My latest contribution to the ongoing Wonders in the Dark Comedy Countdown is live … at number 42, it’s the frenetic and fanatically funny Preston Sturges masterpiece, The Palm Beach Story (1942)!
Head on over to WitD to check out my thoughts on one of my favorite films of all time, and make sure to throw your two cents into the discussion in the comments! And keep checking in at Wonders every weekday as the countdown winds down to a close over the next two months–there are some truly fantastic films coming up on the list! (FYI: I’ll have my fourth contribution up next week!)
By some accounts a champion of female independence, playwright Lillian Hellman (1905-1984), crafted some of the most searingly honest plays ever produced by an American writer, beginning with her debut, the heart-wrenching 1934 drama The Children’s Hour (which was inspired by a true story). The play tells the story of two women who work hard to make their dream of creating a successful school for girls a reality. Their dreams are dashed as Mary, a malicious child, creates a lie claiming that the women are lovers. As the rumor spreads and society turns against them, the school is abandoned and the two women’s lives destroyed. Hellman’s play is a moving story of the devastating effects of a lie and the consequences of bigotry. An innocent woman takes her own life, and a prejudiced society thereafter has her blood on its hands.
Lillian Hellman
The Children’s Hour was a very controversial play when it was originally performed, being banned in Boston, London, and Chicago on account of the subject matter of homosexuality. Producers did not believe that American audiences were ready for the supposed lesbian relationship found in this play. Instead, in 1936, they released These Three, an altered version of Hellman’s play. Although Hellman herself wrote the screenplay, and although many of the scenes are nearly identical to those in The Children’s Hour, much of the story’s strength is lost because of the changes that were required due to the rules of the Production Code. Unlike the original play (and the film version of The Children’s Hour later produced in 1961), These Three is centered around a rumor of a heterosexual love triangle. Karen and Joe are in love, but in this version, Martha is secretly in love with Joe as well.
THESE THREE (1936)
These Three lacks the passion evoked in The Children’s Hour. The 1936 version begins with the college graduation ceremony of Karen (Merle Oberon) and Martha (Miriam Hopkins, who would later appear in the 1961 film as Martha’s Aunt Lily). We see a hasty, seemingly spontaneous idea between the two to start a school for girls:
Karen: “What are you going to do?”
Martha: “I don’t know; teach somewhere I guess, if I can get a job.”
Karen: “Do you think I could teach?”
Martha: “Maybe we could find someplace together. Two well-educated young women, also neat and clean, wish position.”
Karen: “Martha, that farm of mine. I haven’t seen it in years, but it’s a lovely old place. I used to spend my summers there when I was a little girl. We could go there. Why not? Why shouldn’t we? We could work there … Martha, we might start a school, something of our own. We’d be good at it, too.”
In the next scene, the two women travel to the house that Karen has inherited from her grandmother. They find it in a dilapidated state, full of rats and bees. It is in this scene that we first meet Dr. Joe (Joel McCrea). He is in the process of tearing down the roof and ridding the house of bees. He explains that, on his days off from the hospital, he comes to the old house to make repairs, simply because he likes the house. He is not the owner, nor does he have any ties to the family or house. Nonetheless, somehow he (a complete stranger to the women) is able to convince Martha and Karen to restore the old house in order to start their school:
Joe: “You know, my place was just as bad as this, but it didn’t cost much to fix it. Much less than you’d think. Borrow a little money from the bank, and it’s fun doing it. So much fun I’d like to start all over again … You know, I used to do an operation at the hospital and then run home to paint the left side of the house.”
Joe: “And free help. I’m a good carpenter, a good house painter, and good plumber.”
Both women fall in love with Joe as they work together restoring the house, but it is Karen who wins his heart. Martha does not let either party know of her affections for Joe until the very end.
In this version, malicious little Mary (Bonita Granville) creates a rumor that Martha and Dr. Joe have had “relations,” although he is engaged to Karen. Instead of Joe defending the two women, as in the original play, we instead find Karen defending Joe and Martha. Mrs. Tillford (Alma Kruger), the women’s benefactor and Mary’s grandmother, directs a speech to Karen, advising her to “clean her house.” In the scene where Karen and Joe part ways, it is Karen who asks Joe whether the lie is true or not. Although they still break up as in the play, the couple ends up happily together in the end, after the truth comes out.
The 1961 version of The Children’s Hour, on the other hand, is a much darker, intensely passionate film, and much closer to the original intent of Hellman’s play. While These Three has a lighter mood and happy ending, The Children’s Hour is nothing short of utter tragedy.
The film begins with a happy, serene setting. There are schoolgirls riding their bikes in a single file line, running along a serene pond in the sunshine, a sweet piano recital. From the very beginning, however, it is Malicious Mary (Karen Balkin) who ruins the otherwise heavenly scene by frightening one of her classmates.
THE CHILDREN’S HOUR (1961)
In The Children’s Hour, there is a sense of the hard work that Martha (Shirley MacLaine) and Karen (Audrey Hepburn) have put into making the school a success. Near the beginning of the film, Karen and Martha are found drying dishes together as they discuss their progress with the school. Martha announces that for the first time ever, they have had a profitable month. It is clear to the viewer that these two women have invested their lives into making this school successful. Karen notes at one point, “I may be hasty, but I think it’s here to stay … it’s almost too good to believe.” Unfortunately, this is a dream that will be destroyed as a result of a child’s selfish lie.
Although many parts of these two films are nearly identical, and both were directed by the legendary William Wyler, the effect of each on the viewer is drastically different. Is it a result of the changes in the storyline? Is it the acting quality? To become fully invested in a film, the viewer needs to feel a connection to the characters–something that is admittedly easier with the latter version. The warmth and love associated with friendship is evident between Hepburn and MacLaine. The feelings that Martha has for Karen are also hinted at multiple times throughout the film. When they earn money, Karen suggests that they save it. Martha insists that Karen use the money to buy new clothes: “You’re a Fifth Avenue, Rue de la Paix. You need to be kept up.” Martha reminisces about meeting Karen: “I remember how you used to dress in college. The first time I ever saw you, running across the quadrangle, your hair flying … I remember thinking, ‘What a pretty girl.’” The love between the two women, romantic or otherwise, is much more evident in this film version.
The Children’s Hour ends with the death of an innocent woman, driven to suicide as the consequence of a child’s wicked and hateful nature. It’s a brutal, and brutally honest, ending. It is the colossal sense of grief demonstrated in the film–and in the original play–that leaves such a drastic and ultimately more profound impact on the viewer than does These Three.
This post is the first of several contributions True Classics will be making to the Queer Blogathon this week. Co-hosted by Garbo Laughs and Pussy Goes Grrr, the blogathon will feature posts about LGBT issues, images, and themes in films both classic and modern. Make sure to check out the wonderful entries that will be posted on each site!
In 1912, infant Dorothy Hunter (Miriam Hopkins) was orphaned when her parents drowned during the sinking of the Titanic. For years, her guardian, John Connors (Henry Stephenson), has shielded the young heiress from the glare of the media spotlight–few people even know what she looks like. After she finally comes of age, Dorothy travels to New York City to meet with the managers of her parents’ estate. They offer Dorothy a document to sign, but after an uneasy exchange of glances with John, she declines and John tells them to send her the papers to sign later.
It turns out that the “Dorothy” who attended the meeting is actually Sylvia Lockwood (Fay Wray), Dorothy’s secretary and best friend. After marrying Phillip Lockwood (Reginald Denny), Sylvia intends to resign from her job, since she and Phillip plan to move to England to be near his family. Dorothy, who is set to announce her own engagement to Donald (George Meeker), asks Sylvia to stay until after her wedding, to which Sylvia agrees.
Dorothy soon realizes that Donald has changed his mind about marrying her, and as the pair had been planning to marry for convenience rather than love, Dorothy wishes him well. But an offhand comment from Donald leads Dorothy to question whether she will ever find a man who will love her for her and not for her vast wealth. She asks Sylvia to continue impersonating her at her already-planned engagement party.
At the party, Dorothy–posing as “Dorothy Hunter’s secretary”–meets Tony Travers (Joel McCrea) and challenges him to a game of billiards, which she handily wins. Dorothy is smitten by Tony, but her doubts lead her to convince Tony to court “Dorothy Hunter” instead as a test of his affections. Against her better judgment (and Phillip’s objections), Sylvia plays along with Dorothy’s plan. As Dorothy falls deeper in love with Tony, she finds new ways to test him, as she remains unable to believe that he might actually love a mere secretary over the “richest girl in the world.” Ultimately, Dorothy’s continued masquerade and her inability to trust in Tony’s true feelings threaten to drive away the love of her life. Can she get over her issues and finally accept Tony’s love at face value?
Directed by William A. Seiter, The Richest Girl in the World (1934) is a fun little romance with an absolutely outlandish–and thereby thoroughly enjoyable–plot. That being said, the character of Dorothy is the very definition of the word “frustrating.” Though her worries about finding love for love’s sake, as opposed to the allure of money, are relatable, those concerns quickly devolve into paranoia. It’s hard to watch this movie and not want to reach through the screen at times and shake some sense into Dorothy. Still, while Dorothy’s scheme may be convoluted and unfair to Tony, it is understandable on some level–after all, faced with a similar situation, who wouldn’t question their lover’s motives?
There are few actresses I can think of who could best toe the line between frustrating and vulnerable than Miriam Hopkins. She does a wonderful job of maintaining Dorothy as a sympathetic figure despite the character’s sometimes annoying moments of self-sabotage. There are scenes in this film where Hopkins simply sparkles, demonstrating an appealingly natural comedic skill. It’s a stark contrast to the movies in which I was first introduced to Hopkins several years ago–films like The Old Maid (1939) and Old Acquaintance (1943), in which she indulges in almost histrionic overacting, or The Heiress (1949), in which she delivers an admirably subdued and layered performance. Still, though she was an adept dramatic actress, I would argue that Hopkins’ greatest strength as a performer lies in comedies like Trouble in Paradise (1932) and Design for Living (1933), where she could let loose her charismatic personality to full affect.
Hopkins, who was a notoriously difficult actress to work with (just ask Bette Davis), plays very well off of Joel McCrea–in fact, this was the first of five films that the pair would make together, and McCrea reportedly got along well with the sometimes temperamental star. In Girl, you see the first glimmers of the comedic persona that McCrea would later bring to full, glorious life in his collaborations with writer/director Preston Sturges. Here, McCrea ably plays the unwitting puppet in Dorothy’s scheme, by turns befuddled and commanding, hapless and determined.
As the “real” Sylvia/”fake” Dorothy, Fay Wray is lovely and refined, and does a remarkable job of conveying her character’s discomfort with the charade. This is Wray’s second appearance with McCrea, after the two starred together in 1932′s The Most Dangerous Game, which was shot on the same sets at the same time as Wray’s most famous film, 1933′s King Kong. Wray’s career was undoubtedly at its peak during the mid-1930s; by the end of the decade, she took on fewer roles, and she spent much of the 1940s in retirement before reemerging in the 1950s with small roles in films and on television. Playing opposite Wray is character actor Reginald Denny, in a rare supporting lead as Sylvia’s husband. Though Denny does not come close to matching McCrea in pure, masculine appeal, he is nonetheless delightful as the put-upon Phillip, who must silently endure the indignities of watching his wife be wooed by another man.
The film was written by Norman Krasna, who was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Story for his screenplay. Krasna crafted some of the best screwball comedies to come out of the 1930s and 40s, including Hands Across the Table (1935), Bachelor Mother (1939), Mr. & Mrs. Smith (1941), and The Devil and Miss Jones (1941), as well as other classic comedies such as Princess O’Rourke (1943, which won him the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay), White Christmas (1954), and Indiscreet (1958). With Girl, Krasna manages the impossible–taking an unbelievable plot and giving it a sensibility that, more often than not, belies the zaniness of the action on-screen. At the same time, he’s able to insert some thoughtful social commentary about class difference and the politics of moneyed romance. It’s an interesting case of juggling themes, and against all odds, it works.
In its third act, the film delves into questions of gender tropes that reflect the attitudes of the time period while likely giving modern-day feminists a series of minor heart attacks. When Dorothy takes the seemingly drastic step of feigning an affair with Phillip, John reacts with disgust, telling her that he “can’t even pity” her for going to such lengths to test Tony’s feelings. He accuses Dorothy of giving Tony too big of an “obstacle” to overcome: “Who do you think you are?” John demands. “You’re only a woman–just flesh and blood, like everybody else. What makes you think you’re so desirable?”
From our perspective now, this is a horrifyingly judgmental attack on Dorothy, particularly from the man who raised her from infancy and purports to have her best interests at heart. John essentially equates Tony’s ability to forgive “Sylvia” for her premarital sex romp with something as arduous as climbing Mount Everest. The damnedest thing is, despite her bravado, Dorothy actually agrees with John, proclaiming, “Maybe you’re right. No man in the world might want a woman that much,” before adding, “Then no one will have me.” In Dorothy’s mind, Tony has to love her enough to be willing to overlook even the most grievous sin–sex being the most horrible thing she can think of at the moment.
And Tony plays right into Dorothy’s hands, as in the end, his affection for “Sylvia”–in spite of her perceived transgression–overcomes his supposed love for “Dorothy Hunter,” and he vows to take “Sylvia” away from the dirty influence of Dorothy and her money and the loose morals that accompany it. As he charmingly explains to “Sylvia” before manhandling her away from the house: “I don’t think you’re worth saving. But if you’ve one shred of decency left in you, I’ll find it–or I’ll beat it into you.” Like I said … charming.
When “Dorothy Hunter” accepts Tony’s proposal, he tells her, “You know, I gotta start bossing you around so you’ll be broken in right.” It’s an unwittingly ironic statement on Tony’s part, because he still does not realize that he is the one who is being “broken in,” as Dorothy and Sylvia dangle him from the marionette strings. In this particular round of the battle of the sexes, Tony is the one being played. Dorothy–the real Dorothy–holds all of the power, and interestingly enough, it has nothing to do with her vast wealth, and everything to do with her ability to fool Tony and manipulate him in order to judge his behavior.
The movie ends with Tony still not having been clued in to who’s who–despite the fact that he and “Sylvia Lockwood” are married and enjoying their honeymoon on a transatlantic cruise as the film comes to a close. Once the two of them are wed (which, as John explains in a previous scene, is considered legal even though Dorothy marries under a different name–how, I can’t even begin to understand), Tony seems to have no problem with his new wife’s sexuality, as the movie ends on a highly charged note. “Sylvia” explains that she needs help buttoning up her tight satin dress for dinner that evening, and Tony immediately offers to help–”What are husbands for?” he asks with a smirk as he begins to lead her back to their cabin.
Dorothy: “Oh, we’ve got two hours left [before dinner].”
Really, I shouldn’t have to say anything else, right? If you’re a classic movie fan, I can just utter the word “Hitch” and wait for the nods of comprehension. When one “outs” oneself as a Hitchcock fan, at least in my experience, the result is a long discussion/debate/vehement argument about which film in the director’s repertoire is, in fact, the “best.”
This series has been in the works for a while, ever since Kate over at Silents and Talkies posted a list of her 20 favorite Hitchcock films. I don’t know about Kate, but I have found it to be beyond difficult to construct such a list … at least, it is difficult to RANK such a list. Ultimately, I find myself at an impasse, of sorts: I have two favorites for my numero uno Hitch classic, neither of which I can comfortably rank above the other. So, as this list progresses over the next few days, please indulge the presence of two “number one” films (hey, I make the rules. Well, most of the rules. But Carrie’s not here, so she can’t stop me. Mine is an evil laugh).
By most counts, Hitch directed over 50 films, including his pre-1940 efforts in England, many of which I sadly have yet to see. Therefore, my list is weighted unequivocally toward the director’s American films. One of my classic viewing goals this year is to catch up on those British productions, so perhaps I will be able to update this listing if and when I manage to do so.
Without further ado, starting from the bottom, and working my way up, numbers 20-16 on my list of Hitchcock’s greatest.
**************************************
20. The Trouble with Harry (1955)
Hitchcock is not especially known for having a particularly deft hand with comedy; he only directed one true comedy during his time in Hollywood (I’ll get to that movie later), and though there is a vein of macabre amusement running through several of his films, I think he was wise to focus his directorial efforts elsewhere throughout his career. That being said, The Trouble with Harry is rather light fare for a Hitch film, even if it does involve a corpse!
When several citizens of a small New England town stumble across a dead body (the eponymous Harry) in the nearby hills, a comical struggle to conceal the “evidence” ensues between them, as each person who comes across the body thinks he or she is responsible for the man’s mysterious demise. In the midst of this chaos, the man’s estranged young widow, Jennifer, falls in love with a curious local artist, and everyone tries to hide the crime from the dour local sheriff by burying (and repeatedly exhuming and re-burying) the body.
Hitchcock often claimed this film to be one of his personal favorites, despite its lack of critical and financial success at the box office, and it’s easy to see why. More than anything, the director loved to subvert the expectations of his audience. By taking this rather dark material and placing the story out in the bright, sunny open of an innocent New England setting, the situation seems more absurd than frightening, more worthy of uneasy laughter than screams of fright.
This movie marks the first collaboration between Hitch and composer Bernard Herrmann, who would later win acclaim for scoring some of Hitchcock’s greatest films, including Vertigo, Psycho, and North by Northwest (all of which will appear later in this list). According to Turner Classic Movies, when preparing the score for the title sequence of this film, Herrmann temporarily inserted Funeral March of a Marionette as a placeholder–and that same song, accompanying the famous silhouette, would later become Hitchcock’s hallmark on the television series Alfred Hitchcock Presents.
Harry is also noteworthy for providing the first film role for its leading lady, Shirley MacLaine, and one of the first roles for young Jerry Mathers, who would soon after gain fame on television as the Beaver.
19. Rope (1948)
One of Hitchcock’s most ambitious, yet ill-conceived experiments was the filming of this suspenseful drama. For so many reasons, the film doesn’t work. And yet, for so many others, it’s an interesting viewing experience.
Rope was the first film Hitchcock made after escaping the clutches of notorious perfectionist producer David O. Selznick, and several critics have questioned the choice of this somewhat limiting material for his first truly independent production. Based on the play Rope’s End by Patrick Hamilton (which was, in turn, based on the infamous Leopold and Loeb murder case of 1924), the film revolves around two college students and “roommates” (their sexual relationship is only loosely alluded to in the film), Brandon (John Dall) and Phillip (Farley Granger). The two young men, testing their perceived mutual intelligence and skill, decide to commit the perfect murder and thereby strangle their friend, David, right before hosting a dinner party for David’s family and friends, including their former teacher, Rupert Cadell (James Stewart). Perversely, they place David’s body in the trunk upon which they intend to serve the meal. Brandon, especially, is intent on bragging about their success under the nose of the increasingly suspicious Rupert, who begins to believe that David’s increasing tardiness over the course of the evening is due to something more sinister than any of the guests may realize.
The material has the potential to be interesting, but instead, the movie drags on and on, even at its relatively brief running time of around 80 minutes. In large part, this is due to the manner in which Hitchcock filmed the movie. As a technical experiment, Hitch insisted on filming the movie in eight ten-minute continuous takes, requiring his actors to deliver their lines and movements flawlessly as the camera wheeled around furniture and set pieces, as one flub would result in torturous, lengthy retakes. The film’s expansive backdrop is especially noteworthy; it was reportedly the largest backdrop ever used on a sound stage. The clouds in the “sky” are what I find the most interesting; they were made of spun glass, and the prop masters were able to mold them into different shapes as the film progressed, so it looked as if they were truly moving and shifting as in nature.
The film has gained renewed interest among queer-theory scholars, as the homosexual themes (both overt and hidden) of the film are revisited by film critics. Similarly, the film’s attention to the philosophy of Nietzsche, and the concept of placing relativistic value on a human being’s life, has given way to criticism about the existentialist undertones of the film.
Hitch’s experiment, though ultimately a box-office failure, does have its moments of brilliance. Stewart gives a great performance as the increasingly unsettled professor, and Dall is particularly creepy as Brandon. I’m not saying this is a great film (it’s low on this list for a reason), but I enjoy the technical aspects, and that alone makes it worth a viewing.
18. The Birds (1963)
Hitchcock’s second foray into the horror genre, The Birds may not be the greatest of Hitchcock’s thrillers, but it’s certainly one of the few revolving around seemingly realistic events that could potentially happen to any viewer. Not everyone will be attacked by a murderer, married to a Nazi, stranded on a lifeboat, or hacked to death by a knife-wielding mama’s boy in their lifetime, but practically everyone has seen a scary-ass bird or two before!
Tippi Hedren stars as Melanie, a trouble-making dilettante who flirts with lawyer Mitch in a San Francisco pet shop, where he is trying to buy a pair of lovebirds for his sister’s birthday. Melanie buys the birds instead and travels to Mitch’s hometown of Bodega Bay, California, to deliver them in person. After completing her delivery by boat, Melanie is attacked by a seagull, but she brushes off the encounter. Then, all hell breaks loose as onslaughts of birds begin to ravage the town, leaving some citizens trapped in their homes as everyone tries to figure out why the birds have seemingly lost their little birdie minds.
Considering that the filmmakers were dealing with hundreds of live birds (in addition to some animated birds as well), the special effects are amazing. I don’t want to imagine what the bird wranglers had to deal with while trying to maneuver all of those animals around the set, but it’s impressive to think about. The film is also noteworthy as being the third Hitchcock adaptation of a Daphne du Maurier work (after 1939′s Jamaica Inn and 1940′s Oscar-winning Rebecca). The author was quite displeased with Hitchcock’s effort in adapting the first film, but relatively pleased with the results of the second. However, she professed to again disliking Hitchcock’s efforts in adapting The Birds, particularly the changes to the setting (the original took place in du Maurier’s home country of England).
Several years ago, in a class that focused on the construct of allegory in literature, art, and film, I gave a presentation on this film, bent on answering the one question that remains unanswered within the movie itself: what do the bird attacks mean? There are several popular theories: some critics see the attacks as an allegory for the Cold War; some see it as Hitchcock’s treatise on the inevitability of chaos; still others propose that the film uses the bird attacks to represent the frailty of human existence and the dangers of environmental encroachment.
As a feminist scholar, I was particularly interested in a Freudian-based analysis that looks at the women in the film as metaphorical “birds”: Annie, Lydia, and, to a lesser extent, Mitch’s sister, Cathy, have spent their lives flocking around Mitch, and when Melanie’s rampant sexuality threatens to displace their “roost,” the physical bird attacks are a manifestation of the displaced women’s fear and anger. Look at the mother whom Melanie slaps in the diner; the woman calls Melanie “evil” and points out that the attacks did not begin until she arrived in town. Considering Hitchcock’s occasional impulse for painting his female protagonists with a misogynistic hand–and treating his female actors somewhat badly–such a theory may not be far from the mark. Reportedly, Hitchcock was so enraged that Tippi Hedren had spurned his advances that the director prolonged the filming of the attic attack scene for several days, exhausting the actress, who was forced to stand in place and have live birds thrown at her for hours on end.
But getting back to my original point … perhaps the bird attacks mean all of these things. Perhaps they mean nothing. The titular birds may simply be yet another infamous Hitchcock “MacGuffin,” the long-desired object which serves as the rationale for the action in the film, but is not a particularly grave matter of concern for the audience. In the end, it doesn’t matter that we leave the film with no answers, that we are left only to watch our intrepid characters make an uneasy escape and leave their deadly avian foes to enjoy the spoils of their success. The genius of a film like The Birds is in the unsettled feeling with which the viewer is left after concluding the film, as every bird circling overhead causes a sudden, unmistakable sense of dread to develop in the pit of one’s stomach.
At least for the first couple of days after watching the movie, anyway.
17. Foreign Correspondent (1940)
Hitchcock’s second American film–and his first away from the controlling hand of Selznick–was this timely war thriller, starring the inimitable Joel McCrea.
McCrea stars as Johnny Jones, a crime reporter who sets out eagerly for his first international reporting job. When Jones, reporting under the name Huntley Haverstock, arrives in Holland to interview a pacifist named Stephen Fisher, he happens across a Dutch diplomat named Van Meer and finagles an interview. Jones later learns that Van Meer has disappeared, but when the diplomat reappears later in Amsterdam, Jones watches in horror as Van Meer is shot in the street. While trying to find the assassin, Jones enlists the help of a British correspondent, a man named ffolliott (yes, that’s spelled correctly) and Fisher’s daughter, Carol, with whom Jones soon falls in love. As they try to figure out who killed Van Meer, the trio uncovers a vast network of spies and must work together to expose them.
I adore McCrea, and the casting of slick-as-steel George Sanders as ffolliott is delightful (I could listen to that man’s voice all day). Laraine Day, as Carol, is one of Hitchcock’s weaker heroines, but even that doesn’t lessen the enjoyment of this film. And while the film contains an interesting mystery, the staging of the film is particularly intriguing. Two of the most famous scenes in the film take place in a windmill–a seemingly innocuous setting that becomes foreboding and spooky in Hitchcock’s hands, as you will see in the clip below–and in a plane that is bombed and subsequently crashes into the ocean. Considering the relative dearth of special effects knowledge in 1940, the plane crash looks remarkably believable on film.
Hitchcock made this movie while on loan to producer Walter Wanger, and during the filming was happy enough to be away from Selznick, whose notorious habit of badgering his directors (and everyone else) with constant memos had created tension on the set of Hitchcock’s previous project, Rebecca. But after filming, when the director discovered that Selznick was making a tidy profit from loaning Hitchcock’s talent to other studios, he became infuriated, damaging the men’s already uneasy relationship even further.
Still, part of the appeal of working on the picture–aside from escaping Selznick–was the chance to contribute, in some small way, to the war effort overseas; though the United States had yet to enter into the fracas of World War II, Hitchcock longed to support his fellow Britons in their fight against the Nazis. However, Hitchcock had to be sly in using propaganda so as to avoid angering the State Department. Therefore, the real enemy behind the film’s ring of spies is never really named … though anyone in the film’s audience at the time knew perfectly well that they were Nazis. In the end, with Foreign Correspondent, the director produced the pro-Britain statement he’d longed to make (Hitchcock was later able to fully and openly throw his support behind the Allied forces in the war by filming two French-language propaganda pictures, Bon Voyage and Aventure Malgache, as well as a documentary about the horrors of the Holocaust).
The More the Merrier (1943)
and The Devil and Miss Jones (1941)
Airing noon and 2PM EST
Jean Arthur has always been one of my favorite actresses. To look at her–and to listen to her–you might wonder how on earth this woman managed to succeed in Hollywood.
She’s lovely to look at, true, but at her peak, Arthur was well into her 30s (though she didn’t look it, did she?) and making top-grossing films in a town that, to this day, values youth over age and experience. She walked away from film soon after reaching the pinnacle of her career (only returning to the screen twice more in celebrated roles), reportedly because she suffered from such severe stage fright that, according to her frequent director Frank Capra, she would vomit between takes–an issue that likewise caused her to fervently avoid interviews. She became a virtual recluse after retiring from acting for good in the 1960s, though she would spend some of her later years as an acting teacher at Vassar (where one of her students was a young Meryl Streep). And, through it all, there was that voice–sometimes high-pitched, sometimes husky, a little smoky, the slightest bit squeaky–certainly a far cry from the homogenized vocal tones of many of her contemporaries. An odd voice, to be sure, but memorable above most others. This clip, from 1937′s Easy Living, highlights that quirky voice brilliantly.
It’s this essential quirkiness that makes Arthur such an enigma, and so fascinating a figure in the history of cinematic women. Unlike many of her more ambitious counterparts, it was almost as if Arthur had simply stumbled into the profession; as she stated herself in a rare 1971 interview, “I guess I became an actress because I didn’t want to be myself.” Thankfully, despite her apparent lack of cutthroat drive, she had the talent to thrive on the silver screen in every role she tackled. And while Arthur was a talented dramatic actress, to be sure (for evidence, just watch her turn as the cynical chief of staff in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington), with a nimble wit and impeccable timing, Arthur was an extraordinarily adept comedian.
Two of her most winning comedies are playing today on TCM, starting with 1943′s wartime comedy The More the Merrier.
In the second of three films for director George Stevens (the first being the previous year’s The Talk of the Town with Cary Grant; the third, Arthur’s final film, the classic 1953 Western Shane), Arthur plays Connie, a single woman looking for a roommate to share her apartment in the midst of the Washington housing shortage (a real problem in D.C. during World War II). The retired and wealthy Benjamin Dingle (Charles Coburn) finds himself without a place to stay and answers Connie’s ad; against her better judgment, Dingle convinces her to let him stay. When Dingle allows a young serviceman, Joe Carter, to move in and share his half of the apartment, Connie becomes angered but cannot ask them to leave as she has already spent Dingle’s rent money. The three share the apartment somewhat uncomfortably, but despite the fact that Connie is engaged to an uptight politician, she and Joe begin to fall in love, and an already complicated situation becomes ridiculously convoluted …
You can imagine that the Production Code had quite a bit to say about this film’s premise, what with two bachelors living in the same apartment with a young, unmarried woman. Still, any expression of disapproval on their part did not alter the film’s content, and the somewhat cheeky camera setup, in which the film viewer sees McCrea and Arthur sleeping in twin beds side-by-side, the thin wall between them barely visible on the screen, remains a sly wink at salaciousness.
[Side note: this film was remade in 1966 as Walk, Don't Run, which has the distinction of being Cary Grant's final film; still, the original is definitely superior.]
Arthur is hilarious as the put-upon Connie; her confusion and inability to argue the situation are played to great comic affect, and for someone who was 43 at the time the movie was filmed, she looks remarkably young and fresh. This film also marks Arthur’s only Oscar nomination, though she lost to Jennifer Jones (for The Song of Bernadette). McCrea is also typically wonderful as the stalwart young sergeant waiting to head to war. But Coburn steals the film as the meddlesome millionaire. As he enters a scene, yelling, “Damn the torpedos, full steam ahead!” you can’t help but laugh with delight. Deservedly, after a long career of memorable character roles in some amazing movies (including the next film discussed here), Coburn finally won an Oscar for Supporting Actor for this film.
Though Merrier marks perhaps their best-known collaboration, Arthur and Coburn had previously appeared in two other films together, and their agreeable affinity was evident from their first pairing, in 1941′s The Devil and Miss Jones.
In Devil, Arthur plays Mary Jones, a shoe clerk working for a store owned by John P. Merrick, the wealthiest man in the world. In an attempt to unmask employees who are secretly trying to organize a union, Merrick goes undercover in his own store and befriends Mary and her friend Elizabeth (Spring Byington). In the process, he is introduced to Mary’s boyfriend, Joe (Robert Cummings), who turns out to be the ringleader of the union movement (and who had previously hung Merrick in effigy in front of the store). His friendship with the three workers eventually opens Merrick’s eyes to the difficulties faced by the working class, but his new friendships–and his budding romance with Elizabeth–are threatened as he continues to conceal his true identity from them.
This film really is an ensemble piece; though Arthur and Coburn, the titular pair, are the centerpiece of the film, the supporting turns by Cummings (an underrated comedic actor) and Byington (a reliable character actress whose presence graced many a classic picture) are essential to the success of the movie’s premise. The quartet is enjoyable and capable, and the pairing of Coburn and Byington, particularly, is sweet (it also bears mentioning that the film features a supporting turn by my favorite character actor, “Cuddles” Sakall, as Coburn’s hapless butler). And the film’s deliciously arch humor is evident from the start, as the opening credits conclude with the plea: “Dear richest man in the world: We made up the character in the story out of own heads. It is nobody, really. The whole thing is make-believe. We’d feel awful if anyone was offended. Thank you, the Author, Director and Producer. P.S. Nobody sue. P.P.S. Please.”
If you’re looking for some laughs, with just a touch of romance, make sure you watch these great films today. The Devil and Miss Jones is unavailable on DVD, and The More the Merrier is still relatively expensive, so best to catch these while you can!
Oscar checklist:
The More the Merrier
Wins: Best Supporting Actor (Coburn)
Nominations: Best Actress (Arthur), Best Story, Best Screenplay, Best Director (Stevens), Best Picture
The Devil and Miss Jones
Nominations: Best Supporting Actor (Coburn), Best Screenplay
No film director in history had quite as deft a hand in crafting wild, outrageous comedy as Preston Sturges. The director also wrote and produced his own screenplays, in addition to dabbling in acting, songwriting, and playwriting, among other varied interests. A prototypical “Renaissance man,” Sturges brought a wide-ranging knowledge to his films, reflected in intelligent characterizations, sharp dialogue, and frenetic, furious comedic pacing.
The 2006 release of Preston Sturges: The Filmmaker Collection includes seven of the eight films Sturges wrote and directed within the five-year period of his greatest productivity as a filmmaker (1940-1944). The only title missing from the collection, 1944′s The Miracle of Morgan’s Creek, is sorely missed, if only for its witty, somewhat saucy storyline (a young woman awakens after a party to find herself pregnant and married to a soldier whose name she has forgotten–it’s truly a wonder that this film even made it past the Hays Code!). The film’s exclusion from the collection amounts simply to a matter of ownership: the film belongs to Paramount, not this collection’s distributor, Universal. Thankfully, however, Miracle is available as a stand-alone title on DVD, and is generally inexpensive through Amazon.
Despite the missing title, the films in this collection serve as a wonderful representation of Sturges’ zany plotting and incisive social commentary, and demonstrate the thread of connectedness that links much of Sturges’ work through recurring characters and the reappearance of many of the same actors in consecutive films. In fact, Sturges was one of the first directors to build a loosely-conglomerated “stock company” of actors, including William Demarest, Max Wagner, Robert Dudley, and Frank Moran (to name only a few), most of whom would appear in almost every film Sturges directed during this time period.
Beginning with 1940′s The Great McGinty (for which he won an Academy Award for best original screenplay) and Christmas in July, and continuing through 1944′s Hail the Conquering Hero and The Great Moment, the movies presented here all have their respective charms. Allow me, however, to introduce to you the three highlights from the collection: 1941′s The Lady Eve and Sullivan’s Travels, and 1942′s The Palm Beach Story.
Though Sturges had been writing films since 1933 (beginning with The Power and the Glory), he was not given the opportunity to direct his own work until 1940, after the success of his last screenplay for Paramount, that year’s Christmas classic Remember the Night (reviewed here). Sturges first met Barbara Stanwyck while working on Night, and he immediately recognized her innate comedic talent. As Axel Madsen reports in his posthumous biography of the star, Stanwyck, the actress declared: “One day he said to me, ‘Someday I’m going to write a real screwball comedy for you.’ Remember the Night was a delightful comedy … but hardly a screwball, and I replied that nobody would ever think of writing anything like that for me … But he said, ‘You just wait.’”
True to his word, Sturges presented Stanwyck with the script for The Lady Eve one year later, and she signed on to do the film opposite leading man Henry Fonda. The film also features the inimitable character actor Charles Coburn as Stanwyck’s father, Eric Blore as Stanwyck’s “uncle,” and Demarest as Fonda’s suspicious caretaker/valet. Stanwyck plays Jean Harrington, a cardsharp who, with her father, the “Colonel,” cheats passengers on ocean cruises out of their money at the card table. When Jean meets a young snake expert and ale company heir (whom she nicknames “Hopsie”), her initial disdain quickly gives way to love. But when the naive Hopsie discovers the truth about Jean and her father, he spurns her, and she concocts an outrageous plan for revenge. Posing as the British Lady Eve Sidwich, Jean entices the confused but smitten millionaire into marriage, and delights in exacting her vengeance in a most creative way …
"See anything you like?"
Stanwyck plays Jean/Eve with a sly abandon, and her riffing monologue on Fonda’s hapless Hopsie, delivered as she gazes at him surreptitiously through her compact mirror, is one of the many highlights of the film. Fonda plays the bumbling, inexperienced young lover to perfection, and the supporting cast revels in the chaotic plot. The Lady Eve is, arguably, Sturges’ sexiest film, from the sharp, witty banter (barely disguising an unbridled sensuality) to the undeniable chemistry between its stars. It’s also likely Sturges’ best-crafted film: brilliantly directed, acted, written, and produced, and the cinematography can’t be beat–Stanwyck has never looked so luminous on film.
Eve was quickly followed in theaters by Sullivan’s Travels (actually produced in 1941 prior to Eve, but not premiering until January 1942), starring Joel McCrea as an idealistic director and Veronica Lake as his aspiring actress sidekick (who is not given a name in the script and is only referred to as “the girl” in the film). Lake was not the original choice for the role; Sturges initially wanted Stanwyck to star for him again, but she was unavailable. The role became one of Lake’s best-known (though rumor maintains that the director and cast, particularly McCrea, were less than fond of the temperamental starlet), and Travels provided Lake one of the few roles in which she could escape the “glamor girl” typecasting that hounded her career (reportedly contributing to her de-glamorization, Lake was six months pregnant during filming, which forced famed costume designer Edith Head to create a somewhat unsexy wardrobe–complete with hobo costume–that was baggy enough to conceal Lake’s condition). In addition to the two stars, Demarest and Blore also appear in this film, along with other members of the Sturges troop (Dudley and Moran among them). But the movie truly belongs to McCrea, and he gives one of his most effective film performances as John L. Sullivan, a comedy director anxious to produce a serious drama about the plight of the poor during the Great Depression (the proposed title of Sullivan’s opus, O Brother, Where Art Thou? would later be borrowed by the Coen brothers for their 2000 film of the same name starring George Clooney).
"I liked you better as a bum."
As Sullivan states, he wants his film to transcend the “silliness” of the romantic comedies and farces he had always directed: “I want this picture to be a document. I want to hold a mirror up to life. I want this to be a picture of dignity! A true canvas of the suffering of humanity!” Yet, as Sullivan travels around the country (disguised as a hobo, yet followed by a caravan of studio publicity) and experiences the life of a destitute man, he discovers that there are, perhaps, more important responsibilities for the filmmaker other than recording the “suffering of humanity.” Indeed, the movie’s initial dedication, shown as the film opens, seems to sum up Sturges’ ultimate point: “To the memory of those who made us laugh: the motley mountebanks, the clowns, the buffoons, in all times and in all nations, whose efforts have lightened our burden a little, this picture is affectionately dedicated.” Indeed, if the film shows its audience one thing, it is that there is sometimes nothing more healing, more inspirational, more valuable, than a damn good laugh.
The follow-up to Travels, 1942′s The Palm Beach Story, provides those damn good laughs in spades. Sturges takes the genre of screwball comedy to dizzying heights, and the film remains his most hilarious … and his most confusing, if one looks too directly at that crazy opening sequence (the significance of which film critics debate even to this day). The film stars McCrea as Tom Jeffers, a failing inventor, and Claudette Colbert as his wife, Gerry, who does what she can to force him to succeed despite himself. The film also features Dudley in the most well-known (and most side-splitting) of his roles for Sturges: the Wienie King (yes, you read that right), a “fairy godfather” figure who helps the couple throughout the film.
"You have no idea what a long-legged woman can do without doing anything."
When Gerry decides to leave her husband and marry a rich man who will finance Tom’s invention (which, adding to the hysteria, is an improbably-suspended airport that would float above a city), she hops a train to Palm Beach in order to obtain a quickie divorce. On the way, she meets John D. Hackensacker III (played by actor/singer Rudy Vallee), one of the richest men in the world, who falls for Gerry after hearing the story of her “brutish” soon-to-be ex. Upon reaching Palm Beach, Tom turns up and tries to convince Gerry to come back, but she introduces him to Hackensacker as her brother, at which point Hackensacker’s flighty sister, the Princess Centimillia (played by a hard-working Mary Astor), falls for Tom. And that’s only the beginning of an insane climax to an already screwy film. Pay close attention to this one; it’s a twisting ride, and you might miss something vital to the relatively intricate plot!
All in all, this is a great collection, though seriously lacking in extras. A documentary on Sturges, or some kind of retrospective or commentary, would be welcome, particularly as Sturges makes such an interesting subject. Still, the films themselves stand alone as well-written, beautifully-crafted examples of what made Sturges so effective a writer/director. The name “Sturges” is (deservedly) synonymous with “comedy,” and one need only watch the films in this collection to understand why.
Preston Sturges: The Filmmaker Collection is available on DVD at Amazon and TCM (though it’s currently almost half-off at Amazon!).
Upcoming TCM airings:
Christmas in July, December 24th, 9:45PM The Miracle of Morgan’s Creek, December 29th, 12PM The Lady Eve, February 14th, 4PM Hail the Conquering Hero, February 25th, 6PM
