Tag Archives: olivia de havilland

He’d ne’er leave the girl with the strawberry curls.

Posted on by under blogathon, summer under the stars

Biff Grimes (James Cagney) is an ex-con living in turn-of-the-century New York City who has not found much success in his post-prison career as a dentist. One Sunday afternoon, while preparing to go for a walk with his wife, Amy (Olivia de Havilland), Biff gets a call from the president of the local bank: one of his guests, Alderman Hugo Barnstead (Jack Carson) needs a tooth pulled. Biff immediately recognizes Barnstead’s name as the man whose schemes put Biff in prison, and as he plots his revenge, the film flashes back a decade to reveal their shared history.

In the past, Biff and Hugo are longtime friends–Biff takes correspondence courses to become a dentist, while Hugo has various shady business dealings that keep him flush. One day, Hugo and Biff encounter a beautiful strawberry blonde, Virginia (Rita Hayworth), and Hugo pursues her while Biff watches resignedly. Hugo and Virginia make plans to “accidentally” encounter one another at the park that evening, and when Virginia says she is bringing along a friend, Amy, Hugo tricks Biff into going along on the double date. Though Hugo gives his “word of honor” that he will let Biff “have” Virginia, he goes back on his word and sticks Biff with Amy, a suffragette whose brash behavior and beliefs about women’s equality horrify Biff.

Biff and Hugo invite the girls to go on a boat ride and picnic, but the boat has been oversold and Biff and Virginia cannot get on the boat. The two of them spend the day together, doing an entire, expensive itinerary of things that Virginia wants to do–a visit to the zoo, dinner, dancing, a carriage ride. Biff adores Virginia and begs for another date, but finding that she is a very popular companion, he can only get her to commit to a date three weeks later. But on the day of their date, Amy shows up instead, and Biff learns that Hugo and Virginia had eloped that afternoon.

The film flashes forward a couple of years–Amy and Biff are married, and Biff is one month away from completing his dental studies. Biff runs into Virginia on the street, and when he reveals that he and Amy are married, Virginia invites them to dinner the following night. Virginia and Hugo are unhappily married, sniping at one another, and Hugo’s irritated at Virginia’s continued interest in Biff. When she urges him to give Biff a job at his contracting firm, Hugo agrees that his “non-too-bright” friend would make a good vice president for his firm. But six months later, Biff has done nothing but sign papers, and it soon becomes clear that Hugo has set him up to take the fall for his misdeeds–when a building collapses (killing Biff’s father in the process), it is revealed that Hugo has been using sub-par materials, and Biff is left holding the bag. He asks Amy to wait for him as he’s arrested and sentenced to five years in prison. In the meantime, he finishes his dental correspondence course and earns his diploma–setting up the film’s return to the “present,” as Biff finally gets the chance for vengeance …

Thanks to the combined efforts of director Raoul Walsh, production designer Robert Haas, cinematographer James Wong Howe, Heinz Roemheld’s score (utilizing popular tunes from the era), the lavish costumes of Orry-Kelly–hell, the whole damn cast and crew–The Strawberry Blonde (1941) lovingly recreates late 19th/early 20th century New York City. It’s a charming and nostalgic film, wistfully remembering a time that seems so long ago–even though the film was made only a few decades after its setting, it might as well be a different world altogether. Blonde is a hard film to classify: not entirely dramatic, not entirely comedic, sprinkled with music, with a bit of dirty dealings thrown in for good measure. And yet the competing genres at work here ultimately blend together seamlessly, due in large part to a well-crafted script from screenwriting siblings Julius and Philip Epstein (the Oscar-winning pair responsible for memorable classics such as 1942′s Casablanca, among many, many others). The Epsteins based the screenplay on James Hagan’s 1933 Broadway play One Sunday Afternoon, which had previously been adapted as the 1933 pre-Code film of the same name. This version, with Gary Cooper in the Cagney role and Fay Wray as Virginia, was an utter disaster at the box office. Knowing this, Cagney was initially reluctant to star in Walsh’s remake, but when the Epsteins reworked the story, deliberately tailoring the script to Cagney’s strengths, the actor eventually came on board.

Biff is a hot-headed Irish banty rooster, quick to throw up his fists and unwilling to back down from a fight. He’s also a horrible combatant who ends up with more black eyes than victories. The character is a definite “type,” but Cagney imbues Biff with enough humor and heart to offset the stereotype–he doesn’t fight simply for the sake of fighting, but generally enters confrontations in defense of someone or something (his father, Virginia’s honor). Biff is not a “violent” character–Cagney portrays him as rash and impulse-driven, but heartfelt in his intentions. And even though he ends up in the worst of circumstances–taken advantage of by his former pal, inadvertently losing his father to Hugo’s machinations–Biff is never a figure of pity; the audience has no doubt that he will overcome his heartbreak and troubles in the end.

For all that Cagney is the main focus of The Strawberry Blonde, de Havilland gets the meatier role. As the unapologetic suffragette and crusader for women’s rights, de Havilland is the source of some of the best moments of the film. Amy talks a big game about being a “loose” woman, but when Biff calls her bluff, she is terrified and bursts into tears. She’s a steadying force, anchoring Biff and providing an unobtrusively moral center for the action. At the same time, Amy’s the most entertaining character of the bunch. One of the highlights of the movie is the laugh-out-loud double-date scene–Amy and Biff, stuck together while Hugo and Virginia engage in a clutch, reluctantly engage in conversation, and Amy proceeds to shock Biff by claiming that a woman doesn’t need marriage to enjoy the benefits of a home and children. De Havilland’s body language speaks louder than her dialogue here–she stands nonchalantly, hands behind her back and swaying forwards and back as she speaks, finishing her offhanded diatribe with a wink that has an outraged Cagney reeling back as if she’s struck him. It’s a moment of sheer, hilarious brilliance that really demonstrates de Havilland’s sometimes underrated comedic ability.

The two female leads are modeled as foils for one another, with Amy’s directness bothering Virginia just as much as Virginia’s hypocrisy bothers Amy (though, admittedly, Amy is just as much a hypocrite in her own way). Virginia insists upon maintaining the facade of respectability, excusing her behavior through niceties. And though Virginia looks upon Amy’s forthrightness as “unseemly,” Amy is the more “virtuous” of the two by far. That virtue, however, does not make Amy an unbearable character (as so many virtuous onscreen ladies are); she is a fascinatingly deep character, in stark contrast to Virginia’s shallow nature.

While de Havilland is undoubtedly given more to do in the film, Hayworth’s only job, it seems, is to look pretty and act enticing–not what you might call a “difficult” task for the starlet, at least based on her screen persona. Hayworth is the title character, and yet at this still relatively early stage in her career, she was third-billed behind Cagney and de Havilland. Though Hayworth had been appearing in films for more than a decade–first under her birth name, Rita Cansino, and then under her new “non-ethnic” moniker–she had never really broken through as a full-fledged star. A supporting role in 1939′s Only Angels Have Wings gave Hayworth’s career a boost, but it wasn’t until Columbia loaned her to Warner Bros. for The Strawberry Blonde (after the studio’s own Ann Sheridan refused to star) that Hayworth finally “arrived.” Audiences and critics alike were enamored with Hayworth in this film, with Variety labeling her “an eyeful,” and notoriously fussy New York Times critic Bosley Crowther, who lauded the film as “lusty, affectionate, and altogether winning,” singled out Hayworth’s turn as the “classic ‘flirt’” for a mention.

Still, there is more to Virginia than just being the flirt. It takes brains and talent to convincingly portray vapidness without delving into caricature, and Hayworth is more than up to the task. Virginia has some of the most cringe-worthy lines in the film–for instance, when Amy tries to talk to her about gender equality, Virginia sticks her nose in the air and snaps, “I refuse to listen to advanced ideas.” But there is no mistaking Hayworth’s ability in presenting Virginia, whose behavior easily invites the audience’s dislike, as an appealing (if ultimately unsympathetic) character.

The movie is helped greatly by a talented supporting cast featuring some very familiar faces. Jack Carson is slimy perfection as the devious Hugo. For someone used to Carson’s more genial comedic roles (generally opposite buddy Dennis Morgan, who, interestingly enough, would later star in yet another remake of this story directed by Walsh, 1948′s One Sunday Afternoon), his turn here might seem disconcerting. But one need only look at Carson’s performance in Mildred Pierce (1945) to see that playing the schemer was not entirely out of his wheelhouse. Character actor George Tobias pops up in yet another stereotypical Greek role as Biff’s buddy, Nick; Blonde marks the second of several films in which Tobias would co-star with Cagney (after 1940′s Torrid Zone). Other notable supporting roles are filled by Alan Hale as Biff’s drunken father; future Superman George Reeves as a belligerent college boy who raises Biff’s ire in the “present-day” scenes; and the ever-delightful Una O’Connor as the sharp-tongued neighborhood busybody, Mrs. Mulcahey.

The Strawberry Blonde may not be as well-known as other films featuring its three big names, but it is enjoyable nonetheless, filled with charm and humor, strong performances, and a truly entertaining story. It is, in a simple word, delightful.

 

This post is an entry in the 2012 TCM SUTS Blogathon hosted by Sittin’ on a Backyard Fence and ScribeHard on Film. For more information and to view other entries throughout the month, check out their sites or follow the blogathon on Twitter. 

The Strawberry Blonde airs this afternoon at 6PM EST on TCM.

There were never such devoted sisters.

Posted on by under biopics, blogathon, guilty pleasures, historical accuracy is for pbs

Do I contradict myself?
Very well, then, I contradict myself;
(I am large—I contain multitudes.)  –Walt Whitman

As regular readers can no doubt tell (and first-time visitors can likely glean from the quote above), I’m a lit nerd. I *heart* literature–the good, the bad, the trashy (hello, Harlequin romance) … I love it all (well, with the exception of Robinson Crusoe. Nothing can make me love that book. Blech). And I particularly enjoy seeing some of my favorites make their way onto the big screen.

In most cases of book-to-film adaptation, I am, admittedly, a literary purist. Wide-ranging changes to an author’s work for cinematic purposes tend to raise my blood pressure. And in many cases, I feel this is justified. When you invest part of yourself in a work of literature–fully adopting the mantle of “fan” (or, in the case of the Harry Potter series and yours truly, “rabid fan”)–there is a certain expectation that filmmakers will respect the author’s original vision and only make those alterations that are deemed necessary in the face of some visual limitation, time constraint, or (God forbid) gigantic hole in the plot or characterization.

Yet I contradict this attitude more often than I would perhaps be willing to admit. Sometimes, changing an author’s original intent can be a good thing. Pointing once again to the Harry Potter phenomenon, I feel the filmmakers did an excellent job, in general, of culling down the minutia of J.K. Rowling’s literary universe and presenting the spirit of the books on the big screen (I say “in general” here because I really disliked some of the changes made for the sixth film, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. But that’s another topic for another blog). Did the movies precisely follow the model of the books? No. But did they present Rowling’s work in a visually appealing, entertaining manner that demonstrated a great respect for said books? Most definitely.

The same theory can, in principle, be applied to films that play with historical events. Sometimes, it’s difficult for me to put aside what I know of history and watch a movie through the “alternate timeline” lens–for instance, I had a particular problem with this in watching 2009′s Inglorious Basterds (the grammarian in me also took issue with the misspelled title, despite Quentin Tarantino’s attempted justifications. Hey, spelling is important, y’all). I tried–I honestly tried–to remember that I was watching a film that is set in a completely different universe. But I could not lose myself in the movie, because history lessons of the past continued to pound at my brain as I watched Adolf Hitler bite it in a movie theater, a full year before his actual death in a German bunker.

Somehow, though, I don’t really have a problem with most of the extreme liberties taken by 1946′s Devotion, a fictionalized version of the life of the Brontë sisters. And when I say “fictionalized,” I mean that practically the only thing the characters in this film have in common with the literary sisters is their shared names. So why doesn’t this bother me as much as Tarantino’s film? Perhaps it’s because I’m used to biographies exaggerating the lives of their subjects. Veracity in the biopic genre is, at best, a pipe dream. Most of the movies that I’ve seen that purport to be the “true-life” story of So-and-So tend to heighten the drama in lieu of focusing on that boring, pesky interloper, realism.

Devotion is no exception to this rule. To me, it remains the guiltiest of guilty-pleasure flicks, a so-wrong-that-it’s-almost-right journey into a skewed early-Victorian universe. I find it to be endlessly entertaining, if only for its beautiful staging, gorgeous (if sometimes incongruous, given the Brontës’ general poverty) costumes, and the performances of its lead actresses, Ida Lupino and Olivia de Havilland, who trudge through the sometimes maudlin material with grace and aplomb … though both women are way too beautiful to play a pair of sisters who were, by most accounts, rather plain and unassuming.

"Devoted" sisters: de Havilland, Lupino, and Coleman.

Charlotte (de Havilland) and Emily (Lupino) Brontë, along with their sister, Anne (played by Nancy Coleman, whose presence in the film is negligible), are aspiring writers living with their father (Montagu Love, in his final performance), a vicar, and their brother, Branwell (Arthur Kennedy), an aspiring artist who would rather get drunk than paint. The new curate, Arthur Nicholls (Paul Henreid), initially forms a tentative relationship with the brooding Emily, but soon falls in love with Charlotte. Meanwhile, both sisters have fallen in love with Nicholls, and each uses him as the model for the hero of her respective novel–Rochester in Charlotte’s Jane Eyre, and Heathcliff in Emily’s Wuthering Heights. Charlotte’s novel, which becomes the more successful of the two, eventually leads to her friendship with the noted author William Makepeace Thackeray (Sydney Greenstreet), who nonetheless admits his preference for Emily’s work. Meanwhile, Nicholls, unwilling to break Emily’s heart by confessing his love for Charlotte, leaves the countryside to work in London, until a double dose of tragedy brings him back.

I have read both Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights numerous times over the years, and I agree with Greenstreet’s Thackeray–to me, Emily’s work is infinitely better. I don’t particularly care for Jane Eyre (I could go into the reasons why, but I doubt you came here looking for a dissertation on the subject). Wuthering Heights, on the other hand, has been a favorite of mine for years. It seems so much more authentically emotional to me than Charlotte’s book–which is all the more unusual because the real Emily Brontë was somewhat of a recluse, home-bound because of poor health, and by most accounts had no romantic life of which to speak. Damned if she didn’t have one hell of an imagination, though. To have created such a complex character as Heathcliff–a man by turns tortured, villainous, charming, sympathetic, and loathsome–with little basis in experience or actual acquaintance with a similar personality, is an impressive feat.

Which is why the casting of Henreid as the curate who supposedly influenced the creation of Heathcliff is so utterly curious to me. Henreid functions in the film as a steady, solid figure of masculine authority. Yet he lacks the fire and the energy that would indicate this man, Nicholls, could possibly influence the conception of a figure like Heathcliff, who is akin to the devil himself. There’s nothing solid about Heathcliff–he exists on the edge of madness, at times, unable to control his baser emotions and letting revenge and hatred guide his every move. On the other hand, Henreid, as an actor, tended to gravitate toward bland leading-man roles (Now, Voyager) or supporting characters (Casablanca) who were almost bloodless in their lack of passion and verve. Hard to believe, then, that Henreid’s Nicholls could indulge in, or even condone, flights of flaming fervor and intensity. Can you say “miscast?”

Lupino, on the other hand, was a great choice to play Emily, in my opinion. She captures the more repressed side of the writer without delving into depressive fits or hysterics, as some who tackled the role might have been tempted to do (ahem, Miriam Hopkins, I’m looking at you). There is a quiet dignity that Lupino brings to the part that contrasts nicely with de Havilland’s more lively presence in the film. Lupino’s performance demonstrates her innate skill at capturing the nuances of a character. But by the time Devotion was released, Lupino had already begun to express an interest in moving beyond acting to take up directing. To that end, when Lupino’s studio contract expired in 1947, she became a free agent, which allowed her the freedom to pursue interests outside of acting–writing, producing, and, ultimately, directing. In 1949, Lupino finally got her wish when she took over direction of Not Wanted, which was being developed through her own production company, The Filmmakers. Though she would continue to act through the late 1970s, Lupino ultimately directed half a dozen more films and untold hours of television programs including episodes of The Twilight Zone, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, and Bewitched, among numerous others. For a period of time from the late 1940s through the mid-1950s, Ida Lupino was the only female director working in Hollywood.

For her part, the notoriously difficult de Havilland does well with the more direct, controlling aspects of Charlotte’s character, and there’s little indication of any behind-the-scenes turmoil in her performance. But the movie came at a pivotal point in de Havilland’s career. Devotion actually finished filming in 1943, but was not released in theaters until three years later. This was due to de Havilland’s landmark lawsuit against the studio that controlled her contract, Warner Bros. When Olivia’s seven-year contract with the studio came to a close in 1943 after completion of Devotion, the studio tried to tack on an extra six months to make up for previous “suspensions.” She sued and won the following year, as the California courts agreed that contracts were only enforceable for a set number of calendar years, with no addendum allowed to make up for time when an actor was not working. The decision ultimately weakened the studio system–the movie studio giants had coasted along for years taking advantage of their contract players, forcing them into a kind of indentured servitude. The de Havilland law, as it came to be known, thereafter guaranteed performers much more freedom in their careers. And though de Havilland’s stand against the studio system could have spelled disaster for her career, it instead ushered in a period of great success for the actress, as she would go on to win two Academy Awards for Best Actress (1946′s To Each Their Own and 1949′s The Heiress).

If you’re looking for an accurate portrayal of the life of the Brontë sisters, you’d be better served to look elsewhere. But for sheer entertainment value, you can’t beat the combination of Ida and Olivia (with the ever delightfully droll Greenstreet thrown in for good measure). Just remember to take the “facts” of their lives with a couple hundred grains of salt …

This post is my contribution to the “Spread the Ida Love” blogathon hosted by Jen at the Ida Lupino blog. For more entries from other contributors, check out her site.

Therapy Thursdays: The Snake Pit

Posted on by under carrie's faves, drama, therapy thursdays

You may have seen my recommendation of The Snake Pit for the Olivia de Havilland edition of the SUtS series. I recommended it, but had not yet seen the film. Part of the joy of the project was getting to see films I hadn’t watched or reviewed, yet, and this was one of them.

I chose this film to begin the Therapy Thursday segment because it was the first film to approach mental health as a social issue. Olivia de Havilland plays Virginia, a young woman who has a “nervous breakdown,” a common euphemism for the psychotic break or flare-up in schizophrenia. In this film, schizophrenia, Paranoid Type, Chronic/Recurring is probably what they were trying to portray (although they never say anything beyond nervous break-down).

I have to say that I was impressed with the film. Contrary to the worrying trend in film and television to demonize individuals who suffer from mental illness, this film humanizes them. It is remarkably honest in both the environment of the institution and the nature of the delusions and symptoms that the patients portray. A few of the details are a little unlikely, but most of them serve to move the plot forward or increase sympathy for the characters, which makes these minor deviations quite forgivable.

The film leans heavily on psyhoanalysis as a therapy, which it was at the time. Although Freud’s methods are not typically used in modern treatment of schizophrenia and other psychotic cases (although there are always exceptions), psychoanalysis was the first attempt to use talk therapy to help the mentally ill. Similarly, the clinical use of electric convulsive therapy was well-portrayed (not designed as a terror tactic but cruel or mad doctors, but as a genuine attempt to alter the nerve firing within the brain. This is typically not used anymore, and has generally been replaced by psychotropic medication regimens. However, at the time of this film, ECT was much more common.)

The staff at the state hospital were really quite believable, although a distressing number of the staff were quite misguided. However, considering the point of view was from a patient, this works well. People don’t generally enjoy being patients in institutions, and there was a lot of judging and harshness in earlier institutions. Some staff were burnt out and impatient, but others were sympathetic and dedicated. Her primary doctor was an excellent example of a mental health ideal, possibly ahead of his own time.

As a pro-social film about mental health, this is a good one, even for today. The images surpass many of those today in sympathy, humanity, and honesty. Add to that it’s endearing characters and well-constructed plot, and I must give it two enthusiastic thumbs-up.  I must add the book (written by Mary Jane Ward) to my reading list.

SUtS: Olivia de Havilland

Posted on by under 5-star films, best.films.ever., brandie's faves, drama, summer under the stars

Brandie’s choice: The Heiress (1949)

Airing at 8:00PM EST

Since time has gotten away from me this week, I won’t be able to write a full recommendation for my second choice for today, 1946′s To Each His Own. So I will refer you to a review I wrote earlier this summer for my very favorite de Havilland flick (after Gone With the Wind, of course), The Heiress. Make sure you watch both of these movies: there’s a reason de Havilland won two well-deserved Oscars for these roles.

Carrie’s choice: The Snake Pit (1948)

Airing at 12:15AM EST

Why am I recommending this movie? Because Brandie said so.

Kidding. Mostly.

It’s pretty much a natural one for me, and I do completely intend to watch it. The psych geek in me can’t help herself. Yes, I’m a psychology geek, in case the perspectives in many (okay, okay, most) of my posts haven’t given it away by now.

Olivia de Havilland plays the sympathetic character in a semi-popular (at least in classic film) type of film where a woman endures a mental institution in some way. I’m not going to elaborate much more on the plot. I’m waiting, too.  However, I say a popular plot structure, because it is (was). Consider Bedlam, actually classified as a horror, but even though I’m not a big fan of modern horror, I liked this pretty well. A woman, hoping to help those in an asylum gets committed herself. Cold, I know. Suddenly, Last Summer, based on the play by Tennessee Williams has a young woman declared insane and the rantings of her story- actually shows the use of lobotomy and the environment of the hospital, something typically not done in the stage productions.  Hitchcock was unique with Spellbound because the “crazy” person was not actually the woman, although she began to feel she was. And other films, such as Gaslight capitalize on women feeling or being interpreted as insane, irrational, or otherwise mentally incompetent.

Interesting, isn’t it? Why did they do  this? Because they were telling a truth. For years, and even now some people still insist on an irrationality specific to women. It has a long history- since the Enlightenment era, in fact. It worked itself into the great mysteries and revolutions in mental health understanding and treatment. Insanity and the insanity of women became simultaneously romanticized and demonized. The prolific themes of these movies, even subtle ones speak to a culture and era and writers and artists trying to explore it. Some of them do so beautifully, while others may miss their marks a bit. But that is exploration.

These films demand something rather special of the actresses who perform in them, and it is my experience that many of these actresses do quite a job of it. It’s a very particular style that takes quite a lot to sell, and even more to draw in the audience and become demonized or sympathetic, as the scene or film may require. It’s unlike any other form of acting in much the same way, even in such films today. If it doesn’t work, it simply doesn’t work. So I say, extra kudos to these actors and actresses for making this work and expressing such a hidden part of human nature. It’s certainly not an easy thing to dig up and find.

That said, I’m looking forward to seeing this contribution to the film theme, era, and almost genre. Like the last post, I wouldn’t expect it to be so much feel-good as interesting, and hopefully very honest.

SUtS: Errol Flynn

Posted on by under 3-star films, classic pairings, summer under the stars, swashbucklers, wwii films

Brandie’s choice: The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938)

Airing at 6:15PM EST

The Robin Hood to beat all Robin Hoods (sorry, Kevin Costner), Errol Flynn embodies the role like no one before or since. He brings a swagger, a verve, a winking machismo that suits the character to a tee. And he makes this version of the Robin Hood legend the best one to ever be put on film.

Flynn spent years building a reputation as a swashbuckling hero on screen, starring in such films as Captain Blood (1935) and The Charge of the Light Brigade (1936), and this film cemented his status as moviedom’s premier swordsman. His athletic stuntwork makes this movie a truly exciting spectacle; the romance, though potent, plays a minor role in comparison. The ambiance is heightened by the truly beautiful sets and costumes, a somewhat faithful recreation of 12th/13th-century English court life. The film also benefits from a witty script filled with wry observations and snappy one-liners: Robin Hood is, after all, the consummate smartass.

The movie features an excellent supporting cast, including Olivia de Havilland as Maid Marian, Claude Rains as the evil Prince John, Basil Rathbone as Sir Guy of Gisbourne, and Alan Hale, Sr. as Little John. And another star would soon emerge from the talented cast: de Havilland’s horse, the beautiful golden palomino known as Golden Cloud, would soon be purchased by Roy Rogers and renamed Trigger, eventually becoming one of the most famous acting animals in the history of film.

This was the third in a series of eight films co-starring de Havilland and Flynn. By most accounts, though each harbored a secret crush on the other, the two were never romantically involved, despite rumors to the contrary. But it’s no surprise that the Hollywood gossip machine started churning about these two–their on-screen chemistry was virtually unparalleled. The debonair Flynn and the fiery de Havilland are always a delight to watch as they spar with one another.

Truly one of the classic adventure films of all time–if you’ve never seen this one, you’re missing out!

Carrie’s choice: Edge of Darkness (1943)

Airing at 2:15AM EST

Okay, so for this one, I picked something that is just going to be depressing. There’s nothing like spending a summer day or evening with a movie about the Nazis. And yet, that’s exactly what I’m condoning. I picked this film for no reason other than it’s Nazi-invaded Norway. Most films about WWII don’t really talk about Norway, and for this unique quality, I decided to go with this one. Besides, Norway doesn’t always get much film time over this way, so let’s do it.

The other interesting thing about his particular movie is that it’s a small fishing village against the Nazis. I mean, really. What’s not to love? It’s our favourite: against the odds, little guy against big and mean. One senses an Errol Flynn pattern… after all, he’s Robin Hood. So, maybe this is slightly less of a stretch than we might originally have thought. I haven’t seen this one myself, so I don’t know how it’s going to go. It’s an adventure for me, as well.  So, tune in to see these guys prepare and hold the line until the Nazi’s cross over it.

Then, get some chocolate. You’ll feel better.

In defense of Scarlett O’Hara.

Posted on by under 5-star films, ahh romance, best.films.ever., brandie's faves, epic epics, lit adaptations

Ladies and gentlemen, today I present to you the case of the most celebrated and vilified Southern belle to ever grace the silver screen.

I will cut you.

Now, depending upon where you fall in that camp–whether you revere the young woman in question, or cringe at the sound of her name–generally determines your opinion of the film that features her. I have met many a person who cannot bring him/herself to watch Gone With the Wind in full because they so detest the character of Scarlett O’Hara. And this is, to an extent, understandable. I mean, I’m a woman who cannot bring herself to watch a full episode of Seinfeld because I dislike those four characters so much. So I recognize that an alienating character can contribute to one’s perception of the work in which he/she is featured.

But don’t let that stop you from enjoying one of the most entertaining spectacles in all of moviedom.

Insert stirring orchestral theme here.

My personal history with GWTW starts at the age of ten, when I received a copy of the Margaret Mitchell book for Christmas. Yes, I was a precocious child (at least, that’s my word for it … though my mama and daddy would probably term me “the biggest know-it-all smart-ass to ever walk the planet”). I sat down and read it over the course of the next month. I fell head over heels in love with the story, the characters (especially that delicious Rhett Butler), the setting … to me, at the age of ten, it was the romantic thing in the world, to have men falling all over you, declaring their undying love, sharing a secret passion for one another as Scarlett and Ashley do. And as an unrepentant smart-ass, I adored Scarlett and her tart tongue and sarcastic asides.

Now, there were, of course, things that I did not understand at that age. But over the course of the next several years, in which I read the book probably twice a year until I was eighteen (I told you I loved it), I began to understand that Scarlett was not the ideal of womanhood that I had built up in my head. She was not even really an ideal of humanity, if you want to get right down to it. There are things about her that are so morally reprehensible that you wonder why people like to label her a heroine.

And yet, who are we to judge? But I’ll get back to this in a moment.

When I finally saw the movie at the age of fifteen, I was bowled over by the grandeur that the directors (yes, all three of them) and the crew had brought to life on the screen, and I marveled at how almost perfectly cast the film was. Vivien Leigh … she embodied the role in a way I’d never really seen on film before. I knew nothing about her, and I never would have guessed she was British. And I’m particular about my Southern accents. When one is done horribly (I’m looking at you, Con Air‘s Nicolas Cage), I cannot enjoy the film.

In general, at fifteen, I thought everything about the film was perfect. I did not then understand the undercurrents of the “happy slave” motif perpetuated by the film (though I think avoiding the movie simply because of its seeming idealization of antebellum slavery ignores the broader implications of the film), and I did not realize that Scarlett’s happy trilling in bed the morning after Rhett sweeps her up the grand staircase is little more than a disturbing acceptance of her rape at the hands of her husband.

Yeah, this ain't normal.

In these instances, and several others, the perspective brought by the passage of many years has made me realize that there are elements of the film that are far from perfect. But it is still one of my favorite films of all time, and one of the ten best ever put on the big screen. I firmly believe this, and I doubt I will ever change my mind. And to me, Scarlett is one of the most fascinating characters ever conceived.

The thing that I appreciate the most about the film version of GWTW is that the filmmakers did not shy away from putting some of Scarlett’s least venerable characteristics on screen. So many times, a film adaptation falls apart because the characters are whitewashed and made “prettier” (at least from a moral standpoint) so as not to offend the general viewing audience. But not in this case. Scarlett’s jealously, her pettiness, her utter derision for her fellow man, her coquettish determination to claim Ashley for her own … all of it is shown, and rather unapologetically so. And for that, as I stated at the beginning of this post, some celebrate her fight to survive despite its costs to others, and some condemn her for her selfish disregard.

Fiddle-dee-dee.

I lean more toward the first camp myself. I enjoy watching Scarlett toy with the affections of men she does not love; she is, after all, the “belle of the ball,” and that has its privileges. To take the attentions of men who view her as nothing more than a plaything, a beautiful trophy to take to their beds, and become the puppetmaster, dangling those same, ultimately helpless men by their strings … she is, as second-wave American feminists would claim, simply asserting her power. She is, in the end, smarter than those men, and she’s smart enough not to let them know it. And it is interesting to watch this kind of behavior through the concept of the Civil War-era, when women were bound by the rules of society into home-and-hearth roles that became virtually inescapable. Scarlett, determined to enjoy life in the manner in which she sees fit, flouts those society restrictions, which most modern audiences would find admirable, though by the rules of 1860s society, she must be punished.

Yes, Scarlett is a bitch-with-a-capital-B. But she’s just so honest about her overall bitchery. She recognizes her own flaws and agonizes over going to Hell, but in the end is not particularly bothered by the lies she tells or the manipulative behavior in which she engages on a regular basis. Her obstinance leads her to marry her first husband simply out of spite and to inadvertently cause the death of her second husband. And she never ceases her pursuit of Ashley despite the bone-deep frustration she feels toward his passivity, unwilling to admit that she’s in it for the competition more so than actual love. At least when she finally understands this about herself, Scarlett tries to correct her mistakes, rather than allowing pride to continue to thwart her better judgment. There’s growth to her character–though not much, all things considered; the film (much like the book) tries to cram Scarlett’s redemption into the last ten minutes, leaving viewers with the sense that Scarlett has not “grown up” so much as she has finally “wised up” (and yes, there is a difference between the two).

"You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how."

In the end, at least in my mind, the fact that she allows the worse parts of her nature to override her one chance at happiness with Rhett is something to be pitied rather than to be celebrated. Who hasn’t lost love or friendship for the sake of pride? Who hasn’t stood in Scarlett’s shoes, staring at someone walking away from you, wondering how things would have been if you (or they) had done things differently? Who doesn’t have regrets? When Scarlett collapses on the staircase, sobbing as Rhett strides away in the mist, I’m taken back to points in my own history when I felt the world crumbling around me, when “resilience” felt like a dirty word. But as Scarlett exclaims, there’s always tomorrow. You know, as the film ends, that Scarlett will redouble her efforts to win Rhett back, and that she will ultimately be successful (and it doesn’t take a long, drawn-out, poorly-conceived sequel–shame on Alexandra Ripley for her deplorable attempt–to know that).

This, I think, is why I identify with Scarlett. She’s only human. She’s not a caricature of Southern gentility, the stereotypical fragile blossom whose bloom fades the moment she dons her wedding gown. As Rhett laughingly tells her, “And you, miss, are no lady!” Instead, she’s a nineteenth-century steel magnolia. The character is, in essence, a flawed, natural, thriving, and searingly honest depiction of a woman who was never meant to fill the mold. She may not cherish life, judging by her somewhat cavalier attitude toward the deaths of her first two husbands, but she sure as hell relishes it.

The most thankless role in the film, and de Havilland knocks it out of the park.

She also protects what’s hers, and that includes the family she does not even particularly like. She detests Melanie (her favorite descriptive term for poor Melanie is “mealy-mouthed”), but she does her duty to her sister-in-law, ensuring her survival and providing a roof over her head and food to eat. She commits murder without flinching, shooting a Yankee deserter who attempts to steal the family’s meager remaining possessions in the final days of the war. She even accepts the possibility that she will have to prostitute herself to Rhett, offering him a place in her bed in exchange for the money to pay the taxes on Tara. For all the supposed “evil” that Scarlett does, she makes certain that her people are provided for and her beloved plantation remains in O’Hara hands. Now, such ruthlessness and self-serving determined would hardly be cause for concern were she not a woman. But because she is, Scarlett is untoward, unladylike, a lesser human being?

I don’t frigging think so.

She’s a survivor; in fact, when Margaret Mitchell was asked to basically define the theme of her novel, she said it was simply about “survival.” And Scarlett is the ultimate survivor. She thrashes against fate to stay alive, and then she sticks it to everyone who doubted her in the most delicious way possible.

So I admit it. I like Scarlett O’Hara Hamilton Kennedy Butler. I really do. I even feel a sort of kinship with her. Does that make me seem odd? [Well, if you've only now figured that out, where have you been?]

The only thing I don’t understand about the character? Why, on God’s green earth, she’d prefer this …

Um ...

… over THIS.

Hellooooooo, handsome.

Are you for real? Leslie Howard as Ashley Wilkes is the very definition of “milquetoast.” Clark Gable as Rhett Butler just radiates sex. I don’t care if rumor has it that Vivien Leigh did not want to kiss him because his dentures smelled bad. If Carole Lombard could kiss that every night and be fine with it, then make room for me.

Overall, I recommend the movie without reservations. Not only is a masterful drama, but it’s a masterwork of cinematography as well, with some of the most beautiful scenes ever captured on film. It overly romanticizes the time period, but so what? That’s what movies do. Film, by nature, is a hyper-extension of reality. If you cannot accept that, and realize that GWTW depicts things like slavery and war through a romanticized lens, then what are you doing watching fiction anyway? Go watch a documentary. With subtitles, if it makes you feel more like an auteur.

This is the epic to beat all epics. If you have never seen it, I urge you to do so. It’s a four-hour time investment, but I truly feel it to be worth it. It’s one of those movies everyone must see at least once, if only to marvel at the spectacle of it all.

Just a brief historical note: Gone With the Wind came out in 1939 amidst a bevy of amazing films–it’s no wonder 1939 is considered a “golden year” in film history, producing such monumental classics as The Wizard of Oz; Mr. Smith Goes to Washington; Dark Victory; Goodbye, Mr. Chips; Ninotchka; Stagecoach; Wuthering Heights; and Love Affair, among many, many others. But GWTW, with its ten Academy Awards and rabid fan base, trumps them all. Its leading actors (except Howard) were nominated in all of the major categories, and two of them won: Vivien Leigh, the first of two Best Actress wins for playing Southern belles (the second would come more than a decade later, in 1951 for A Streetcar Named Desire), and Hattie McDaniel, the first African-American to win an Oscar, for Best Supporting Actress.

I regret that I have never gotten the chance to see this movie on the big screen. I have to settle for my four-disc collector’s edition (well, as soon as I get it back from my mother!), which I’m hoping to upgrade at some point to the 70th Anniversary Ultimate Collector’s Edition (egads at the price tag on that one!). I’ve owned my edition for several years, and it has some great documentary features on the last two discs–of particular interest is “Melanie Remembers: Olivia de Havilland Recalls Gone With the Wind,” a great interview with the last major surviving cast member of the film. But there are less expensive versions of the DVD without all of the extras, if you only desire to see the film.

If you do not have the chance to catch it on DVD, TCM is showing the film on September 14th at 8PM EST, as always uncut and commercial free (God bless ‘em).

Now that I have spoken my piece, tell me: are you a Scarlett fan, or do you wish she would have “accidentally” strangled herself with that green curtain dress?

He came to the wrong house. Twice.

Posted on by under 5-star films, best.films.ever., brandie's faves, drama, lit adaptations

I generally hesitate to spoil the ending of a film. It’s poor form to ruin a film before one has even had the chance to view it for him/her self. In many cases, it sours me on ever viewing the film in question; for example, when a friend (somewhat gleefully) spoiled the ending of The Sixth Sense (1999), I found I had lost the pressing desire to see the movie. Why watch it now, knowing that one of the most celebrated twist endings in recent filmdom has been ruined for me? (Despite this, I know I will eventually sit down and view this movie, despite my dislike for most of M. Night Shyamalan’s work–Lady in the Water? Please.)

However, in the case of The Heiress, I feel the need to discuss the ending in depth, so let this serve as a warning to those who have yet to see it. DO NOT CONTINUE READING THIS ENTRY IF YOU DO NOT WANT THE ENDING OF THIS FILM SPOILED FOR YOU.

The Heiress, released in 1949 and starring Olivia de Havilland and Montgomery Clift, is an adaptation of the 1947 play of the same name by Ruth and Augustus Goetz; the play, in turn, is an adaptation of Henry James’ 1880 novel Washington Square. Both the play and the film are relatively solid adaptations, though some tweaking was, of course, inevitable.

In the film, de Havilland plays Catherine Sloper, the accomplished yet plain daughter of a wealthy doctor. Encouraged by her aunt Lavinia (Miriam Hopkins) to enter the social scene, Catherine soon falls for a charming young man, Morris Townsend (Clift). Her father, Austin Sloper (Ralph Richardson), is initially pleased at the interest Morris shows in his daughter, but comes to suspect the young man of pursuing Catherine solely for her inheritance. When Morris proposes to Catherine, her father whisks her away to Europe in an effort to get her to forget him; in their absence, Morris, who spends most of his time visiting Lavinia, rallying her support behind him, begins to make himself at home in their luxurious brownstone. Upon their return, Catherine insists on marrying Morris, enraging her father, who finally tells her outright that Morris is only after her money, remarking cruelly upon his daughter’s lack of social graces and beauty. Catherine decides to elope with Morris, forgoing her inheritance and determined that she and her new husband will make their way through the world on their own. But when faced with the prospect of losing access to Catherine’s wealth, Morris abandons her, only returning years later after Dr. Sloper has died, having left all of his money to his still-unmarried daughter …

Olivia de Havilland is a beautiful woman, and still thriving, apparently, at the age of 94. On a side note, her younger sister, actress Joan Fontaine, is also still kicking at the age of 92. By most accounts, the sisters have not spoken in more than two decades, a rift that reportedly has its roots in their younger years. Joan, at her mother’s insistence, was not allowed to use the family name in her acting career, and when both women were nominated for the Best Actress Academy Award in 1942, Joan’s win over Olivia cemented the feud between them (never mind that Olivia would go on to win TWO–for 1946′s To Each His Own–another excellent film–and for her starring role in this film). Their acting styles are quite different; in general, Joan is more disposed toward romantic roles as in Rebecca (1940) and Letter from an Unknown Woman (1948), while Olivia thrives in dramatic ones. Personally, I happen to enjoy the work of both actresses, but Olivia, best known today for her work as Melanie in 1939′s Gone With the Wind, admittedly boasts the more impressive resume.

Getting back to my original point, with cheekbones to die for and wide, luminous eyes, it’s hard to see the lovely de Havilland as a dowdy spinster.

And yet, with the aid of severe hairstyles and dowdy clothes, de Havilland almost wills the viewer to believe it. She acts not only through her delivery of the script, but through her very being. She not only looks the part of the retiring wallflower, she embodies it, with the embarrassed glances, the sometimes-shuffling gait, the lowered brow and the pain-filled eyes. You believe that this woman, who is not at all unattractive, is nonetheless the plain, simple heiress of the title, an “entirely mediocre creature” (as her father calls her) with nothing of value but his money.

In adapting the play for the screen, Paramount insisted that leading man Clift’s character be written as less obviously manipulative in the interest of protecting Clift’s status as a romantic lead.

Ohh, baby.

This liberty with the source material was far from new in Hollywood; earlier in the decade, rival studio RKO had done the same in rewriting the character of Johnny Aysgarth in Alfred Hitchcock’s Suspicion (which, incidentally, won the Oscar for Fontaine) because, as far as the studio brass was concerned, Cary Grant could not play a killer. Thankfully, however, the pigeonholing that occurred with Grant, who was rarely able to step outside of debonair romantic roles or screwball comedies throughout his long career, did not repeat itself with Clift. Clift’s career, though relatively short in comparison, was nonetheless marked by a wider range of roles, most notably the social climber in love with Elizabeth Taylor in A Place in the Sun (1951), the doomed private in From Here to Eternity (1953), the psychiatrist in Suddenly, Last Summer (1959), and the faded rodeo star in The Misfits (1961).

The Heiress is, in large part, about a woman scorned, both before she is abandoned and afterward. Catherine spends her entire life in the shadow of her dead mother, implicitly compared to her in multiple ways–she is not as beautiful as her mother, as accomplished as her mother, as enticing as her mother. When she falls in love with Morris, she willfully overlooks her own suspicions and her father’s outright distrust of the man. When she finds herself standing in the parlor, suitcase in hand, Morris nowhere to be found, even still she wonders if perhaps she had made a mistake, that perhaps he would come the next day. It is not until she learns that he has fled to California that Catherine hardens. It’s an almost physical hardening, too; she holds herself so stiffly she might as well be carved from granite, her expression changing from that of the hopeful and loving girl to the cold and remote woman right before our eyes. And when Morris returns, he cannot see the change, fool that he is; he miscalculates the rage burning within her, and so secure is he in the worldly charms that beguiled her before that he cannot see the obvious path to her revenge.

Catherine: “He’s grown greedier over the years. Before he only wanted my money; now he wants my love as well. Well, he came to the wrong house – and he came twice. I shall see that he does not come a third time.”

And when Catherine finally obtains her revenge … truly a sight to behold. I have little doubt that the ending of this film–the last ten minutes or so–is what secured de Havilland her second Oscar.

Aunt Lavinia: “Can you be so cruel?”
Catherine: “Yes, I can be very cruel. I have been taught by masters.”

Her expression here, glancing up from her needlework, is hard and unyielding. She continues her work without hesitation, ignoring her aunt’s obvious dismay. She stands at the door, listening to Morris call her name, and you wonder, briefly, whether she will give in and let him back into her life. In an instant, though, the slight hesitation is gone. Her chin goes up, her jaw clenches, and the face becomes an impenetrable mask of dignity and strength. And when she begins to walk up the stairs to her room, listening to Morris pounding on the door, begging to enter his lost brownstone paradise, the slight smile on her lips as she ascends the staircase toward the camera is utterly chilling.

Catherine’s bitterness is not without cause. Yet, reportedly, when the film was initially released, the studio received negative feedback from viewers who wanted to see Catherine forgive Morris and live “happily ever after.” This attitude of a late 1940s film audience–that a woman should, for the sake of finding happiness, tie herself into marriage simply for the sake of being married–is unsurprising; hell, that’s the position Lavinia holds throughout the entire film, reflecting the era’s attitude toward unmarried, “loveless” women. But for modern audiences, the ending of this film is pitch-perfect; Catherine’s choice to pursue her own simple revenge is something to be celebrated. There is a certain satisfaction to watching a Victorian-era woman buck the norm and actually carve a different, solitary existence for herself. In many ways, it puts her on the same level as a man (and that may be why some members of the film’s early audience could not accept the ending). All told, it certainly brings a smile to my face.

After all, as they say, revenge IS sweet, isn’t it?

I would rank the ending of this film as one of my favorite endings of all time, right up there with Rick and Louis’ “beautiful friendship” in Casablanca (1942) and Jerry/Daphne’s “perfect” denouement in 1959′s Some Like It Hot. And even if I’ve spoiled it for you (hey, I gave you plenty of warning, so blame yourself), it’s still worth watching this amazing film.

I hope you love it as much as I do.