Tag Archives: peter lorre

Feminist Fridays: The Women of The Maltese Falcon

Posted on by under best.films.ever., brandie's faves, feminist fridays, lit adaptations, private eyes are watching you

Chapter Three of Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon is titled, appropriately enough, “Three Women.” It opens with Sam Spade chastising his exhausted secretary, Effie Perine, for allowing Iva Archer, his dead partner’s widow, into the office. Spade is impatient with the woman–his secret lover–and extricates himself from her clutches as soon as possible. He later attempts to track down the elusive Miss Wonderly, who has checked out of her hotel in the wake of Miles Archer’s death.

As with much of the original novel, “Three Women” is translated almost verbatim into John Huston’s screenplay for the 1941 film. And of the three screen adaptations of The Maltese Falcon, Huston’s version best captures each of these women in the cinematic flesh. Through astute casting and subsequently strong performances, the film fleshes out three very different (yet familiar) female archetypes: the helpmate, the “spider,” and the conniving bitch. Spade’s interactions with the three women whose lives are intertwined with his own–Effie, Iva, and Wonderly (soon to be revealed as Brigid O’Shaughnessy)–reveal much about his character, and also illuminate how the über-masculine Spade rejects the very notion of femininity, even while he is, in some ways, very much at the mercy of the so-called “weaker” sex.

Effie (played by Lee Patrick) is the woman who knows all of Spade’s faults and accepts him for who he is (for the most part). Though he is somewhat affectionate in his regard for her–more so than with any other woman in the film–there is little indication that their relationship is, or has ever been, sexual. If anything, Effie treats Spade almost maternally. But theirs is ultimately a business arrangement: as his secretary, she keeps his life in order and follows his instructions to the letter, the very definition of a “Girl Friday.” Perhaps because of this, Spade does not treat her with the same shrouded contempt and judgment with which he views the other female figures in the film–though he still objectifies Effie, much as he does Iva and Brigid, by calling her “angel” in lieu of her given name.

Of the female characters, Iva (Gladys George) comes closest to stereotype as the prototypical “woman scorned.” She thinks enough of herself and her charms (the “web” in which she believes she has trapped the man) to assume that Spade killed Archer just to be with her. But his reluctance to see her after Archer’s death, and his disgusted facial expressions when she throws herself into his arms, indicate that Spade has lost interest in the woman. Spade finds Iva’s weeping–put-on though it may be–a nuisance, and she becomes an albatross around his neck when her fury over his short-sighted rejection of her (and the drama surrounding her) leads to Iva informing the police about their affair. In this case, Spade underestimates the trouble that a woman could cause him, and it ends up putting even more pressure on him as he tries to unravel the mystery of the black bird.

And then there’s Brigid O’Shaughnessy. Of any character in the film, she most matches Spade in both wits and manipulative prowess–as I stated in yesterday’s entry on the film, Brigid and Spade are, in some respects, two sides of the same damaged coin. But Brigid is somewhat more transparent than her male counterpart; her breathless speech and inability to look Spade directly in the eyes (notice how she’s always looking past him or to the side or up at the ceiling in many of their scenes together) mark her as a liar almost from the start. And Spade sees right through what he calls Brigid’s “schoolgirl” act; he does not believe her initial story when she hires him, and he does not believe anything she subsequently says. Knowing Spade distrusts her, however, does not stop Brigid from using her feminine wiles to try and ensnare Spade … and it works, to a degree–the man simply can’t help himself. One could argue that, with the two of them, the attraction is merely sexual, and an extension of Spade’s aggressive nature. The first time he kisses her, Spade grabs her face roughly and practically forces her lips to meet his–it’s an act of pure, possessive lust, not affection. And yet it works, because Brigid instinctively understands and accepts his aggression, because it’s an equally important part of her own nature. The fact that Spade even appears to entertain the thought, however briefly, of allowing Brigid to get away with Archer’s murder indicates the level to which she got to him–when he offers to wait for her, and hopes aloud that they don’t “hang [her] … by that sweet neck,” it’s the biggest concession Spade will allow in regards to the weakness of emotional attachment. Of course, that’s pretty much ruined with his next statement: “If they hang you, I’ll always remember you.” Quite the romantic, that Sam Spade.

It’s also worth noting that these women are not the only “feminine” characters whose paths cross Spade’s in the film. Just as there is a trio of female foils, there is a triad of male figures whose masculinity–at least in the eyes of Spade himself–is so negligible that they could be considered another “womanly” group within the film (in fact, there seems to be a theme of “threes” within the film–three women, three male criminals, three identities for Brigid, etc. … though the significance of that may be minimal, at best). Peter Lorre’s character, Dr. Cairo, can also be considered a feminine influence on Spade–and a decidedly unwelcome one, at that. Spade’s ire is raised from the moment Effie hands him Cairo’s gardenia-scented calling card, and is heightened when the foppish man enters the detective’s office. Spade takes a great deal of pleasure in bullying the effeminate Cairo, first by essentially emasculating the criminal by disarming the man of his (phallic) weapon, and later through physically imposing his brute strength on Cairo with a solid punch to the jaw. In Spade’s mind, Cairo is the epitome of weakness–a man whose appearance and demeanor are overtly feminine–and the man must thereby be punished. That same mindset extends to the gunsel, Wilmer (Elisha Cook, Jr.); Spade enjoys teasing Wilmer, casting doubt upon his abilities and then taking visible delight when Wilmer attempts to “man up” by threatening to kill Spade. And Gutman (Sydney Greenstreet), though in many ways the most masculine of the film’s evildoers, is, by virtue of being Wilmer’s supposed lover, included in Spade’s derision. When the detective tries to turn Gutman against Wilmer, he does so by reminding Gutman that there is always another “son” (read: lover) out there, but only one gold-encrusted falcon. Spade’s expression during this scene hints at his distaste at the relationship between Gutman and Wilmer, but despite his own rejection of the very concept, Spade is not above using it as a means to an end.

The movie ends with Brigid being taken away to jail, but the book revisits the other two women in Spade’s life, ending with his return to his office, where he must face Effie’s disapproval and Iva’s continued presence in his life. There is a sense, however, that Spade will reject both–that he will ignore Effie’s feelings about what he has done to Brigid, and that he will, at some point, cast Iva out for good, for ultimately, Spade’s rejection of the feminine is an essential part of his character. His rough-hewn exterior–crude, hard-boiled, sometimes cruel–exists, in part, because it differentiates him from the “weaknesses” that affect others. He doesn’t demonstrate outward compassion after Archer’s death because doing so would mark him, too, as somewhat weak. The same goes for his final confrontation with Brigid; to allow her to get away with murder, all in the name of love, would be the action of a soft man, not a strong one. After all, sympathy and emotion are feminine traits, not to be tolerated in a “real” man. The most Spade can manage without compromising his self-made image is an occasional pat on the head for Effie, whose non-sexualized persona is no threat to Spade’s seemingly hard-won masculinity.

“I don’t mind a reasonable amount of trouble.”

Posted on by under best.films.ever., brandie's faves, lit adaptations, noir, private eyes are watching you

As part of our week-long celebration of the 70th anniversary of The Maltese Falcon (1941), today we are taking a look at the third and final film version of Dashiell Hammett’s pulp crime novel. For a brief introduction to this movie, check out our post on Falcon from last year. For a more in-depth synopsis of the film’s plot, we recommend the AMC FilmSite entry about the movie. And if you’ve never seen any of the film versions or read the book, be warned that we will be discussing elements of their respective endings in all of our posts this week.

The Maltese Falcon (’41) has been judged by many critics to be the greatest detective story ever filmed. The influential 1955 book A Panorama of American Film Noir (1941-1953), initially published in France by film critics Raymond Borde and Etienne Chaumeton, declared Falcon the first true example of Hollywood film noir. Notable critics such as Roger Ebert have labeled the movie as one of the best of all time. And the American Film Institute has cast several laurels in Falcon’s direction: it landed at #31 on the most recent AFI Top 100 Movies list (in 2007); came in at #6 in the “Mystery” film genre; and its closing line, “The stuff that dreams are made of,” was chosen as the fourteenth-best movie quote of all time.

Of course, as with any film, its “greatness” is a matter of subjectivity. Falcon does have its detractors. Film Noir: An Encyclopedic Reference to the American Style (first published in 1979) describes the film as a “caricature” populated with “one-dimensional” characters, stating that the film suffers from “textbook camerawork” and a “general attitude of contemptuous misanthropy.” And the author is certainly entitled to his opinion. There have been films that have been, by and large, critically lauded over the years which I am … well, less than enamored with. But I do think this review is short-sighted and almost aggressive in its criticism of the movie, particularly in its assessment of the film’s misanthropic nature, which is a necessary extension of creating a cinematic world where the lines between “good” and “evil” are so blurred as to be nonexistent.

For all that the first two screen adaptations of Dashiell Hammett’s book got wrong, the final version gets everything just right. The movie follows the book almost precisely–very little is excised in the translation to the screen, and Hammett’s pitch-perfect dialogue is recreated virtually word-for-word. By and large, the actors are far superior to their predecessors, bringing new depth to these characters. The movie even looks better than the other two versions: its gritty appearance and washes of darkness perfectly encapsulate the story’s mood.

First-time director John Huston was greatly influenced by Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane, which was released in theaters five months before Falcon. Hallmarks of the earlier film can be seen in the way Huston and cinematographer Arthur Edeson populate their movie with a wealth of shadowy shots and low, almost menacing camera angles (Edeson, incidentally, also worked on Satan Met a Lady). When making plans for filming, Huston took a cue from Alfred Hitchcock and story-boarded the entire movie before shooting, plotting out even the most minute details before the camera even started rolling.

Arguably the best element about the entire film is the casting, for Huston wound up with the perfect actors for the leading roles, particularly Bogart as the combative, dark, and enigmatic Sam Spade. Part of the credit for Bogart’s casting, interestingly enough, goes to actor George Raft, who turned down the role of Spade, paving the way for Bogart to take on the defining role of his own career. In fact, Raft can be credited with inadvertently promoting Bogart from supporting actor to leading man in the early 1940s: he also turned down the role of Roy Earle in 1941′s successful High Sierra (due largely to Bogart’s urging), and some sources even claim that Raft also turned down the part of Rick Blaine in Casablanca (though still other sources emphasize that this was merely a rumor). Huston had worked with Bogart on Sierra–he had co-written the screenplay for the movie with W.R. Burnett–and the two had become friends. Bogart, for his part, enjoyed working with Huston and would go on to star in Across the Pacific (1942), The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, Key Largo (both in 1948), and The African Queen (1951) for the director.

A trio of effective villains serve as worthy foils for Bogart in Falcon. Sydney Greenstreet, in his first film appearance, is impressive in both his bulk and his mannered menace as ringleader Gutman. Gutman is the gentleman criminal, hiding his thuggish qualities behind a cultured veneer (and a loyal gunsel/lover, Wilmer, played with leashed fury by Elisha Cook, Jr.). The actor’s smooth voice and high-class accent only add to that facade. Greenstreet was reportedly so nervous before filming his first scene–the monologue in which Gutman explains the origins of the falcon–that he asked Mary Astor to hold his hand before stepping in front of the camera. But there is no sign of this in his polished, masterful performance, and he went on to garner an Oscar nomination for his debut.

This movie also marked the first onscreen partnering of Greenstreet and Peter Lorre–the two worked so well together that they would eventually costar in nine more projects over the next decade. Though both Gutman and Cairo, Lorre’s character, are homosexual, Lorre is given the decidedly “gayer” character. Rather than go over the top with his portrayal, Lorre subtly conveys Cairo’s orientation through his mannerisms–particularly the way he plays with his cane, as he caresses it and moves it near his mouth in a way that highlights its phallic nature. His reactions to Spade’s bullying are even more telling; he is no physical match for the detective, succumbing to a faint after a single punch, and he (perhaps wisely) relies on a gun to do his convincing for him. Lorre breathes realism into a potentially campy character, and ultimately makes a big impact in his few front-and-center scenes.

But the strongest villain, by far, in the entire film is Astor’s Brigid O’Shaughnessy. Her cold, calculating nature is a mirror of Spade’s own: they are two sides of the same damaged coin. Astor is a revelation in the role, which is a great departure from her previous “good girl” screen persona–but is, funnily enough, much closer to her controversial off-screen life. In the wake of her divorce, details of Astor’s personal diary, in which she reportedly wrote about her sexual conquests, came to light, and her image in the public had suffered. Whether or not that experience colored her portrayal of Brigid doesn’t really matter, though–however she did it, Astor managed to perfectly capture the darker nuances of the character in a way that few actresses of the time likely could. [Side note: I will further address Brigid--and the other female characters--in a separate post.]

The Maltese Falcon is, in a word, brilliant. The film is populated by a cast of characters whose actions and behavior is morally repugnant and off-putting. Yet Bogart and company, led by Huston’s steady, guiding hand, bring a level of sympathy to these not-so-good people. Spade’s an unmitigated asshole–unfeeling, harsh, and not at all above betrayal and subterfuge if it gets him what he wants–and Bogart plays him full-out, warts and all. Still, there’s something almost disturbingly sexy and enticing about Spade. He’s as appealing an anti-hero as has ever been created. In the end, Falcon works because we want to see what these rather reprehensible people, doing everything they can to assuage their desirous greed in an unclean world, will do next. Their interactions are just that damn entertaining.

Tomorrow: we’ll wrap up our week-long look at The Maltese Falcon with a Feminist Fridays post examining the female characters in the 1941 film.

“Giant squid astern, sir!”

Posted on by under blogathon, classic disney, lit adaptations, monster movies

In 1954, Walt Disney and company decided to tackle their first science-fiction venture, a full-length live-action adaptation of Jules Verne’s 1870 novel 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Originally, the plan was to animate Verne’s story–after all, Disney’s animation studio had found undeniable success in adapting literary works ranging from Felix Salten’s environmental novel Bambi, A Life in the Woods (1942) to Lewis Carroll’s inventive children’s classic Alice in Wonderland (1951). But Disney felt ambitious. The studio had recouped its losses of the 1940s with the phenomenal success of Cinderella (1950), and he was in the midst of building the Disneyland theme park (which would open in the summer of 1955, a mere seven months after the release of League). A live-action, big-budget “prestige” picture would give the studio new cachet and could potentially be a huge moneymaker … if Walt were willing to take a risk and invest millions of dollars to build the facilities and staff necessary to do the project justice.

The risk paid off. Though the film went severely over budget (it even surpassed 1939′s Gone With the Wind as the most expensive movie ever made … at least, at the time) and did not turn a profit upon its original release, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea was nonetheless a gigantic hit–not only was it critically acclaimed, but it was second only to White Christmas in the year’s box office. It was also the first movie to be released under Disney’s own distribution company, Buena Vista, after years of having his films released under the RKO banner. Leagues went on to win two Academy Awards, for Best Special Effects and Best Art Direction (it was also nominated for the Best Editing prize, but lost to On the Waterfront). And to this day, for a multitude of reasons, it remains one of the most popular live-action films to ever be released by the Disney studios.

The film takes place in 1866, as an unidentified sea monster terrorizes Pacific shipping routes, destroying ships and leaving few witnesses to its carnage. Frenchman Pierre Aronnax (Paul Lukas) and his right-hand man, Conseil (Peter Lorre), travel across the ocean on a U.S. battleship in search of the monster. When their ship is attacked and sunk, the men discover that the “monster” is actually the Nautilus, a highly-advanced submarine captained by Captain Nemo (James Mason), an erudite man who is, by turns, charming, paranoid, and menacing. The men discover that Nemo has crafted advanced underwater technology, including nuclear power, and uses the sub to destroy ships carrying munitions and slaves in a solitary attempt to make the world a “better place.” Aronnax, Conseil, and a young harpooner named Ned Land (Kirk Douglas) are held prisoner on the sub, as Nemo fears that the trio will reveal his secrets to the world should he let them go. As Aronnax forms an intellectual connection to Nemo which leads him to sympathize with the captain’s motives, the rebellious Ned and the increasingly skeptical Conseil attempt to escape from “the madman” holding them captive.

The movie is relatively faithful to Verne’s original story, although it does make the same general mistake as many translations of the tale, adding two additional appendages to its sea monster by turning the French “poulpe” (an octopus) into a giant squid. The screenwriter, Earl Felton, also fleshed out more of Nemo’s background and changed the ending to clarify Nemo’s fate, which is left ambiguous by Verne.

The highlight of Leagues is, undoubtedly, the fight between the Nautilus and that giant squid. The version that ended up on the screen is actually quite different from the filmmakers’ original intentions. The scene was first staged on quiet seas at sunset. However, the footage could not be finessed enough to hide the obvious artificiality of the squid–the wires controlling forty-foot-long tentacles were visible, and the creature itself looked undeniably fake. Some test footage (embedded below) remains of the scene as it was originally shot.

Having viewed this footage, it’s little wonder the scene was redone. The setting was changed to nighttime, and the quiet seas gave way to a maelstrom–all the better to hide the wires controlling the squid’s movement. The special effects coordinators also crafted special tubes, concealed in the “squid’s” arms, which used air to assist with the arm movements and make the creature look all the more realistic. The end result (as seen in the video embedded below) makes for a much more believable, and much more terrifying, attack sequence.

Disney hit the jackpot with the casting of this picture. James Mason is nothing less than an inspired choice for the role of Nemo. The smooth elegance of his typical cinematic persona is on full display here. Mason brings a sympathetic slant to a complex character, and does it with seeming ease. Though Mason is undoubtedly the star of this movie, Lukas plays well against him, as do costars Douglas and Lorre. Douglas is a particularly winning presence as the cocky harpooner who’s always looking for a way out (if only to avoid eating more octopus fetus…). Ned Land’s growing friendship with Nemo’s pet seal, Esmeralda, provides welcome touches of humor and warmth amid the darker themes of the film.

Beautiful, engrossing, and innovative, Disney’s two-hour journey under the ocean holds up well even in the face of modern-day F/X wizardry. We’ll have to wait and see if the upcoming CGI-heavy updated adaptation of Leagues, reportedly to be directed by David Fincher, will be just as entertaining in the long run.

This post is my entry for the 50s Monster Movies blogathon at Forgotten Classics of Yesteryear. To see contributions from other bloggers, check out the site.

The stuff that dreams are made of.

Posted on by under 31 days of oscar, 5-star films, brandie's faves, lit adaptations, noir

The Maltese Falcon (1941)

Airing March 2nd, 9:30AM EST

If you have never seen this movie, you have deprived yourself of something truly spectacular.

You should fix that. Immediately.

The granddaddy of film noir–the biggest and best of them all–The Maltese Falcon is one of those landmark films which ushered in an entirely new genre in movie-making, all on the very capable backs of director John Huston and actor Humphrey Bogart. This film launched Bogart into the stratosphere, helping craft the gruff, hardboiled, anti-heroic guise that would become his trademark in the latter half of his career. In Sam Spade, Bogie found a perfect match for his rather low-key, yet intense acting style, and the result is pure cinema magic.

In the film, Bogart’s detective Sam Spade and his partner, Miles Archer, are approached by the beautiful and mysterious Miss Wonderly (Mary Astor), who seeks their assistance in finding her runaway sister, whom she claims was seduced by a man named Thursby. The detectives agree to take the case, but Archer is killed that evening while following the purported suspect, and Wonderly disappears. When Thursby, too, ends up dead, Spade is suspected of committing both crimes, the motive being his secret affair with his partner’s wife, Iva. When Spade finally encounters Wonderly again–now under her real name, Brigid O’Shaughnessy–she admits that she had completely fabricated the story about her sister and claims to know nothing about the murders. When a man named Cairo (Peter Lorre) appears in Spade’s office and searches it for the statue of a bird on behalf of his criminal boss, the “Fat Man” Kasper Gutman (Sydney Greenstreet), Spade finds himself pulled into the search for the statue, all while trying to figure out who murdered his partner and fighting off the advances of both the alluring Brigid and the incessantly needy Iva.

The plot is somewhat convoluted, and upon the first viewing, it may be difficult to follow who is doing what to whom and for what reason. But in the end, the plot doesn’t matter overmuch; the real draw of the film is the cast and their fiery interactions throughout the film. In adapting Dashiell Hammett’s original story, not much was changed; the majority of the dialogue was retained in the film version, and the only omissions were some epithets and occasional references to sexual relationships as per the rules of the Hays Code. The gritty story stays very true to the spirit of the original; the striking cinematography, in which low lighting and atypical camera angles are used to create a rather unsettling mood, heightens the uneasy mystery of the tale.

Bogart is decidely brilliant as Spade, but the film’s real strength comes from its supporting cast. Astor, who until this point in her long career had been relegated to playing ingenue roles in silent films and light comedies, is an unexpected revelation in Falcon. She deftly portrays the alluring, conniving Brigid, switching easily between simpering femininity and leashed ferocity, all while allowing just a hint of reluctant sympathy to enter her performance. She practically snatches your attention from Bogart in their shared scenes–something incredibly difficult for any actor to manage, truth be told. And Astor is not the only one to accomplish this–as the criminal duo Cairo and Fat Man, Lorre and Greenstreet add their typical, respective gravitas to each role, and Greenstreet’s performance is especially impressive considering that, at the age of 62, this was his first time on film.

I own the three-disc special edition of this film, and it’s been one of the best additions to my personal classic movie library. Not only does the set include the digitally-remastered Bogart edition, but it also features both of the  earlier versions of the film. It’s great fun (well, in my world, it’s great fun) to compare the three versions of the story for yourself and see the strengths and weaknesses of each. You can also hear three different radio adaptations of the story! The set also includes some great extras, including an interesting documentary about the film and several Warner Bros. shorts and cartoons. For less than $25, the set is a true bargain.

Should you miss it this time, The Maltese Falcon will air again later this month, at 10PM on March 22nd.

Oscar checklist:

Nominations: Best Supporting Actor (Greenstreet), Best Screenplay, Best Picture

Making the case for Casablanca.

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

Anyone who has spent more than a couple of hours in my company is probably aware that my favorite movie of all time is 1942′s Casablanca.

I have waxed rhapsodic about this film so many times in the past that when I am asked why I choose this film over all others, I can rattle off a quick list of the qualifications that elevate Casablanca above any other movie in Hollywood history: quotable-fabulous-beautiful-inspired-and-OMG-Humphrey-Bogart-has-never-been-so-hot!

Indulge me a little fangirl moment here while I start waxing anew.

As beloved as Casablanca remains today–it has twice appeared in the top three films of all time as ranked by the American Film Institute–it wasn’t always considered so, and the source material upon which this classic is based (the 1940 play Everybody Comes to Rick’s) languished in pre-development hell for a couple of years until producer Hal Wallis championed the project. The screenplay, credited to the Epstein brothers and Howard Koch, was incomplete as shooting began; numerous writers contributed to its completion, including the film’s director, Michael Curtiz, and Wallis himself, who reportedly pitched the film’s immortal concluding line, “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” And still, with all the issues that emerged from trying to put the sucker together, the screenplay for Casablanca remains one of the best ever written. Frankly, the script is beyond compare, filled with some of the most engaging dialogue this side of Shakespeare.

"Here's looking at you, kid."

There’s a reason so many quotes from this film have made their way into popular culture over the years: you can’t help but repeat these amazing lines. “Play it, Sam.” “Round up the usual suspects.” “Here’s looking at you, kid.” “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.” The list of classic lines just goes on and on.

The film’s spot-on casting, featuring a mostly international cast of acclaimed film and theater actors, wasn’t always a given; there was much doubt, especially, that Bogart, known up until that time as “the” go-to movie tough in films such as The Petrified Forest, High Sierra, and The Maltese Falcon, could play convincingly in a leading romantic role. Ingrid Bergman was still relatively unfamiliar to American audiences, despite her success in her native Sweden and in her initial Hollywood production, the well-received Intermezzo: A Love Story (an English remake of her most successful Swedish film). And, by some accounts, Paul Henreid was so unpleasant to work with that his co-stars found themselves unwilling to make future films with the man.

Yet none of this showed on screen. Bogart thoroughly epitomized the rough-hewn tenderness that makes Rick Blaine one of the most fascinating heroes in film history. Bergman’s luminescent beauty did not detract from her deceptively simple performance as the romantically torn Ilsa Lund. The chemistry between the two leads lights up the screen and really makes you believe that these two people are madly in love with one another. And Henreid is pitch-perfect in the thankless role of straight arrow Resistance leader Victor Laszlo.

Just like any man, only more so.

The supporting cast is similarly well-chosen, especially Claude Rains as the sly, shifty French Captain Renault and Peter Lorre as ill-fated Ugarte. In addition, the movie features two of my favorite character actors, Sydney Greenstreet and S.Z. “Cuddles” Sakall (I wax rhapsodic about these two here), both of whom are simply magnificent. All in all, Casablanca’s performers are unparalleled, and it’s difficult to imagine anyone else in these roles. Can you picture, for example, Ann Sheridan or Hedy Lamarr as Ilsa (as originally proposed)? Or George Raft or Ronald Reagan as Rick? It kinda makes you shudder to even consider it, doesn’t it?

Despite some of the issues–an incomplete script, a cast no one trusted to deliver the material–surrounding its production, the film went on to win the Academy Award for Best Picture the following year (in addition to awards for Best Adapted Screenplay and Best Director). Though critical reception of the film upon its release was warm (but not effusive), over the years, Casablanca has rivaled Citizen Kane for the top position on many film critics’ “Best” lists (though, like every film, it is not without its detractors).

"You played it for her, you can play it for me!"

One of the things that those critical of Casablanca cite as evidence for their position is the “schlocky romanticism” (to quote Pauline Kael) that permeates the film. And yes, despite its war-torn setting and the intrigue surrounding the plot, it is most decidedly a romance, first and foremost. But the film transcends the typical trappings of romance.

This is Romeo and Juliet yanked into the modern world, with our American Romeo making the ultimate sacrifice–forgoing his own future happiness–for the sake of another, ensuring that his Swedish Juliet can remain free and continue the life his love unknowingly disrupted. Yet the inherent melodrama of such material does not weigh down the plot; Rick’s choice, we see, is the only reasonable one to make, the only way in which he can release himself from his self-exile in northern Africa and return to his freedom-fighter roots–to return to life, as it were. His redemption comes not only from the cliched “love of a woman,” but at the hands of his former lover’s husband, the man who helps to remind Rick that there are larger battles to fight, that the tangled romantic ties of these ultimately ordinary people “don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.”

They'll always have Paris.

All of this to say, there’s a reason why this film has become one of the most beloved classics of all time and, in my humble opinion, tops every other movie ever produced in Hollywood. It’s not just that it’s romantic, or that the performances are so moving, or that the script makes the latent writer in me want to do backflips down the interstate. It’s that the film touches something inside every single one of us. It’s a story of human experience. It’s a reflection of secret desires, of the fight for redemption that, at one time or another, all of us must undertake in order to better ourselves and the world in which we live.

Really, it’s just damn good, and that’s all that’s left to say about it.

TCM Spotlight: Frank Capra

Posted on by under brandie's faves, holiday picks, tcm spotlight

Tonight, Turner Classic Movies will show a lineup of some of director Frank Capra’s best.

SET YOUR DVR.

Now that I’ve gotten the warning/mild-threat-of-violence-if-you-don’t-comply out of the way …

If you’ve read my introduction page (in the links to the right), you know that I consider Capra one of my five favorite film directors of all time. His films, considered by some to be overtly corny (evidenced by those “high” critics who would later label his films “Capra-Corn”), reflect an almost idealized view of the American sensibility, for at the heart of every Capra film is the message that humanity, in and of itself, is inherently “good.” Fittingly, many of Capra’s characters tend to find redemption in the seeming mundanity of their lives (a perfect example of this being George Bailey, the erstwhile hero of Capra’s Christmas staple It’s a Wonderful Life), and the films celebrate a kind of “Average Joe American” who triumphs over the forces of cynicism and greed. Not for nothing, Depression-era audiences of the 1930s lauded Capra’s approach, and he was awarded all three of his Best Director Oscars within that decade.

On a side note, for those who may be wondering why Turner Classic Movies has left Capra’s best-known work off its schedule this holiday season, It’s a Wonderful Life does not belong to Turner Entertainment; instead, all broadcast rights in the United States belong to NBC. Thus, if you’re going to catch it on TV this year, you’ll have to endure it with commercials (I know … that sucks. A lot).

Tonight’s lineup does not include my personal favorite Capra film, 1939′s Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (sadness). But the five films being shown tonight embody one of the things that made Capra’s work so great: that amazing, seamless blend of screwball comedy and genuine heart. Of these, I’d like to draw your attention to my favorite three: It Happened One Night (showing at 8PM); You Can’t Take It With You (showing at 12AM); and Arsenic and Old Lace (showing at 2:15AM).

It Happened One Night (1934) is a milestone film in that it was the first film ever to win the top five Academy Awards (Best Picture, Actor, Actress, Director, and Screenplay) in a single year, a sweep that is all the more surprising considering that the film’s stars reportedly did not enjoy making the film. In fact, according to the TCM film guide Leading Ladies (a review of which will appear here soon), Claudette Colbert was so frustrated with her experience making the film that, upon completing her role, she reportedly told several friends: “I’m glad I got here; I just finished the worst picture of the year.”

Well, that's one way to hail a cab.

Yet Colbert gives what is arguably the best performance of her career in this film. As a spoiled heiress who runs away from her father when he attempts to annul her marriage to a gold-digging pilot, Colbert flees by bus from Miami to New York, encountering Gable’s rakish reporter on the road and falling under his wing. Ultimately, through their increasingly ludicrous journey, each learns lessons about life and love from the other. From the infamous hitch-hiking scene, wherein she hails a ride by showing off her shapely gams, to the “Wall of Jericho” she insists separate her double bed from that of Gable’s in their shared cabin, Colbert brilliantly portrays the awakening of a pampered princess to the joys of freshly-picked carrots and bargain breakfasts. Gable’s own work here is first-rate; as he deftly straddles the line between pragmatic “everyman” and romantic gallant, it is not hard to believe that Colbert’s dilettante could be attracted to the rough-edged journalist.

Four years later, Capra won his second directing Oscar for 1938′s You Can’t Take It With You, starring his self-proclaimed favorite actress (and one of mine as well), the squeaky-voiced Jean Arthur (in the second of her three collaborations with Capra). The film also features the always-wonderful James Stewart (in the first of his three collaborations with the director) and a very effective supporting cast that includes Lionel Barrymore, Spring Byington, and Ann Miller. Of special note for Alabama natives such as myself, the cast also features character actor Dub Taylor, a former player for the University of Alabama football team, in his first role. And while the performances truly make this a film to remember, the screenplay, based on the Pulitzer Prize-winning play by George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart, crackles with wit and heart.

Harmonica solos make everything better.

The story revolves around Arthur’s eccentric family, the Vanderhofs, and its clash with Stewart’s moneyed clan, the Kirbys, which creates difficulties for their star-crossed romance. While the Vanderhofs believe that people should always do what they please in order to live their lives to the fullest, the Kirbys pursue social advancement and the almighty dollar with an unmitigated passion. When Kirby Sr. decides to buy up an entire section of real estate in order to build commercial property, he runs into a roadblock when Grandfather Vanderhof refuses to sell. A proposal, some fireworks, and an unexpected visit by the Kirbys to the unconventional Vanderhof home lead to utter chaos … and utter hilarity.

After a detour into drama in the aforementioned Washington and 1941′s Meet John Doe, Capra revisits his love of screwball comedy in 1944′s Arsenic and Old Lace, one of the ultimate examples of the genre. The film had actually been made in late 1941, but was not released theatrically until the original play had completed its run on Broadway. Cary Grant plays Mortimer Brewster, the sane center of a completely psychotic family, and plays the increasingly crazed straight man brilliantly. Grant is sometimes underrated as a comedic actor, in part because he typically plays urbane, witty types rather than straight screwball characters. But in this movie (as in such previous films such as Holiday and Bringing Up Baby, both with the luminous Katharine Hepburn), Grant lets loose with a wild, unrestrained performance, reminding filmgoers that the suave “Cary Grant” had, in his earliest acting days, been a product of broad comedic training on the burlesque circuit.

Say what??

In this film, he has a great supporting cast of kooks to play off of, including Raymond Massey as his creepy brother, Priscilla Lane as his unwitting new bride, Josephine Hull and Jean Adair as his addled aunts, and Peter Lorre as Massey’s unwilling accomplice. The script, adapted for the screen by playwrights Julius and Philip Epstein, is a great blend of screwball and black comedy, with just enough lightness to take the edge off the darker themes of murder and mayhem. As Mortimer comes home to announce his wedding to the family, he is at first horrified by and then determined to hide his aunts’ “mercy poisonings” of their lonely, elderly male callers. Things are complicated by the antics of his brothers: the delusional “Teddy,” who thinks he is Teddy Roosevelt, and the murderous Jonathan, an escaped criminal. Mortimer scrambles to cover some crimes and expose others, in the process wondering if he’s just as crazy as the rest of them.

And there you have it. If you’re looking for some feel-good, laugh-your-ass-off comedy, check out these films (and more!) as TCM celebrates the amazing Frank Capra tonight!