Not only could he deliver the zaniest of lines with panache and good humor, but he seemed to relish the prospect of throwing his body about on-screen in hilarious–and sometimes painful–ways. Take, for instance, his acrobatics in 1938′s Holiday, in which Grant plays Johnny, a free-spirited young man who tends to express himself through tumbling stunts, including a fantastic handstand/backflip combo at the end of the film.

Yes, that is a blurry Grant, suspended in mid-air in a screen capture from the film. And yes, that is Katharine Hepburn, his Holiday co-star, approaching in the background–in the film, her appearance causes Grant’s character to lose focus and bellyflop flat on the ground.

Ouch!

Pratfalls aside, Grant knew how integral facial expression was to the overall effect of a screwball sensibility.

Hamming it up in 1937's The Awful Truth

A captive Grant in Arsenic and Old Lace (1944)

An unwilling--and grumpy--"crossdresser" in Bringing Up Baby (1938)

And Grant always played well with a partner, his most effective of which being Irene Dunne, in three films including The Awful Truth …

… and Katharine Hepburn, in four films including Bringing Up Baby …

… and his single on-screen pairing with Rosalind Russell, in 1940′s fast-talking His Girl Friday.

These films are just the tip of the oh-so-funny iceberg. There are several more films in Grant’s repertoire–among them Topper (1937), My Favorite Wife (1940), and The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer (1947)–that highlight the self-deprecating, antic humor that made the actor so appealing to a broad spectrum of moviegoers. Even his more serious roles, such as his four turns for director Alfred Hitchcock, emphasize the wittier side of his suave demeanor. Cary Grant was, in a word, just plain FUNNY.

So tell me–what are some of your favorite moments of Cary Grant hilarity? Any scenes (or entire films, for that matter) that are particularly rib-tickling or memorable for you?

P.S. If you’ve never seen it, one of the best tributes to Grant comes courtesy of TCM and the wonderful Tony Curtis, one of the actor’s self-proclaimed biggest fans.