Living the American dream with Mr. Blandings.

Posted on August 2, 2012 by Brandie under blogathon, classic pairings, hahas, summer under the stars

“It’s a conspiracy, I tell you. The minute you start, they put you on the all-American sucker list. You start out to build a home and wind up in the poorhouse. And if it can happen to me, what about the guys who aren’t making $15,000 a year? The ones who want a home of their own. It’s a conspiracy, I tell you–against every boy and girl who were ever in love.”

In the wake of World War II, the great migration from cities to suburbs began in earnest as weary urban dwellers sought to escape the rigors of overcrowding and increasing rent in favor of owning their own homes. Mortgages were affordable and relatively easy to obtain–particularly for veterans–and in the decade following the war, the rate of home ownership in the United States increased by more than twenty percent. More than ever, owning a home was considered an integral part of the American dream, and it was the goal of many an American middle-class household.

Of course, the dream and the reality are often in stark contrast to one another, and many new homeowners were unprepared for the issues–monetary, physical, psychological–associated with holding full responsibility for one’s domicile. This quickly-dashed idealism is the center of Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House (1948), which not only gives us a comedic look at the problems associated with building one’s own “nest,” but also gently satirizes the supposed idylls of home ownership.

Cary Grant stars as the titular Mr. Jim Blandings, an advertising man who lives with his wife, Muriel (Myrna Loy) and their two daughters, Betsy (Connie Marshall) and Joan (Sharyn Moffett) in a tiny New York apartment. Tired of living in such cramped quarters (and discovering that his wife has been talking to an expensive interior designer on the sly), Jim decides–almost on a whim–to move the family to the country (i.e. Connecticut). Jim and Muriel get suckered into buying a dilapidated old farm house for more than its worth, only to later be informed by their friend and lawyer, Bill Cole (Melvyn Douglas), that they have been bamboozled. But the Blandings have fallen in love with the idea of the place and proceed with the deal, against any and all advice.

As it turns out, the house is unsound and must be demolished and rebuilt from the ground up. The Blandings hire Henry Sims (Reginald Denny), an architect, to design a new home, and construction proceeds. But there are problems from the get-go, from incompetent workmen to issues with the land–not to mention the ever-increasing costs of the project. Compounded with problems at work and his growing jealousy over the “relationship” between his wife and his best friend, Jim finds his life quickly spiraling out of control. Can he survive the building of his dream home with his family, job, and sanity intact?

The opening scenes of the film–laid over Douglas’ wry narration–underscore the central conflict of the film between the bustling city and the calmer country. Bill Cole’s voice-over describes the city in flattering, incongruous terms (a crowded lunch counter becomes a “quaint little sidewalk cafe”) that humorously set up the difference between the current locale and the more rural one to come. For its part, Manhattan is a claustrophobic wonderland, overflowing with millions of people, pushing, shoving, struggling just to move through the streets. That conflict is recreated in miniature inside the cramped Blandings apartment: Jim’s search through the minuscule bedroom closet for his robe; fighting with his daughters for access to the bathroom; maneuvering around Muriel to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror while shaving (or resignedly wiping the steam from the mirror while she showers); inching around close-set tables and furniture in a long-established, intricate ballet of restricted movement.

And yet the solution to these problems–the spacious countryside, the big house with two closets and a bathroom for every member of the family (aren’t they living in a dream world?)–is not quite the idyllic conclusion the Blandings expected. The people in the supposedly more “civilized” country are potentially just as crooked as their city-folk counterparts (the shady real estate agent being a prime example), and the problems of overcrowding are replaced by the mounting expenses and inconveniences of living so far outside of the city. Though the movie ultimately finds its happy ending, with the Blandings comfortably ensconced in their new “dream home,” the costs of getting there, it seems, are discouraging and troublesome.

Grant and Loy starred in three films together, and Mr. Blandings marks the last of these. In many ways, it is also their best. As a domestic couple, they are a charming pair, beautiful, witty, and appealing. Grant is such a “dad”–he wanders around the apartment, seemingly in every female’s way, weighing himself on the bathroom scale with a rueful pat of his (nonexistent) gut and singing off-key in the shower. He’s not even able to enjoy bathroom time to himself in the morning without Muriel coming in. Still, Jim–at least initially–is unfazed by the seeming disorder and chaos that mark his domestic life; he simply sighs and squeezes the tube of toothpaste back into proper form without a word, like any beleaguered father (his performance, especially in the opening scenes, bring a myriad of hapless paternal figures from any number of sitcoms to mind).

While Grant’s befuddled and increasingly frustrated Jim is undeniably the centerpiece of the film, Loy more than matches him quip for quip. Muriel is determined to have the house of her dreams, and spends most of her time concerned about the color schemes and decorative elements of the house than her husband’s growing irritation at the ever-ballooning budget, leading to priceless exchanges like this one:

Muriel: “I refuse to endanger the lives of my children in a house with less than four bathrooms.”
Jim: “For thirteen hundred dollars, they can live in a house with three bathrooms and rough it.”

Loy doesn’t look old enough to have teenage daughters in this film, even though in reality she was forty-three when it was released. The movie came in the wake of a four-year break from Hollywood that Loy had taken during the war, when she allied herself with the Red Cross and undertook several tours to sell war bonds and raise money for the military effort. When she finally returned to the screen, she found perhaps her greatest role starring opposite Fredric March in the phenomenal post-war drama The Best Years of Our Lives (1946). The subsequent years had found her as successful as ever, with the release of the final Thin Man movie, Song of the Thin Man (1947), and her second pairing with Grant, as Shirley Temple’s older sister in The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer (1947), both cleaning up at the box office. The late 40s marked the peak of her career, however, as she took on fewer film roles in the following decades.

A warm and genuinely funny comedy marked by excellent performances from its lead trio (not to mention great supporting turns from Denny and Louise Beavers as the family maid, Gussie), Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House is simply a must-see.

This post is an entry in the “2012 TCM SUTS Blogathon” hosted by Sittin’ on a Backyard Fence and ScribeHard on Film. Make sure to check out all of the Myrna Loy-centric entries from today, and more stars throughout the month!

Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House airs at 6PM EST today on TCM.

“She may be his wife, but she’s engaged to me!”

Posted on March 3, 2011 by Brandie under blogathon, screwball legends

In the mid-1930s, the screwball comedy was still a relatively new subgenre of film. Many critics label It Happened One Night, released in 1934, as the first “screwball” picture ever produced, and subsequent films such as Twentieth Century (also 1934) and Hands Across the Table (1935) built upon the elements that would become typical tropes of the screwball picture: daffy dames, class warfare, rapid-fire zingers, and a never-ending battle of the sexes.

But the genre really came into its own in 1936 with the release of Libeled Lady. Combining elements of farce, romance, social commentary, and slapstick, Lady is a veritable treasure trove of hilarity, delivered by one of the most talented comedic quartets to ever grace the screen.

Warren Haggerty (Spencer Tracy), the editor of the New York newspaper the Evening Star, mistakenly runs an unsubstantiated (and ultimately untrue) story accusing heiress Connie Allenbury (Myrna Loy) of being a homewrecker. Connie and her father, J.B. (Walter Connolly), declare their intention to sue the paper for libel to the tune of five million dollars. Warren tracks down former employee Bill Chandler (William Powell) and convinces him to help force the Allenburys to drop the lawsuit. Bill’s plan is to marry a woman–in name only–and then trap Connie into “breaking up” the marriage so that she will have no choice but to forgo the lawsuit against the paper. Warren offers up his own fiancé, Gladys (Jean Harlow), who has grown increasingly tired of Warren’s repeated delays in marrying her. She agrees to the scheme on the promise that Warren will finally make Gladys his wife once it’s over. But Bill doesn’t count on actually falling in love with Connie … and no one counts on Gladys deciding that marriage to Bill is infinitely more enticing than marrying the reluctant Warren …

By all accounts, the making of this film was nothing less than sheer pleasure for its four main stars, who shared a great friendship and camaraderie that shines on and off the screen. Each actor plays off the others beautifully–it’s truly an ensemble, in the best sense of the word.

As the male leads, Tracy and Powell are dynamite, sparring with their female partners in an increasingly frenetic pas de deux. Loy matches them step for step, and Connolly gives a typically wonderful performance as Loy’s put-upon father. But if I had to name the true “star” of the film, it would be Jean Harlow, hands down. She certainly got some of the best quips in the film, at any rate:

Warren: “Gladys, do you want me to kill myself?”
Gladys: “Did you change your insurance?”

I think Libeled Lady is the film where Harlow’s comedic talents finally gelled into something damn near close to perfect. She had always exhibited an instinctive comic ability in her roles, even from the earliest days of her career, when she was a contract player at the Hal Roach Studios. After MGM acquired her contract from millionaire producer Howard Hughes in 1932, Harlow reached superstar status in the wake of sex-bomb roles in pre-Code potboilers like 1932′s Red-Headed Woman and Red Dust–characters that were equal parts smolder and smart-ass. These parts were followed by more mainstream comedic roles in films such as Dinner at Eight and Bombshell (both in 1933), movies that showcased, in part, the depths of her hilarity.

But Harlow, who often felt typecast in the role of a wisecracking sexpot, reportedly sought to cultivate a less sexualized air on-screen. She attempted to move in a more refined direction with some of her later films, including Suzy and Wife vs. Secretary (both 1936), which muted the brassier tones of her past shtick into something a bit more dignified (at least in comparison).

Libeled Lady represented a sort of “return to form” for Harlow, presenting the actress with a practically custom-made role that combined her innate sexiness with the kind of rapid-fire, quick-witted dialogue at which she excelled at delivering. And this did not go unnoticed by critics. New York Times film reviewer Frank S. Nugent, in his 1936 review of the movie, expressed his thanks to the studio for Harlow’s return to her forte, writing:

“[W]e are so pathetically grateful to Metro for restoring Miss Harlow to her proper metier that we could have forgiven even more serious lapses” than the “slackening of pace toward the picture’s conclusion.”

Indeed, throughout the movie Harlow shines brightest of all, and her performance as Gladys is the one that draws your eye every second she is on the screen, from the moment she storms into the newsroom–in full wedding regalia–to claim her absent groom …

… up through the film’s conclusion, when Gladys finally decides that Warren is the right man for her, despite his predilection for newsprint. In every scene, Harlow makes you laugh even while you marvel at her sexy swagger (and even when she’s undergoing the torture treatment known as a permanent, you can’t help but envy that gorgeous mug of hers).

Not for nothing is Jean Harlow still remembered as one of the most beautiful women to ever grace filmdom.

The movie marked a personal milestone in Harlow’s life–it was during the shooting of Libeled Lady that she formally changed her name from Harlean Carpenter to Jean Harlow. The film also gave Harlow the opportunity to work with her real-life love, William Powell, in the second of their two films together (after the previous year’s Reckless). Though she seems like a perfect fit for the role of Gladys, Harlow initially expressed interest in playing Connie because she wanted her character to end up with Powell’s in the end. The studio, however, wanted to cash in on the public’s love for the on-screen team of Powell and Loy, which had come to such great fruition two years earlier in the first Thin Man film. Still, as Gladys, Harlow got to play a wedding scene with her man, fulfilling (at least cinematically) her desire to become Mrs. William Powell. Sadly, that union never materialized in reality before Harlow’s untimely death the following year.

Jean Harlow was so beloved as a brash, sexy comedienne that, had she lived beyond the age of 26, she may very well have found herself typecast in those sorts of roles for the remainder of her career. But would that have been such a bad thing, in the end? Could she have made the transition from ingenue roles to more “adult” fare with aplomb, or would she have found it difficult to maintain her position as one of the brightest stars in the cinematic sky? It’s a futile exercise to play the ”what if” game, but it’s nonetheless interesting to consider where Harlow’s career may have taken her if circumstances had been different.

Happy one hundredth birthday, Baby.

This post is our contribution to the Jean Harlow Blogathon, sponsored by the Kitty Packard Pictorial in honor of Harlow’s centenary. To see more entries in the blogathon, check out the Pictorial. And for more information about Harlow’s years in Hollywood, pick up a copy of the new biography Harlow in Hollywood: The Blonde Bombshell in the Glamour Capital, 1928-1937, by Darrell Rooney and Mark A. Vieira.

Classic couture.

Posted on October 8, 2010 by Brandie under classic couture

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Homina.

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

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

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

Anyway …

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

“Ready boot, let’s scoot!”

Posted on February 9, 2010 by Brandie under 3-star films, 31 days of oscar, brandie's faves, hahas, screwball legends

The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer (1947)

Airing 6:00PM EST

Some of the first classic films I ever saw were the old Shirley Temple flicks from the 1930s, when the curly-headed moppet conquered Hollywood and the hearts of millions to become one of the first true cinematic superstars. I loved the innocent, precocious youngsters Temple excelled at portraying. I loved the song-and-dance numbers. I wanted to be a Broadway baby. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t sing a note, or that the extent of my dancing experience was performing the robot at the sixth-grade dance. Shirley could sing, and she could dance, and I adored her cute and frothy films.

I still hold a particular fondness for some of those films, though it’s difficult to watch and enjoy them now, when the passage of time–and the toils of growing up–have really revealed the cloying sentimentality that drives them. And it’s somewhat sad to reflect that the same curly-headed moppet who so captured the spirit of an economically-Depressed America could not translate the success of her younger years into a viable adult acting career.

The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer is one of the handful of “grown-up” films which Temple made in the 1940s before her self-imposed retirement from the big screen, and along with 1944′s Since You Went Away, the best of them. Temple stars as a teenage girl, Susan, being raised by her older sister Margaret, a judge (Myrna Loy). When artist Richard Nugent (Cary Grant) visits Susan’s high school to deliver a lecture, the young girl develops a crush on him, and Margaret (who had previously dealt with Richard in her court for fighting in a nightclub) forces Richard to date the girl, hoping Susan will grow disillusioned with the older man. But it’s Margaret who, against her better judgment, finds herself falling for the charming bachelor.

The film is based on a screenplay by first-time Hollywood screenwriter Sidney Sheldon, who would later win the Academy Award for Best Screenplay for this script, surprising many critics who saw this film as nothing more than enjoyable fluff. Sheldon would later go on to create, produce, and write for the television hits The Patty Duke Show and I Dream of Jeannie, but it was a string of pulpy, salacious, wildly plotted novels that would bring Sheldon the most notoriety in his later years. The sly, winking hints of salaciousness Bobby-Soxer are nothing compared to Sheldon’s novels, where in any given story one might find rape, torture, incest, adultery, and murder … and that’s only in the first half of the book (yes, I’ve read several, and they are mindless fun–and as with many authors, the earliest titles are the best. I use the term “best” loosely).

The cast does a wonderful job of keeping the zaniness believable and watchable. The chemistry between Loy and Grant is particularly winning, and would later lead to their pairing in the following year’s Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House. Temple more than holds her own with her older counterparts, and the supporting cast is rounded out by singer Rudy Vallee as District Attorney (and Margaret’s beau) Tommy Chamberlain, Harry Davenport (Gone With the Wind’s Dr. Meade) as the girls’ great-uncle, and Ray Collins (one of Orson Welles’ Mercury Theater troops) as Dr. Matt Beemish, the psychiatrist who initially suggests the Richard-and-Susan “relationship” experiment. But the film hinges on Grant’s performance as the sophisticated, yet ultimately hapless, bachelor, and he carries the film with aplomb.

Grant’s beginning to look older here, more distinguished and less boyishly handsome than his previous films. And it’s easy to see why Susan’s affections gravitate towards him. C’mon: it’s Cary-effing-Grant. Even at the ripe old age (ha!) of 43, he’s lost none of the robust physicality that marks some of his greatest screwball performances (Holiday, Bringing Up Baby, Arsenic and Old Lace). Check out the scenes in which Richard enters the novelty races at the urging of Susan (and the competitive ire of Chamberlain):

Side note: my fellow born-and-bred 80s kids will recognize the “Hoodoo” shtick from Bobby-Soxer:

“You remind me of the man.”
“What man?”
“The man with the power.”
“What power?”
“The power of hoodoo.”
“Hoodoo?”
“You do.”
“Do what?”
“Remind me of the man.”
“What man …?”

In the 1986 film Labyrinth, David Bowie borrows this refrain for one of the songs on the movie’s soundtrack.

Catch this one if you can; it’s worth more than a few laughs! And if you miss it, there’s always DVD. It’s also airing again on March 9th at 4PM EST.

Oscar checklist:

Won: Best Screenplay

“I’m way behind in my drinking.”

Posted on February 2, 2010 by Brandie under 31 days of oscar, 4-star films, brandie's faves, classic pairings, daily recommendation

The Thin Man (1934)

Airing at 8PM EST

The first in a series of six films, The Thin Man is a charming, witty comedy about a not-so-retired detective, his glamorous, wealthy wife, and their adorable wire-haired terrier, Asta. Nick and Nora Charles spend their days drinking and carousing with their circle of dilettantes, but when one of his friends disappears, he is drawn deeper and deeper into the investigation, much to the delight of his curious wife. The story is based on Dashiell Hammett’s eponymous final novel, and the characters of Nick and Nora are said to have been modeled on Hammett and his longtime love, playwright Lillian Hellman (The Little Foxes).

Myrna Loy and William Powell, both of whom spent their early careers being typecast as villains and vamps, light up the screen in one of those indefinably perfect cinema pairings. Their chemistry crackles, and each demonstrates a flair for comedy that would forever change the trajectory of each of their careers, pushing both of them into more sophisticated leading roles.

The details of Nick’s case in this movie are unimportant. The attraction of this film–in fact, of the entire series–lies in the clever, rapid-fire dialogue, particularly the exchanges between husband and wife. Nick and Nora’s repartee, filled with double entendre and sly observation, elevates the material far above the “B” status to which its relatively standard murder-mystery plot belongs:

Nick: I’m a hero. I was shot twice in the Tribune.
Nora: I read where you were shot 5 times in the tabloids.
Nick: It’s not true. He didn’t come anywhere near my tabloids.

And though these two clearly love one another, there’s (thankfully) little sentimentality in the script.

Nora: Take care of yourself.
Nick: Why, sure I will.
Nora: Don’t say it like that! Say it as if you meant it!
Nick: Well, I do believe the little woman cares.
Nora: I don’t care! It’s just that I’m used to you, that’s all.

This is not a typical married couple, as evidenced by this exchange. Nora does not defer to her husband; he instead defers to her, and by virtue of her wealth, she is the de facto head of the household. But Nick does not begrudge her this position. There is no macho posturing to prove his virility; he goes out of his way to try to avoid being sucked back into detective work, and only does so because Nora’s insatiable curiosity about his previous life as a detective badgers him into it. And though Nick indulges in alcohol unrepentantly, Nora matches him at the bar, step for step, hangover for hangover.

It’s a refreshing examination of couplehood, and one of the first cinematic examples I can recall of a marriage that works more as a partnership than a relationship of subservience.

Most importantly, The Thin Man is among the first crop of screwball comedy films that would come to define Hollywood hilarity in the ensuing decade. Though its madcap antics are somewhat more subtle than fellow forebearer It Happened One Night (1934), the mix of slapstick, frantic dialogue, and unconventional marital relations would be repeated in many subsequent films in the genre, among them Libeled Lady (1936) and The Awful Truth (1937).

Though the sequels have some merit, this initial film in the series remains the most entertaining of all. The Thin Man collection has been on DVD for several years now (and has been on my wish list for just about as long), but it is a mite pricey still. But these films pop up on TCM regularly, so keep your eyes peeled for future showings.